Chapter 19 #2
My stomach does a weird flip as I walk to the door, nerves I can’t place flaring in my chest. That knock was… familiar. Rhythmic. Two short, one long. I’ve heard that pattern my whole life.
No way.
I wipe my palms on my sweats, open the door—
And then I die.
Metaphorically. Spiritually. Emotionally.
Because standing there—smiling like this is a surprise visit and not the equivalent of a nuclear bomb dropped on my sanity—are my parents.
“Hi, sweetheart!” my mother says, as she stands on the threshold with a casserole dish in her hands.
My brain refuses to process the input. It’s like someone copy-pasted her from my parents’ kitchen into my apartment hallway: same floral blouse, same neatly curled hair, same warm, anxious smile.
My dad is behind her, hand on her shoulder, suit jacket still on from whatever function they were at, tie loosened. He grins when he sees me, that familiar half-proud, half-assessing look that always makes me stand a little straighter.
“Mom?”
“Hi, son,” my dad says, warm and familiar and devastating.
I make a sound that isn’t a word; it’s somewhere between a squeak, a choke, or my soul leaving my body. My brain stalls so hard I can practically hear the gears grinding.
“You… you’re here,” I say, because my vocabulary has apparently deserted me.
My mom laughs, casserole dish held out. “We’re in town for your cousin’s wedding, remember? I texted you last week that we might try to stop by if we had time.”
I remember the text. I remember replying with something like, “Sure, if you want,” thinking there was no way they’d actually squeeze it in. Apparently, God has a sense of humor.
“I—uh—yeah,” I stammer. “Sorry. Come in. I just—uh—wasn’t expecting—yeah. Come in.”
I step back on autopilot; Mom nudges past me, and Dad follows. “I brought a chicken and rice bake. I know how you college boys eat. Probably nothing but pizza and ramen. I thought you could use—oh!”
She stops dead at the edge of the living room.
There is no time to do anything: no time to shove Dominic into a closet or scream at him to dive behind the couch. He’s right where I left him, laptop open, halfway through standing up.
My dad’s eyes follow her gaze and, for a heartbeat, there’s a weird silence. Then my mom’s expression changes.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathes. “You’re—”
“Dominic Volkov,” Dad finishes, eyes narrowing in recognition. “Lakehaven Quarterback.”
Am I in Hell right now?
Dominic, of course, recovers faster than any of us. He stands fully, shoulders rolling back and expression shifting into that easy, media-friendly charm I’ve seen on TV a hundred times; the “golden boy” face.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he says with that charming smile, stepping around the dining room table. “Guilty as charged.”
Mom practically glows. “You watch him on TV,” she says to Dad, like I’m not currently dying. “Brendon, you didn’t tell us you knew him.”
“I—” My throat is dry. “I’m his TA. It’s just— He… needed help with… school.”
“In other words, your son is single-handedly responsible for me not failing Civ. Pro.,” Dominic says, stepping forward with his hand extended. “I owe him a lot. It’s really nice to meet you both. Brendon talks about you all the time.”
I never do, unless it’s about how much they’ll freak out knowing what I’ve been up to.
Dad shakes his hand, grip firm. “We watched your game against St. Augustine last month. That fourth quarter drive, son—” he whistles. “Some God-given talent you got there.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I’ve got a good team.”
Of course he says that. Of course he sounds humble, grounded, and completely non-murderous.
“You’re very tall,” my mother comments suddenly.
Dominic laughs, easy and self-deprecating. “I get that a lot,” he says. “It’s the Volkov genes. They grow us Russians big and hard to shop for.”
They both laugh, instantly charmed—the way everyone is when he decides to flip that switch.
I stand there in the doorway like a cardboard cutout, unsure whether to pray for the floor to swallow me or for Jericho to suddenly gain the power of speech and create a diversion.
“Can we get you something?” he asks my parents, like he lives here. “Water? Coffee? I’d offer you wine, but I’m pretty sure Brendon only keeps holy water in his fridge.”
My mother giggles. GIGGLES.
“Oh, we can’t stay,” my dad says, then he turns to me. “We’ve got to get back to the hotel. Your cousin’ll scream if your mom’s late for hair and makeup in the morning.”
“I just wanted to drop this off,” Mom says, lifting the casserole. “There’s enough for a few meals. Thought you could use some, Bren, since you always forget to eat. You boys can share.”
“Mrs. Lane, you’re my new favorite person,” Dominic says, taking it from her when she wobbles a bit. “Smells amazing, Ma’am.”
“Oh. Thank you, dear,” she says, flustered and pleased. “Just call me Angela.”
