Chapter 8
EIGHT
brANDON
Y ou’re not at your parents, not at Blake’s, so you have to be here.
My knuckles rap against her door before I can talk myself out of it. Again. The hallway’s too bright, too quiet.
C’mon, cupcake. Open up.
I bounce on my heels. I need to see her, to make sure she’s okay, especially after how she sounded on the phone.
The door opens a crack, and I’m face to face with Blake. Her hair is a mess, and her mascara is smudged under bloodshot eyes.
“Nope.” She moves to slam the door, but I wedge my foot in.
“What, no welcome cocktail?”I ask. “And here I thought we were friends.”
“Fuck off.”
“Where is she?”
“Not here.” Her lips curl into a sweet but toxic smile, the kind that could curdle cream. “And even if she was, you’re the last person she needs right now.”
“Didn’t realize you’d been promoted to her personal bouncer. Must’ve missed that memo.”
“No entry.” She scrunches her nose. “You smell like a distillery had a one-night stand with a bar floor.”
“And you look high as balls.” I point at her eyes. “We done stating the obvious?”
“You’re not getting in.”
“Watch me.”
“Jesus.” She rubs her temple. “What part of ‘fuck off’ isn’t registering? Need me to write it down? Use smaller words?”
“The part where you think you can stop me from seeing her.”
“Because you’ve been so concerned lately.” Her voice drips venom. “Too busy drinking yourself stupid to notice she’s—” She grinds her teeth.
“She’s what?” My pulse thuds hard in my chest. “Blake. Spill.”
“Nothing.” She straightens. “Go home. Sleep it off. Maybe try adulting for a change.”
“Not until I see her.”
“Why?” She lowers her voice. “So you can pretend to care? Play the concerned boyfriend for your little arrangement and then bolt?”
“You’re right.” The words taste like burned meat. “I’m a mess. But I want to do better. Please.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She studies my face, her expression softening. “You enable each other.”
“Better than letting her deal with this shit alone.”
“I’m here.”
“You?” I scoff. “Yeah, you’re a real pillar of stability.”
“Are you? Or are you just using her problems to avoid dealing with yours?”
Since when did she get so perceptive.
She holds up her fingers, counting down. “You haven’t cooked since your father died. You’re selling your restaurant. The one thing you actually gave a shit about beside my best friend. You’re always drunk and won’t commit to your job.”
“How did you?—”
“I put in an offer. And I know the people you work with. Besides the point that she tells me everything.” She gestures around. “Including how you two started this whole fucked-up arrangement.”
“Move.” My voice comes out low, dangerous. “Now.”
She shifts her weight, blocking more of the doorway. “Or what? You’ll force your way in? Real classy.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“You’re pathetic.” She jabs a finger at my chest. “And drunk.”
The hallway spins slightly. Fuck, maybe I did drink too much. “Just let me see her.”
“She’s sleeping. Finally.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“God, you’re dense.” Blake pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look at yourself. Really look. You think this is what she needs right now? Another mess to clean up?”
Her words burn worse than any whiskey. Shit.
I straighten up, fighting the urge to punch the wall. “Tell her I came by.”
“Brandon.” Her voice stops me as I turn. “Get your shit together first. Then maybe…”
I don’t wait to hear the rest, the hallway stretching endlessly as I walk away.
Get my shit together.
I let out a humorless chuckle. Like it’s that simple. Like I can just flip a switch and be the perfect boyfriend, the perfect son, the perfect fucking everything.
My fingers shake as I pull up Jeff’s contact. Fuck it. The call connects after two rings.
“Brandon, did the building burn down?” Jeff’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“What? No.”
“Then why—” A pause. “Did you look at the time?”
I glance at my phone screen. 11:47 PM. “Sorry, I didn’t… Been a long day.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Irrelevant.” I glance at Naomi’s door. “About the viewings?—”
“At midnight? Really?”
“Schedule them, but kick Morozov.” My free hand finds the back of my neck, squeezing. “Whoever offers the most gets it.”
Silence stretches between us, and I can practically hear him choosing his words.
