I freeze halfway through sitting up. He doesn’t even flinch, just takes another sip.
“Yeah,” he says, “that’s what I thought.”
There’s no point pretending. The words come out rough. “I made a mistake—I wasn’t trying to?—”
“I bet you weren’t.” The kettle clicks off behind him. “Thing is, Nate, you keep making all these mistakes lately then acting surprised when people don’t put up with ‘The Stupid Nate Show’.”
I drop my head on the couch’s backrest. The ceiling’s cracked, faint spiderweb lines above me mimicking the Robyn-shaped hole inside my chest.
He sets the mug down and wipes his hands on a dish towel. “Anyway,” he says, tone softening, “your mom’s been calling. Couple dozen times.”
That gets me upright. She’s visiting today.Fuck.“What did she say?”
“Phone’s on the counter.” He nods toward it. The device is vibrating, screen lighting up. I can imagine the string of missed calls.
He looks at me, unreadable. “You might want to pick up. Before she calls Robyn.”
I makesure to empty Andrzej’s trash can and clean up after myself before I leave. The place smells of Lysol, which is an improvement, and the tomato juice he made me drink, which isn’t. He handed me a tumbler of it before I left, swearing it’shis people’s cure for hangovers. The acidity still burns on my tongue, and I don’t have the heart to tell him I may never trust Polish remedies again.
Outside, the daylight hits like punishment, too bright for how I feel. I fish my phone out of my jacket and call my mom. I was supposed to take her to brunch around ten; it’s almost noon now. No car, no plan, just guilt buzzing under my skin. The phone rings twice before she picks up.
“Nate,” she says, warm but edged. It’s heryou’re in troubletone I know so well.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry, I—” I clear my throat. “Rough night.”
“I gathered.” Dishes clink in the background, with the chatter and the hum of a restaurant. “I was going to wait for you, but you never answered, so I grabbed brunch.”
“Alone?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
“Oh, no, not alone.” A pause. “I’m ready to head back to your place. Are you there yet? You weren’t this morning.”
“No, but I will be.” I cut across the street, the cold air biting my face. “I stayed at a friend’s. I’m leaving now.”
“Nate,” she says, and her voice drops into something cold and cautious. I stop mid-step. “That friend you stayed with—is it Tessa?”
“No.” I take a cautious step, my fingers tightening around the phone. That name shouldn’t make sourness coil in my gut.
“Good.” Her tone lightens, all brightness again. “Maybe drink some water before I get there. It’s like you smoked a pack and a half of bad decisions last night.”
The line clicks dead before I can respond.
By the time I make it back to my building, she’s already waiting outside, rolling a small paisley suitcase back and forthbeside her. She looks almost comically petite next to the twin snake plants that flank the entrance. Her copper hair’s loose and wavy, glinting in the afternoon light with the warm sheen of aged pennies. She looks healthier—thinner around the hips and stomach than last time I saw her, which means the low-fat diet her doctor pushed might actually be working.
I step up to her, and she cups my face with both hands, brushing her fingers against my five o’clock shadow that’s turning into a poorly kept beard. She tilts my face so she can look into my eyes. Hangover and sleep deprivation stare back at her, but she doesn’t care. Her much shorter frame means I have to lean down. When I press my cheek to the top of her head, something in my chest finally unclenches. There’s nothing like a hug from Mom to make the world feel a little less raw. Well… except a hug from Robyn, of course. The relief I felt is a bit less intense when I remember that.
Mom talks a mile a minute as I fumble with the front door, warning me about my blazer being all wrong for the sharp, cold wind. Chicago is teasing us with spring—a chill that stings the face and sneaks down your collar. We get inside with little conversation, making small talk. I carry her suitcase and bag, my arms straining slightly.I bet Julian wouldn’t be straining.I shake the thought off. Once we’re settled at the kitchen island, I pour glasses of water, the ice clinking against the glass.
“How’s Margie?” I ask, thinking it’s an innocuous question.
Mom’s cheeks flush at the name, and she presses her lips together before answering. “Margie’s fine. Why are you so interested in knowing how Tessa’s mom is doing?”
I arch an eyebrow. “I’m not. But she’s our neighbor.” My voice rises slightly at the end, tilting it into a question.
Mom doesn’t like that. A small, tight prick of confusion gnaws at me. “You’d think Tessa would have told you how hermom was doing,” she says. She lifts her water to her lips, her knuckles blanching against the glass. “Have you gotten a chance to catch up with her since she moved back?”
I rub the back of my neck, my chest constricting in a way that presses at the frayed edges of the empty space between my lungs—Robyn’s spot. “Yes. A couple of times. She’s doing okay.”
Mom huffs. “Of course she is.” My mom’s blue eyes meet mine, freezing hell over before she speaks. “And how’s Robyn? How’s the girl you wanted to give your grandmother’s ring to? That you wanted to ask to be your wife?”
