13. Michael
Chapter thirteen
Michael
T he tires of my truck crunched over the familiar gravel driveway. My childhood home stood defiant against the darkening sky—a two-story brick house with weathered cedar shingles and gutters that sagged slightly at the corners. Paint peeled from the window frames in delicate curls, like birch bark after a long winter.
I killed the engine but kept one hand on the steering wheel.
Reaching over with the other, I gripped Alex's hand. "This is it, McCabe headquarters."
The basketball hoop still hung at an angle over the garage door, its net half-gone, tattered by years of Northwest winds and too many of Marcus's aggressive dunks. The porch light flickered erratically, sending shadows dancing across the front steps. It was a minor repair that Marcus had promised to fix before I left for Tahiti.
"Still broken."
"What is?" Alex followed my gaze.
"The porch light. Marcus swore he'd fix it months ago."
"Maybe he left it for you." His voice teased gently.
My stomach knotted as I stared at the house. I hadn't been home since before everything collapsed—before Tahiti, before Lars Reeves, and before they confiscated my badge and gun. The McCabe Sunday dinner ritual loomed like an event from a different lifetime.
Alex smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his button-down shirt. He'd borrowed it from my closet—navy blue, slightly too broad in the shoulders. His fingers drummed against his thigh, then moved to check his watch, though I knew he didn't care about the time.
It was all pure nervous energy. I almost offered him an escape route— We can leave, head back to my place, order takeout —but before I could form the words, Alex looked at me and nodded once.
"Your family's waiting."
We climbed out of the truck and strolled up the front sidewalk. Three steps from the front door, the unmistakable aroma of my mother's cooking hit us, wafting through partially opened windows. Garlic and onions caramelized slowly in olive oil, and the earthy scents of oregano and thyme mingled with browning ground beef.
Those smells had followed me everywhere—through training, deployments, night shifts, and nightmares. They were the backdrop to every McCabe memory, good or terrible. And now they wrapped around Alex, pulling him in before he'd even stepped through the door.
Before I could knock, the door swung open with enough force to rattle the brass knocker. Miles stood in the doorway, grinning like he'd won a bet.
My youngest brother appeared as he always did—perpetually rumpled oxford shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. He had dark curls standing up at odd angles and the same mischievous expression he'd perfected at age six.
"About time!" He glanced at Alex. "We thought you got cold feet!"
"Some of us have lives, smartass." I stepped over the threshold.
"Oh, is that what you call it?" Mischief sparkled in Miles's eyes. "Last I heard, you were on—"
Matthew appeared, all six-foot-three of him blocking the hallway light. He lunged forward and wrapped an arm around my neck, pulling me into a hug that quickly turned into a mock headlock.
"Still ugly as hell." He rubbed my buzzed head with his free hand. "And even more grumpy than usual."
I jabbed an elbow into his ribs, and he released me with an exaggerated grunt.
"Alex, right?" Matthew extended his hand. "I'm Matthew. The smarter, better-looking brother."
Miles teased. "Says who? Your bathroom mirror?"
Alex laughed. It was tentative but genuine. "Good to meet you both. Michael didn't warn me about the welcoming committee."
"Oh, we're just getting started." Miles put a hand on his shoulder. "Wait till Mom gets her hands on you."
Marcus emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His expression was harder to read—part relief and part lingering anger—but he clapped me on the back hard enough to make me stagger forward half a step.
"Jesus, you finally show up, and you bring a stray?" He winked at Alex, extending his hand. "Marcus McCabe. The responsible one."
"That's debatable," I muttered.
"Alex Kessler." He shook Marcus's hand with surprising steadiness. "The uninvited guest."
"No such thing in this house," a voice called from within.
My mother appeared in the hallway, flour dusting her forearms and a smear of something red—tomato sauce, probably—across her apron. She'd twisted her silver-streaked hair into the same messy knot she'd worn for as long as I could remember.
"You brought a guest. You should have warned me. I would have made another pie."
"As if you don't always make three." Marcus straightened her apron.
"Four, but that's not the point."
She was already moving toward Alex, hands reaching for his jacket, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders.