“Brandon… Maybe sleep on this? We can talk tomorrow when you’re?—”
“Just do your job, Jeff.” I step inside the elevator and press the button for the garage. “Set up the viewings.”
Another pause. “You sure about this?”
No. “Yes.”
“I’ll email you the schedule in the morning. And Brandon?”
“What?”
“Get some sleep.”
I hang up without responding.
It’s time to face my demons head-on.
For her.
Back at my apartment, I stop in the middle of what could generously be called my living room.
Empty takeout containers create a monument to my descent into culinary hell. Clothes and bottles compete for floor space like ingredients fighting for counter space during rush hour. The place reeks of stale beer and forgotten food, a bouquet that would make any self-respecting chef commit seppuku with their favorite knife.
My fingers twitch. The kitchen doesn’t look any better, dusty counters and crusty dishes are piled in the sink.
Mother’s voice rings in my head. A clean kitchen is a productive kitchen.
Well, what does this disaster say about mine?
I grab a garbage bag and start tossing bottles, and my shoulders start protesting as I bend down again and again. Each bottle feels heavier than the last, like they’re weighted with all my failures.
The cleaning supplies are where I left them untouched, under the sink. I grab the spray bottle and start.
The kitchen counter first. One surface at a time. The chemical bite of cleaning spray burns my nostrils, a far cry from the aromatic heaven my kitchen used to be. At least I haven’t forgotten how to follow a process, even if it’s just systematic sanitizing instead of dry-heat cooking.
Spray. Wipe. Scrub.
Then the stovetop, I pause, the rag hovering above it. Custom-made, top-of-the-line, a real beast. I had to pull some serious strings to get my hands on it.
My old man thought I was crazy. “You’re throwing your money away,” he said, shaking his head. “On a stove?”
He didn’t get it. This wasn’t just a stove. It was a statement. A middle finger to everyone who said I couldn’t make it on my own.
And they were right.
I run my hand over the cool stainless steel, remembering the first meal I cooked on it. Steak au poivre. The sizzle of the meat and the aroma of the peppercorns…
Now, it’s just another thing I abandoned, another surface to clean.
Sweat trickles down my neck as I attack the built-up grease. My biceps burn from the repetitive motion, but I welcome the pain. It’s better than thinking about Blake’s words, about Naomi, about?—
“I’m a fucking mess.” I toss the rag aside.
This isn’t going to cut it. Cleaning up doesn’t mean shit if I don’t deal with the mess inside.
But where do I even start? With the restaurant? With Naomi? With the gaping hole in my heart that my father left behind?
The restaurant is taken care of. And as long as I don’t have my shit together, I shouldn’t be close to Naomi. So that leaves…
I continue cleaning.
Three hours later, my hands are raw from scrubbing. Every surface gleams. So clean, you could plate a fucking tasting menu anywhere in this kitchen.
Just like it should be.
Not that anyone will.
The only thing being served here is a heaping portion of rock bottom with a side of self-loathing.
De-fucking-licious.
Next, the living room.
It’s a war zone. Empty bottles form makeshift barriers between piles of clothes and takeout containers. The coffee table’s buried under a month’s worth of mail and receipts.
I attack it systematically, like prep work in the kitchen. Sort first: trash, laundry, papers. The rhythm’s familiar, gather, sort, clean. Mise en place.
The vacuum roars to life, drowning out my thoughts. Good. I don’t want to think about how long it’s been since I used it. About how I let everything go to shit. About how?—
Fuck.
A cufflink rolls out from under the couch.
Dad’s. Sterling silver with his initials. Must’ve dropped it last time he was here, bitching about my ‘phase’ of playing chef.
I pocket it before I can think too hard about it.
The windows are next. Months of city grime blur the view. I spray, wipe, and repeat, the glass squeaking under pressure.
The bathroom’s easier. Bleach burns my nose as I scrub the shower tiles, and the mirror gets special attention. Spots and streaks my number one enemy.
Whether it’s the fumes or exhaustion, my eyes burn, my knees throb, and my fingers are stiff and numb from gripping the scrub too tightly.
