Chapter 52
I'd called Martin the second I decided to move back, praying the apartment above Cheesy Delights was still available. Turns out no one wanted to live in a place that perpetually smelled like garlic and marinara. Their loss, my desperate gain.
The key sits heavy in my palm as Martin drops it there, with all the ceremony of handing over nuclear launch codes. Which, considering this is technically my first real apartment—and my first real shot at not completely fucking up my life—might not be that far off.
"Guess you're not escaping this place so easily, huh?" he grins, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching with amusement.
"If you need help with the dinner rush, I'm literally one staircase away from folding dough in my sleep." I twirl the key ring around my finger. "Though don't test that theory too soon."
Martin's laugh echoes through the empty pizzeria. "Just like old times, eh? Except now you've got fancy computer skills to fall back on when the dough doesn't cooperate."
"Hey, my dough skills were legendary."
"That's one word for it." He claps my shoulder. "Good to have you back, kid. Even if you're upstairs now instead of behind the counter."
I follow him toward the stairs, past the walk-in freezer that still has my initials carved somewhere inside from that time I got locked in during inventory.
"Previous tenant left it pretty clean," Martin says as we reach the landing. "Had the whole place repainted last month. New fixtures in the bathroom too."
The door opens with a gentle protest of hinges, and suddenly I'm standing in my first real apartment. It's small—basically one big space, with a kitchen tucked in the corner, and a separate bedroom that's more of a suggestion than an actual room.
But it's mine.
"Previous guy left the blinds," Martin gestures to the windows that let in decent light. "And the kitchen's got all the basics. Fridge works fine, but it makes this weird humming sound sometimes."
I walk the perimeter, footsteps echoing slightly in the empty space. The floors are worn hardwood that's seen better days but still has character. The walls are a fresh coat of what the paint store calls "eggshell". It's nothing fancy, but it feels like a clean slate."
"Thanks for this," I say. "Seriously."
Martin waves me off, already heading for the door. "Just don't forget us little people when you're some big shot game designer."
I manage a nod, and he disappears down the stairs, leaving me alone in my echo-chamber of an apartment.
"Well," I announce to the empty room, "guess this is home now." The word sound strange on my tongue.
The boxes from Boston mock me from my car; a sad collection of gaming equipment, clothes overdue for washing, and one very unhappy plant that probably won't survive.
Each trip up the stairs reminds me that I should've taken Matt up on his offer to help, but this feels like something I have to do on my own.
My gaming setup claims the corner by the window, even though I haven't figured out internet yet. Fernando—the plant Sarah named—gets a spot on the kitchen ledge. Hopefully, some actual sunlight will bring him back to life.
"Don't die on me now," I mutter, adjusting its sad leaves. "I've got enough guilt without adding plant murder to the list."
By the time I've hauled up the last box, the sun's starting to set, painting the walls in a warm gold that make the empty space cozy. My phone buzzes, Mom's third reminder about dinner. Because apparently, moving back to town means I'm immediately required to subject myself to a full-family meal.
At least she promised her famous chicken casserole.
The house looks exactly the same, right down to the way the porch light flickers every third blink. Mom's got the Christmas lights up already, though Dad definitely helped because they're perfectly straight. The wreath on the door is new, probably from one of her craft nights.
I barely get my key in the lock before it flies open.
"There's my boy!" Mom pulls me into a hug that smells like citrus and home. "I was starting to think you got lost."
"Had to unpack a few things." I follow her inside, the familiar scent of dinner wrapping around me.
Dad's already at the table, newspaper folded beside his plate like always. But something's different. His usual scowl is replaced with what might be an attempt at a smile.
"Son." He nods, and I brace for the lecture that doesn't come.
"Got the apartment sorted?" Mom asks, already piling my plate with more food than any human could possibly eat. "You remembered to check the water pressure? And the windows? Winter drafts can be terrible in those old buildings."
"Dorothy," Dad cuts in, surprising me. "Let the boy breathe. He just got here."
Mom beams between us like we've announced world peace instead of managing basic civility.
"The apartment's fine," I say, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Small, but it works."
"I still don't understand why you couldn't just move back in here," Mom says, gesturing around the dining room. "Your room's exactly how you left it. I could've made your favorite meals every night."
"Mom." I take a bite of casserole to buy myself time. "You know I was well overdue for my own place."