"You must be hungry. My boys never feed their friends properly. Come in, sit down." She ushered him further into the house without waiting for a response, her strong hands guiding him by the elbow. "Michael, don't stand in the doorway like a stranger."
"I tried calling," Miles stage-whispered to Alex. "But our brother here thinks phones are decorative."
"Some of us need space on occasion."
A brief, awkward silence fell. Marcus's jaw tightened, and Matthew shifted his weight.
Mom waved a dismissive hand through the air. "None of that tonight. Alex, are you allergic to anything? Should I have made something vegetarian?"
"No allergies, and I eat everything."
Miles nodded. "Good answer. She takes food rejections personally."
Mom swatted Miles's arm. "I do not. It's only that I don't understand people who don't appreciate good cooking."
Marcus attempted a clarification. "What he means is that Mom once didn't speak to Matthew for three days when he went on that keto diet."
"It wasn't the diet. He brought that horrible cauliflower bread to Sunday dinner in my house. I raised him better than that."
Matthew groaned. "One time! It was one time!"
"And we'll never let you forget it." Miles grinned and reached up to wrap an arm around Matthew's shoulders.
I stepped inside, and the door closed behind me with a familiar creak. Everything was so utterly normal. The house smelled the same, and the floorboards groaned in the same places. My brothers fought over the same stupid things.
Mom called over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen. "Take his coat, and then both of you, wash your hands. Dinner's almost ready."
Alex whispered to me. "She's intense."
"You have no idea. Wait until she starts asking about your childhood medical history."
"My what?"
"She does this thing where—"
Mom called from the kitchen. "So, Alex, Marcus here says you're a professor."
He looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged.
Alex laughed nervously. "I teach history at Seattle U, American and European, mostly."
"A professor!" Mom appeared in the doorway, beaming. "Finally, someone with sense in this house. You know, I always said Michael should have gone to college. His test scores were—"
I interrupted. "Mom, can we not do this right now?"
She studied my face for a moment and then nodded. "Fine, but Alex, you'll have to tell me all about your work over dinner. It sounds fascinating."
As we moved toward the kitchen, Marcus fell into step beside me. His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear.
"You doing okay?"
The simple question caught me off guard. He didn't demand an explanation. It was merely concern.
"Getting there." It was an honest answer.
"Good. And Alex...?"
"Is helping."
"Then I'm glad you brought him."
The kitchen erupted into chaos the moment we entered. A pot boiled over on the stove, hissing against the burner. Miles had hijacked the small Bluetooth speaker in the corner, blasting Pearl Jam's "Even Flow" while dramatically miming a guitar solo with a wooden spoon.
"You all eat like wolves and leave me to clean up!" Mom shouted over the cacophony, sliding a massive casserole dish from the oven. The rich aroma of her signature lasagna filled the air—layered with spicy Italian sausage, three cheeses, and the secret ingredient she refused to share even with her sons.
The kitchen was barely large enough for all of us. We bumped both hips and shoulders.
Mom proudly carried the food to the ancient wood table that had survived four rambunctious boys. She'd prepared three different side dishes that she only made when she worried about someone.
Alex froze in the doorway, eyes wide like he'd stepped into a foreign country without a phrase book. I recognized the look—overwhelmed and processing too much data with no clear protocol.
I slipped my hand around his waist, tugging him gently forward.
"Come on," I whispered close to his ear, "or you'll get eaten alive."
He let me guide him to a chair at the corner of the table.
Mom continued with questions. "Alex, what do you drink with dinner? We have beer, wine, soda—"
"Water's fine."
"Nonsense." She waved dismissively. "Matthew, open that bottle of red."
"The good red or the cooking red?"
"Do I look like I'd serve a guest cooking wine?" Mom shot him a look that could wither plants.
Miles slid into the chair beside Alex. "So, history professor. That means you know all the good stuff they don't teach in schools, right? Like how many presidents were secretly drunk during important decisions, and which banged the help?"
Mom scolded him. "Miles!"
Alex laughed. "More than the textbooks admit, though probably fewer than conspiracy theorists claim."
"See? He's diplomatic." Marcus nodded approvingly. "Michael could learn from you."
I challenged him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Matthew helpfully provided a translation. "It means your idea of diplomacy is my way or I'll kick your ass."