Four hours in, and my apartment doesn’t look like a crack den anymore. Everything’s clean, organized, perfect.
Empty.
Just like me.
Except that every muscle in my body aches, and my hands scream when I finally put down the cleaning supplies, skin wrinkled and raw, smelling of bleach and lemon cleaner. But the pain feels earned. Real. Like maybe I’m scrubbing away more than just surface dirt.
I collapse onto the couch, the silence ringing in my ears. No bottles to reach for. No takeout to order.
It’s the first step.
The sky outside shifts from black to gray, and the first lights creep through freshly cleaned windows, painting shadows across spotless floors and warming my face.
Feels nice. Like Mom’s kitchen on Sunday mornings, when she’d…
My eyes drift shut.
Mom’s humming fills the kitchen, mixing with the sizzle of bacon and coffee brewing. Her floral apron is spotted with flour as she guides my small hands through the dough. “Gentle, cookie. Let it breathe.”
My fingers sink into the soft dough. It feels alive, responding to each touch. Mom’s hands cover mine, showing me the right pressure, the perfect rhythm.
“The secret,” she says, “is to love what you’re making. Food knows when you’re angry, when you’re sad. It tastes different.”
“What if I can’t get rid of it?” My small hands pause in the dough. “The anger.”
The kitchen dims, shadows creeping in at the edges.
“Brandon…” Her voice sounds different. Wrong. “Everyone has anger, cookie. But don’t let it ? —”
The dough turns black under my fingers, rotting, spreading like ink across the counter, and Mom’s hands disappear.
“Mom?”
“You’re a disappointment.”
The kitchen warps, stretches. Darkness pools in the corners.
“Mom!”
“Wake up, asshole.”
My eyes snap open.
Sebastian looms over me, backlit by morning sun streaming through the windows.
“The fuck you doing here?” I scrub my neck, hurting from sleeping on the couch. “Don’t tell me you missed my sunny disposition.”
“Cute.” He kicks my feet off the coffee table. “Your phone’s been dead for hours. We were supposed to meet at the gym.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Spare key.” He surveys the apartment, whistling low. “Place looks different. Almost civilized.”
I stand, muscles protesting. “Coffee?”
“Already brewing.” He blocks my path to the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
The dream lingers like a hangover, making everything too sharp, too raw. “Nothing?”
“This is not nothing.” He gestures around. “The cleaning frenzy. The dead phone. Blake called.”
“Blake called you?” My jaw tightens. “That snitch.”
“Said you showed up drunk at Naomi’s.” Sebastian leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Want to explain?”
“Not particularly.” The coffee maker beeps. Thank fuck.
“Brandon.”
“What?” I grab two mugs, the ceramic clinking harder than necessary. “You want me to pour my heart out? Talk about my feelings?”
“Would it kill you?”
“Probably.” The coffee’s too hot, but I drink it anyway. Let it burn.
Sebastian watches me, that same look he gave me when I totaled his car in college. Like he’s waiting for me to crack. “The cleaning thing?—”
“Drop it.”
“—is what you always do.” He takes the other mug. “When you’re stressed.”
“The cleaning was necessary.”
“In the middle of the night?”
I slam my mug down, and coffee sloshes over the edge, staining the pristine counter. Shit. I just cleaned that. “What do you want me to say? That I’m fucked-up? That I’m a mess? That I can’t even?—”
“Can’t what?”
“Help her.” My voice drops to a whisper. “You were right. I’ll lose her. I can’t even help her when she needs me because I’m too fucked up myself.”
Sebastian’s quiet for a long moment. “So get unfucked.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He sets his mug down, gesturing around. “Like you did here.”
Everything is in its place. Everything except me.
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“Never said it was simple. It never is. Wasn’t with Lil and me.” He finishes his coffee and heads for the door. “But you’ve got to start somewhere.”
“What am I, your new pet project?”
He pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Gym. Tomorrow. Six AM.”
“Bash.”
“Six AM, chef.” The door clicks shut behind him.
My phone buzzes with a reminder.
Smith Dinner 6 pm.
A smirk tugs at my lips.
Naomi’s mother loves me.