She waves me off with her fork. "I suppose. It's just . . . now my nest feels empty without both of my boys here."
Dad reaches over and kisses the top of her head. "We can get you that puppy you've been wanting for years."
"Greg Miller, are you serious?" Mom's entire face lights up.
"Figure it's time," Dad shrugs, but I catch the small smile tugging at his mouth. "House is too quiet anyway."
"Oh, honey!" Mom leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek, and I have to look away, because witnessing your parents being disgustingly adorable is still weird. But there's something different about them too. Softer, somehow. Like it wasn't only me who changed while I was gone.
"Martin mentioned the renovation they did last spring," Dad continues, seamlessly shifting back to me while Mom practically bounces in her chair planning puppy names. "New wiring in the whole building. Should be up to code now."
"That's . . . good?"
"And the job?" Dad continues. "The computer thing?"
"Programming," I correct automatically, then soften it with, "it's good. Working remote means I can do projects from anywhere."
"Smart." He nods. "World's changing. All digital now."
The conversation settles into something almost comfortable. Mom fills the silence with stories about her book club's latest drama, while Dad occasionally offers commentary that doesn't sound completely judgmental. It's weird. But nice?
When Mom gets up to clear plates, Dad clears his throat, and the sound makes my shoulders tense on instinct.
"Listen, I wasn't . . . great. At expressing my concerns. It came out like criticism, always riding you about decisions, and that wasn't . . ." he stops, jaw working. "That wasn't what I meant to do."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. "Dad—"
"Let me finish." He stares at his empty plate like it might help him find the right words.
"Your mother and I, we struggled early on.
Really struggled. I didn't want that for you boys.
But instead of saying that, I just . . .
" He shrugs, the gesture almost painful.
"I could've worded things better. Should have been there for you—for you all—more, instead of working so much"
"It's fine," I manage, even though it's not really fine. It's complicated and messy, and somehow exactly what I needed to hear.
"I'm not making excuses," he continues gruffly. "Just . . . I see now that I pushed too hard. Made you think you weren't . . ." He trails off, but I hear the word he doesn't say. Enough.
Mom chooses that exact moment to return, practically floating into the room with a steaming dish.
"Now that my men are done brooding," she announces, setting down an apple pie, "who wants dessert?"
The tension breaks like a fever. Dad chuckles—a sound so foreign I almost look around for pod people—and my shoulders finally drop.
"You were listening at the door, weren't you?" he accuses, but there's warmth in his voice I haven't heard in years.
"A mother knows these things." She serves us each a slice.
I take a bite and groan. "Shit, I forgot how good this is."
"Language," Mom scolds automatically, but she's beaming. "So, honey, what are your plans for tomorrow? Need help unpacking?"
And there it is. That too-casual tone that means she's up to something. I've heard it enough times to recognize the warning signs.
"Actually, I was planning to move the rest of my stuff from here, get the apartment sorted." I study her face, waiting for whatever scheme she's cooking up. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason." She fusses with her napkin. "Although . . . Ivy still needs help picking up the town tree. Your father was supposed to do it, but he pulled his back this morning—"
"I did not pull my back—"
"Shoveling snow, dear." Mom steamrolls over his protest with ease. "Terrible timing, really. Such a shame for Ivy to handle it alone."
"Seriously?"
"What?" Mom blinks innocently. "I just think it would be kind if you helped. The tree's quite large. I wouldn't want her to get hurt trying to do it on her own."
"Mom. You can't—"
"And you know how important the town Christmas celebration is to everyone." She takes a delicate bite of pie.
Dad snorts into his coffee. "Very subtle, Dorothy."
"I have no idea what you mean." But her eyes are twinkling with that dangerous sparkle that means she's already decided how this is going to play out.
This is the opening I need.
At least with the tree, she can't run away. Well, she could, but if there's one thing I know about Ivy Hart, it's that she'd never let personal drama affect her responsibilities to Hallow's End.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if I get stabbed with a rogue pine needle, I'm blaming you."
"Of course, sweetheart." Mom pats my hand. "Though you might want to wear something nicer than those ratty jeans. First impressions are important."
"This isn't a first impression," I remind her. "She's known me since freshman year."
"Exactly. Which means you have a lot of making up to do."
Dad laughs at that. "Your mother's never wrong, son. Best to just agree with her."