"That's rich coming from the guy who once punched a ref at my high school game."
"He made a terrible call! Even Dad said so!"
"Alex, don't believe anything they tell you," Miles advised. "We're all upstanding citizens. Especially me."
Alex tried to answer three questions at once—about his teaching, his research, and his opinion on some historical comparisons Miles made. His eyes darted from one brother to the next as they talked over each other.
"—but the Renaissance wasn't actually—"
"—reminds me of when Michael tried to—"
"—please pass the—"
"—no way that's historically accurate—"
I watched as Alex's initial tension melted away. He laughed, full-throated, at some ridiculous story Miles told while gesturing wildly with his hands.
Mom nudged me. "Michael, eat before it gets cold."
I nodded, unable to form words around the lump in my throat. It was the everyday life I'd been avoiding since returning from Tahiti. Watching Alex ease into my family's free-for-all, I wondered whether I'd been wrong to stay away.
Leave it to Marcus to disrupt the happy energy. "So, nobody's going to mention the elephant in the room?"
My shoulders tensed.
"Marcus." Mom's tone was a warning.
"What? I'm only saying—Michael disappears for weeks, ignores our calls, and then shows up with a guest. We're supposed to pretend everything's normal?"
The table fell silent except for the scrape of silverware. Alex studied his plate with sudden interest.
I opened my mouth, but my voice snagged in my throat. For a terrifying second, I thought I wouldn't be able to speak at all.
Finally, I forced out the only thing that came to mind. "I needed time."
"Time? You needed—"
Miles interrupted. "Remember when Michael broke his arm trying to impress Lisa Kaufman by doing a backflip off the shed? That was when he was still trying to make us think he liked girls. Dad grounded him for a month."
"It wasn't a month," I argued automatically, grateful for the diversion. "It was two weeks."
"No, that was the time you got caught drinking Jim Miller's dad's whiskey." Matthew eagerly jumped into the time capsule. "The backflip was definitely a month."
"You're both wrong." Marcus followed their lead. "It was three weeks, only because he agreed to repaint the shed."
I grinned. "Whatever the punishment, the look on Lisa's face was worth it."
Miles turned to Alex. "He gets the bright idea to show off by flipping off our dad's tool shed. He lands wrong and snaps his radius clean through. Blood everywhere, bone sticking out—"
"It wasn't sticking out."
Miles continued. "And Lisa Kaufman? She fainted. Full-on, eyes-rolled-back, hit-the-ground fainted."
Alex's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
Matthew shifted to another story. "That's nothing, tell him about the vending machine."
Marcus groaned. "Oh my god, I forgot about that."
"What vending machine?" Alex looked at me with raised eyebrows.
"Michael versus the school vending machine, sophomore year." Matthew narrated the story with gravitas. "One dollar, one Snickers bar. The machine takes his money and gives him nothing in return."
Miles shook his head. "Most people would just hit the coin return. Not our brother, Michael."
"He challenged the machine to combat," Marcus added with a smile. "Right in the middle of the cafeteria."
I protested the depiction. "I didn't challenge it to combat. I… disagreed with its decision."
Miles provided a translation. "He punched it twice. Then, he tried to rock it forward to get his candy. He nearly crushed himself when it tipped. Dad had to pay for the damages."
"And Michael got—" Miles started.
"Grounded for a month," we all finished in unison.
Alex laughed so hard he nearly choked on a piece of garlic bread, coughing and reaching for his water glass. Mom was immediately at his side, her hand between his shoulder blades.
"Easy now. Matthew, get him more water." Her eyes narrowed as she studied Alex. "You're too thin. You need another helping."
Before he could protest, she'd loaded his plate with another serving of lasagna. "A growing boy needs proper food."
I sighed. "Mom, he's in his thirties."
"And still growing if he eats right." She squeezed Alex's shoulder. "Michael was always the same way—too busy to sit down for a proper meal."
Alex caught my eye across the table, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. I offered a small shrug—Mom's fussing was as inevitable as gravity.
The conversation flowed around us, my brothers slipping back into their comfortable dynamic. Marcus shared news from his partner, James, who was out of town at a work conference. Matthew described his latest EMT rescue. Miles detailed a breakthrough with a challenging patient.