I’m going to throw myself into traffic.
He disappears into the kitchen. I hear Jericho meow in offense at being displaced, and Dominic’s low chuckle as he mutters something to the cat. My parents glance around my tiny apartment, likely checking for signs of squalor or debauchery.
Dominic comes back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Hope it’s okay I let your cat sniff the casserole. He’s got opinions.”
Mom laughs. “He always does. What’s his name again? Jonah?”
“Jericho,” I say automatically.
“Right, right,” she says. “Walls and trumpets. I remember.”
Dad looks between Dominic and me, eyes narrowed in that assessing way that used to make me confess things I hadn’t even done yet.
“So, you’re studying?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” Dominic says. “Midterms are coming up. Keller told me if I blow this one, he’ll bench me—and I really don’t want to explain that to ESPN.”
Dad chuckles. “Accountability’s good,” he says. “You go to chapel on campus, son?”
My spine goes rigid, but Dominic doesn’t miss a beat.
“Sometimes,” he says, shrugging. “Schedule’s rough during the season, but I grew up in church. My mom made sure of that. I stream sermons when I can’t get there in person.”
I actually feel my jaw drop at the blatant bullshit he’s spewing; because no, he doesn’t. My Devil is an atheist.
Dad’s eyes soften. “Good to hear,” he says. “It’s easy to drift at college.”
There’s a little more small talk. They ask about classes, and I recite sanitized versions of my schedule. They ask Dominic about football, and he gives them practiced answers about discipline, teamwork, and leadership. My mom actually asks if he’s dating anyone.
The whole time, my brain is spinning.
“Maybe you can bring Dominic down for a Sunday sometime,” my mom suggests at one point. “Our church would love to have a guest like you.”
The church would explode, Mom.
Dominic doesn’t even blink. “That’s very kind. If I’m ever in town, I’ll take you up on it.”
I make a mental note to set the whole state on fire before that ever happens.
Jericho jumps up on the back of the couch and stares at me, like he knows exactly what’s happening and is delighted by the chaos.
Eventually, my mom glances at the time and gasps. “Oh, we have to go,” she says. “Traffic to the hotel’s going to be awful, and your aunt will have a fit if we’re late for the rehearsal dinner.”
My dad shakes my hand, pulls me into a brief half-hug, then turns to Dominic. “It was good meeting you, son,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You keep letting him help you with those grades, alright? And try not to concuss yourself before the draft.”
Dominic laughs. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“I’m glad you came,” I say, and I realize that it’s mostly true. I just wish they’d called.
Mom cups my face briefly, thumb brushing my cheek like she used to when I was sick.
“You look good,” she says. “Tired, but good. You’re eating?”
“I’m feeding him,” Dominic says easily. “At least while we’re studying. Caffeine and pasta. He doesn’t get a say.”
Dad smiles. “Good man. Keep him in line.”
If either of you knew how much he does, I’d be excommunicated, my brain screams.
And then, mercifully, they’re gone.
I close the door behind them and lean my forehead against it, listening to their footsteps fade down the hall. My hands are shaking, my heart’s racing, and my brain feels like there’s twenty tabs open and no one is in charge.
“Well,” Dominic say, “that was fucking wild.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up, and I clap a hand over my mouth to stop it. “They just—they just showed up. They’re not supposed to ever be here. They’re—they saw you. They—”
“Brendon—”
“They asked about church,” I keep going, words spilling. “And you answered. You.. you lied for me.”
“I edited,” he says. “I didn’t lie.”
“They love you,” I say weakly. “They already love you. They brought a casserole.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’m very lovable. Haven’t you heard?”
I make a noise that might be a laugh, might be a sob.
“I’m going to die,” I say into the wood. “That’s how this ends. God’s going to smite me right here, in front of the chicken and rice bake.”
He snorts. “If he was going to smite you, he had plenty of chances. I think you’re safe for tonight.”
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the door, knees up, hands over my face.
My heart is still pounding. I’m replaying every second at high speed, pausing on every potential disaster.
Mom inviting him to church. Dad calling him “son.” The casual way I lied about my spiritual life.
Dominic crosses the room and crouches in front of me. “Hey. Look at me.”
I peel my hands off my face. He’s closer like this, blue eyes level with mine, expression uncharacteristically soft. “That was a lot, but you did good.”
I huff out a hysterical laugh. “I did not. I lied to my parents. Again.”
“You’ve been lying to them for weeks,” he points out. “This didn’t start tonight.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” I snap.
“No, but it means this isn’t new ground; you’re already walking it. Tonight just smooshed your worlds together, and you weren’t ready. That’s all.”