I take a few steps into the master bedroom before I start to feel like a creep and decide against it. But on the dresser by the door, I see a black bottle of cologne with a gold lid.
I pop off the lid and smell it, humming out loud.
That dark, woodsy, clove-scented fucking concoction has no right smelling as good as it does. And it’s still even better when it’s on his skin, mixed with whatever the hell he naturally smells like. I start to feel like a freak, so I pop the cap back on and leave the suite.
I check my phone as I head out of the elevator into the Bellwood lobby.
Soon I realize my plans of painting aren’t going to happen.
I got a few texts from Mom as I was showering.
Mom
Chase, the thing is acting up again.
It was bubbling like hell, and now no hot water is coming out.
Can you come by?
Chase
On my way.
It’s the second time Mom’s hot water heater has stopped working in the past month. Do I have any clue how to fix water heaters? Fuck no. Do I know how to Google that shit and try my best? Sure. Sometimes.
It’s drizzling when I step outside. The sky is a thick blanket of gray. I duck into the subway entrance at the cornerof the intersection, and the train is packed when I get on with standing room only.
By the time I’m near Mom’s way out in Queens Village, the train has emerged above ground and rain is falling in rivulets on the windows. I finally get a seat and rest my head on the cool glass, watching the world through the raindrops.
I don’t like it out here.
I live for the city and howaliveeverything feels, but out here, things feel quieter.
Quiet isn’t good.
It reminds me of my childhood. Mom says Manhattan is “all sewer grates and concrete,” though, and if she had any money I swear she’d live on a private island away from everything.
I’d keep my ass right in the center of it all.
When Mom swings open her front door, she raises her eyebrows right as she sees me.
“Rough night last night?” she asks.
I pause. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m being cross-examined?”
“Your eyes only look like that when you party too hard,” she says, bringing me in for a short, tight hug. “You’re staying healthy, right?”
“I’m always healthy.”
“Chase Cameron.”
I wave my hand through the air as I step inside. “Sometimes people offer you free tequila and you don’t refuse,” I tell her. “It happens.”
She looks at me with eyes so clear it practically breaks my heart.
“You’d tell me if you weren’t okay?” she asks, and my chest only gets tighter. She’s aware that I’ve been hospitalized a couple of times, once when I drank too much, and once when someone else gave me a bad mix of pills. I can’t take itwhen she looks at me like she expects me to fall into that world again.
“I would tell you if I needed help. I’m good, Mom. Surprisingly enough.”
