Chapter Three
Andrew
The adrenaline that had been flooding my veins finally crashes out, leaving me hollow and shaky as I sit here on the edge of the bed, jeans still bunched around my thighs, come cooling sticky in my boxers.
My body aches in places I didn’t even know could ache, but it’s not the soreness that hits me hardest. It’s the sudden, crushing weight of how right Slade is.
I drag myself up on unsteady legs, kick off the ruined jeans and boxers, and head straight for the bathroom like he told me to.
…
The shower water is scalding, but I let it pound against my skin anyway, scrubbing hard like I can wash away the evidence of what just happened. My mind won’t stop replaying his words on a loop… every single one of them cutting deeper now that the heat of the moment is gone.
He’s right… I’ve become an ungrateful little shit, and I never used to be like this.
I remember being twelve, thirteen, back when Mom was still here…
quiet, trying to make him smile, helping with the dishes without being aske d, actually saying thank you when he bought me new sneakers because mine had holes.
Somewhere after she left, that version of me disappeared.
I turned into someone who took and took and took , like the world owed me something for the hole she left behind.
Fighting, stealing, and getting arrested like it was a game.
Letting Slade bail me out over and over while I gave him nothing but attitude and messes to clean up.
Guilt simmers low in my stomach as the water runs over my face, stinging the cut on my cheek.
He didn’t have to stick around. He could’ve kicked me out the day Mom packed her bags and never looked back.
I wasn’t his kid… but he let me stay. He paid for everything…
clothes, food, the stupid phone I use, every single bail fee that’s probably dented his savings more times than I want to count.
He gave me time to breathe after she left, never forced me to get a job or go to college or “figure my shit out” like others would’ve.
He just… stayed. And I took advantage of it; I threw it back in his face every single time.
By the time I step out of the shower, towel off, and pull on the soft grey pyjamas…
the long-sleeve top and matching pants that cover every inch of me like armour…
the self-disappointment has settled deep in my bones.
It’s heavy, quiet, and different from the usual anger I carry around.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel like fighting the world.
I feel like I want to be better. Not just to stay out of jail or avoid another lecture, but because I actually want to make Slade proud.
I want to repa y him somehow… for the bail money, for the roof over my head, for not abandoning me when everyone else did.
The thought is new and fragile, but it sits here in my chest like something that might actually stick this time.
I run my fingers through my damp hair, leaving it messy and sticking up in places, and sink down onto the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips under me, still rumpled from earlier, and I stare hard at the floor, tracing the familiar grain of the hardwood with my eyes.
My heart is beating a little too fast, nerves twisting in my gut.
I wonder if it’s going to be awkward as hell when I finally go downstairs.
…
The faint metallic scrape of the oven door opening downstairs pulls me out of the heavy fog I’ve been sitting in.
I stand up slowly, wipe my damp palms on my pyjama pants, and head down the stairs before I can talk myself out of it.
My bare feet are quiet on the hardwood, heart thudding unevenly the whole way.
I step into the kitchen just as Slade is scooping generous portions of the bubbling baked ziti into two bowls.
The rich smell of tomato sauce, melted cheese, and herbs hits me hard, warm and familiar.
I don’t want to just stand here useless like I usually do, so even though it feels weird…
because I never help… I reach for the garlic baguette cooling on the counter.
I grab a knife and start slicing it into thick pieces, the bread still hot to the touch, crust crackling under the blade, steam rising in soft curls .
In my peripheral vision I see Slade pause mid-scoop, his broad shoulders going still. He’s probably staring, thinking what the fuck is Andrew doing? I don’t look up. I just keep cutting, then quietly slide an extra slice onto his bowl. A silent little sorry. A tiny start.
I take my own bowl and the garlic bread, but when Slade carries his through to the living room…
heading for the same worn armchair and the same show he always watches…
I don’t follow. Normally, when I’m in a decent mood, we’d sit together, laughing at the dumb plot twists or shouting at the screen like idiots.
It almost felt normal. Tonight, though, I purposefully stay behind in the quiet kitchen and sit alone at the table.
The pasta is really good, cheesy, hearty, and perfectly seasoned, but every bite feels heavy. The weight in my chest keeps growing, shame and embarrassment and guilt chewing me up from the inside until it’s hard to swallow.
Underneath it all, the old familiar anger at my mom starts bubbling up again, then spirals the way it always does: What did I do wrong?
Why did she leave when I was only fourteen?
I finished high school without her there.
But at least that kept me somewhat grounded.
Slade signed every field trip form, paid every fee, dropped me off outside the school gates every single morning without complaint.
And no matter how much he cared, I never really saw it.
I was too busy wondering why my mom didn’t want me.
I behaved back then. I did well in school.
I had a future. And the whole time I never realised…
my mom might have left, but I wasn’t alone.
Sl ade stuck by me. He saw something in me worth keeping around.
And after I finished high school, all I did was disappoint him… over and over.
A few stupid tears slip free and drop into the pasta. I blink them away fast and keep eating anyway, because Slade made it and I don’t want to disappoint him any more than I already have.
When I’ve only managed half the pasta and most of the garlic bread, the emotions get too thick.
I can’t finish. This time I don’t just scrape it into the bin like I usually would.
I wrap the bowl carefully in tin foil and slide it into the fridge so I can warm it up tomorrow.
I do the same with the big baking dish once it’s cooled a little, then quietly wipe down the counters so Slade won’t have to.
I even wash the small bowls he used to grate cheese and mix the herbs, setting them on the drying rack without a sound.
After that, I slip upstairs, close my bedroom door softly behind me, and crawl into bed. I pull the covers over my head, wrapping myself in a tight, shame-filled cocoon. The tears come easier now, quiet and hot against the pillow.
Tomorrow I’m going to look for jobs. Maybe check out community college too. I don’t know if I can fix everything, but I want to try. For once, I really want to try.