I watched as Alex leaned forward, asking thoughtful questions and laughing at the right moments. He fit into the spaces between my brothers' personalities with surprising ease.
I pushed my food around my plate, my appetite fading. He shouldn't fit so well here. It shouldn't feel so easy. If they all got so attached, what would happen when I lost him? When the thing between us shattered the way everything else did?
Mom's hand on my shoulder startled me from my thoughts.
"More?"
"I'm good." I covered her hand with mine briefly. "It's perfect, Mom. Thank you."
Her eyes searched mine, seeing more than I wanted her to. She squeezed my shoulder once before releasing me, a wordless acknowledgment of things we'd never say aloud.
After dinner, dishes clattered in the sink as a good-natured argument broke out over whose turn it was to clean up. Miles claimed dishwasher exemption due to his cooking contributions, and Matthew insisted that loading wasn't the same as washing. Marcus stepped in to mediate with the stern authority of the eldest.
I seized the moment of distraction, catching Alex's eye and tilting my head toward the back door. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
We slipped outside unnoticed, the screen door closing with a soft click behind us. The back porch wrapped around the house, weathered boards creaking beneath our feet.
Night had settled fully over Seattle, bringing with it the cool breath of early spring. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet grass and damp earth, a welcome respite from the overpowering warmth of the kitchen.
Alex moved toward the railing, his profile illuminated by the soft glow from the kitchen windows. One of Mom's wind chimes tinkled softly overhead.
"Your family is extraordinary."
I leaned against the railing beside him, our shoulders not quite touching. "That's one word for it."
"I'm serious." He turned to face me. "Do you know how rare that is? What you have in there?"
The question caught me off guard. I'd grown up in the whirlwind of McCabe anarchy, too close to recognize its uniqueness. My brothers drove me crazy, pushed every button I had, and somehow always knew exactly when to back off and when to push harder.
"They're just my family."
"No." Alex shook his head. "They're not just anything. They haven't mentioned Tahiti once. They're not tiptoeing around you or treating you like you might break. They're loving you. Exactly as you are."
The simple observation struck deeper than he could know.
"You're lucky you have this."
I wanted to agree, but the words stuck in my throat. I was lucky, but it wasn't without consequences. My family had saved me countless times, pulling me back from edges I'd wandered too close to, but they could also break my heart when I failed them. When I couldn't be the man they believed I was.
"I thought bringing you here would scare me less."
Alex's eyes widened slightly. "Did it?"
I couldn't answer. The truth was too complicated to put into words. Bringing Alex into my family's orbit and wanting him to stay meant admitting that what existed between us was more than a momentary connection forged in crisis.
It meant admitting I wanted him. Maybe even needed him.
Alex didn't push for an answer. He stood beside me, patient and present in a way few people had ever been.
Finally, he reached across the small space between us, his fingers brushing against mine on the railing. The touch was feather-light, barely there.
"Your mom asked if I'd been to Pike Place Market yet. I don't think it quite registered that I've lived here my whole life. She's probably planning an outing."
I groaned. "She'll have you buying overpriced fish and touristy souvenirs."
"I'd like that, a normal day with normal things."
He was right about the appeal of a momentary escape. Nothing about our situation was normal—not the danger lurking in the shadows of Project Asphodel or the connection that had formed between us on the beach. It wasn't normal for anyone to slip past every defense I'd built.
I reached out, my hand finding the curve of his neck, thumb brushing against his pulse point. His heartbeat quickened beneath my touch. For one unguarded moment, the weight I'd carried since Tahiti seemed to lift, replaced by something lighter, something like hope.
The kitchen door banged open behind us, shattering the moment.
"There you are!" Miles grinned from ear to ear. "Mom's breaking out the photo albums. Alex needs to see Michael's bowl cut phase."
Alex smiled at me. "We should go back in."
I nodded, letting my hand fall from his neck. "Yeah."
As we turned toward the house, he paused. "For the record, I'm not scared anymore."
I watched him walk back toward the warmth and chaos of my family, wondering how someone I'd known for such a short time could already understand me so well.