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CHAPTER16
NOVA
OCTOBER
“Are you sure you want to do this right now?” Zeke asks, pacing in front of me, the rich brown of his eyes swimming with fear.
I can’t handle it for a second more, so I grab the front of his sweater and he jerks to a stop. I’m no match for his size, so I’m the one who launches forward, unwilling to let go. He steadies me with hands on my upper arms.
“You’re making me dizzy.” I grip his sweater for a moment, and when I’m sure he’s stopped moving, I unclench my fingers and place my palm flat against his chest. “I’m sure. I’ve been here for three weeks now and I still haven’t met your mother, who literally lives above my head.”
His lip curls into this odd expression full of dread and discomfort. Zeke’s parents are very religious, and there’s a lot of darkness in his past that he refuses to talk about. He has a habit of quickly turning everything into a joke before I have time to understand why he’s so guarded.
“But—” he starts, and I pat his chest.
“No, Zeke. It’s weird. We’re going upstairs to invite her to brunch with your brothers. I’m not sure why you didn’t invite her in the first place. Wouldn’t it make sense to meet them all at once?”
Zeke scratches the back of his neck and his absorbent, consuming gaze is suddenly airborne. It flits to everything except me. He mumbles something inaudible and his shoulders slump, which means I won.
“Fine,” he says. “Just don’t expect much from this, Nova. She’s…”
Zeke takes my hand and tugs me toward the door, his cheeks puffing with a frustrated breath. It’s fascinating to see so many animated expressions on a single face.
“Well, you’ll see.” We move up to the main house. I haven’t seen it yet, but it’s kind of like stepping back in time, with a few modern touches sprinkled in. The kitchen is bright but small, the cabinets scuffed and chipped.
Through an arched doorway, a massive table looks handmade and ornate in its design. A crammed living room with too much furniture for the space leads to a staircase by the front door.
Everything is the complete opposite of what I’m used to—not just because it’s not expensive and huge, but because it looks lived in. It looks like actual people live here.
Even my bedroom back home doesn’t look like I live there. It was decorated by someone else, cleaned by someone else, and all my personal things are kept in closets and desk drawers. I filmed a lot in my room, so it was staged to look good on a camera, not to live in.
Until this moment, I’ve never really thought about what it means to live in a home you can’t really live in and how that affects me. Being in the apartment with Zeke is comfortable. My shoulders are less tense and my mind clear. And now that I don’t feel sick anymore, I spend most of my time cooking with Tabby or alone, which is so centring.
I’m at sixteen weeks now, and the tired sluggishness fell away in an instant. I just want to move. I only puke occasionally now, making Zeke much less weird. He still brings me a glass of water and crackers, though, quietly setting them outside the bathroom door for me to find when I’m done.
Our relationship isn’t typical. We don’t have the luxury of a long-term relationship and all the intimate knowledge that brings. He and I are still trying to get to know each other in the strangest of situations.
And meeting his mother is an important part of that.
He stops at the base of the stairs, fright flashing across his features.
“Ma,” he calls up the stairs. “Can you come down here, please?”
There’s silence for a long time, the house’s emptiness becoming thicker.
“Ma!” he yells this time. “I know you can hear me.”
I’ve never heard him use that tone before; it’s coated with pure exasperation. Nerves spark to life, carrying the worries that I’ve tried so hard to stuff down. What if she doesn’t like me? What if she recognizes me? Is he going to demand to meet my family after this?
I still haven’t told him about the blackmail. After the phone call from my dad, I was too scared to say anything. It’s not even about my reputation anymore. I wish they’d just post the video of me, drunk and stumbling around, acting like a fucking spoiled child because someone said something mean to me.
The things I said in that video flood my mind and my cheeks heat, shame coursing through me. I can’t believe I’m that same person living in a complete fantasy padded by cash and exempt from consequence. Now I’m getting consequences for things I deserve and things I don’t.
There’s shuffling upstairs, and Zeke squeezes my hand.
His mom appears in the stairwell and slowly descends. She’s in slippers and an oversized robe. Her hair is straight and long around her shoulders. It’s brown like Zeke’s but peppered with white. Her features are hollow and distant. She smiles, but it’s not real.
Her eyes are pure sadness, and I’m not sure why I have such a visceral reaction to her. But in my gut, a burst of anxiety flares to life and I step back, half hiding behind Zeke.
