Chapter Six Paul
Chapter Six
Paul
She's making her famous baked ziti.
It's the first thing I notice when I walk through the front door of my childhood home—the scent of garlic and oregano smacking me right in the face.
My stomach rumbles, and I realize I haven't eaten since this morning—breakfast at the diner with Sophie. I sat across from her as she talked about the scheduler calling today and the articles she'd read on maintaining a positive mindset during chemotherapy.
She sat there, talking optimistically while enjoying her waffles, like she didn't have a care in the world. I had to force the eggs down my throat, washing them down with the bitter coffee. I was good at pretending, apparently. Sophie didn't suspect a thing.
Sophie.
The thought of her happy face at breakfast, contrasted with the devastation I left her in, makes me nauseous. I know it'll be suspicious if I spontaneously vomit all over my mom's rug, so I try to force it down.
"Paul?" Mom calls from the kitchen, hearing the front door close. I feel like I'm suddenly sixteen again, sneaking back into the house after curfew. That same itch crawls up my spine—that oh-shit-I'm-caught feeling.
I take a deep breath, but it brings no relief as I hear her footsteps approaching.
"Honey, is that you?"
"Yeah," I answer, my voice coming out rough. I toe off my shoes and kick them toward the rack, clearing my throat and plastering on a smile. "Hey, Ma."
When she finally comes into view, my normally composed mother looks a little frazzled—but visibly relieved to see me.
Her short red hair is tousled like she's been running her hands through it, her biggest tell when she's stressed.
She's dressed in her comfy house clothes—a faded green Starling Cove Football Mom T-shirt, those stretchy black pants she always wears around the house, and black fuzzy slippers snug on her feet.
This sight is a familiar comfort to me—coming home from football practice to her greeting me at the door with a hug, then ushering me straight into the kitchen for dinner.
My dad would arrive at work minutes later, kiss my mom, and slip into his usual seat at the dining room table like clockwork.
We'd make casual conversation while Mom spooned whatever she'd made onto his plate.
He'd ask about football, about school, my friends, and girls.
Mom would fill my plate to the brim, fussing over her O'Connor men with quiet pride.
Right now, I ache to feel even a shred of that ease—because all I feel is sick.
"Paul Francis, what in the world is going on?"
She demands while storming over to me and pulling me into a hug. I melt into the embrace for a second, drawing what little comfort I can from my mother's arms after the day I've had.
"Ma–"
"You texted me that you're going to be staying here for a couple of days, and then nothing! I tried texting Sophie, but my messages won't go through. Did she block me? What in the world is going on?"
She pulls back slightly to study my face, concern tightening the smile lines around her eyes. "Are you guys fighting?"
I barely suppress a wince, guilt stabbing sharp and sudden in my gut.
"No, it's just... complicated right now, Ma."
"Complicated? Yeah, cancer is pretty complicated, Paul. I thought you were scheduling all her treatments today?"
"We did," I say, the words barely squeaking out past the tightness in my throat. "Everything is scheduled and set."
"Okay..." She frowns at me, her narrowed green eyes scanning my face. I can't meet her eyes for more than a second because she can read me like a book. "Then why are you here? Don't you need to be with her to drive her to her appointments? I read you can't drive after chemotherapy—"
"Ma, I just—" My voice comes out too sharp, cutting her off mid-sentence. She notices, arching an eyebrow at me. "...we just needed a breather. Things are a lot right now. Can we please talk about this later?"
Mom's mouth tightens, and she fixes me with the same look she used to give me when I was a teenager—when she knew I had weed hidden somewhere in my room.
It's that deliberate silence, the one that gives you just enough rope to hang yourself. She's waiting for me to confess something.
But I couldn't back then.
And I still can’t.
"Fine," she says at last, nodding toward the stairs. "Put your things up in your room and wash your hands. Dinner'll be ready in ten."
"Okay," I reply, because resisting Donna O'Connor—especially when she's trying to feed you—isn't just foolish, it's impossible.
I pull my duffel over my shoulder and head up the stairs. The duffel is easier to explain for now than the two filled suitcases still sitting in the trunk of my car.
I'll sneak those in later—if I can.
I pass the old family photos lining the walls: vacations, holidays, awkward school portraits.
The ones with Sophie in them hit me like a punch to the chest, a vicious reminder. I have to look away and hurry to my old bedroom—well, it used to be my bedroom. Mom converted it into a guest room not long after I graduated with my Bachelor's.
All my Patriots posters are gone, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit centerfolds mom would always roll her eyes at are tossed. The shelves where my football trophies once sat have been cleared—either boxed away in storage or trashed.
She painted the walls a calm light blue last year and dad patched up all the dents and dings I left behind.
There's no trace of me left in this room.
Because I'd been building a new life—building a future–with Sophie.
I drop the bag by the bed and walk over to the window. Same view of the old maple tree—its branches starting to yellow near the edges in the late summer heat. The same one I used to climb down to sneak out and see Stacey, my high school girlfriend.
Later, it became the same tree I laid under with Sophie the first time she visited this house.
◆◆◆
My head was in her lap as she sighed contentedly, watching the sun setting. She was running her fingers through my hair and I just closed my eyes, relishing her touch.
"I think I could be really happy here."
My eyes popped open, surprised and delighted. Our eyes met and I questioned, "Yeah? You mean... you'd move here with me after we graduate?"
"I just want to be where you are, Paul," she shrugged and smiled down at me, those soft fingers tracing my cheek down to my chin. "If that's Starling Cove, then Starling Cove it is."
I sat up and cupped her face, pulling her lips to mine and devouring her mouth. This girl—my girl—is incredible. Amazing. Wonderful. She smiled against my lips, laying her small hands against my chest, fingers clenching my shirt and pulling me closer.
"I love you, Soph," I murmured against her lips. I had meant it, I meant it more than anything. She was so good to me. Willing to do anything to make me happy, including packing up and moving to a brand new place where I was already established and comfortable.
She was willing to be brave and start new somewhere. For me.
"I love you too," she smiled at me, and I remember thinking I'll do everything I can to keep earning that smile.
◆◆◆
I barely make it to my ensuite bathroom before I vomit all over the toilet seat lid. I'm only just able to wrench it up before I retch violently again, emptying the meager contents of my stomach from breakfast.
The relief comes, but only lasts a moment, because then Sophie's wrecked face crashes into my thoughts.
I slump forward, resting my forehead against the cool porcelain, trying to breathe, trying to will myself to stop torturing myself with the image of her with heartbreak etched into every line of her face.
But I can't.
The acrid smell becomes too much, and I grimace at the mess that didn't make it into the toilet.
"Shit," I mutter, reaching up to flush. Dragging myself to the linen closet, I grab the cleaner and paper towels. At least this is a mess I can fix.
When it’s clean, I swish my mouth with Listerine until my gums burn and scrub my hands under near-scalding water. I do it twice because I'm just procrastinating now.
Only then do I dare look at myself in the mirror, and what I see makes me flinch.
My blue eyes are bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight it looks carved from stone, and my shirt hangs rumpled and crooked on my frame.
It's like staring into a warped funhouse mirror.
I look like a disaster.
I have to turn away and hurry downstairs, trying to be Paul again and not... whatever it was I just saw in the mirror.
The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of garlic and fresh herbs, and I have to breathe through my mouth when I walk in. What's normally the comforting aroma of Mom's cooking is now attacking my senses like an ambush, making my stomach clench all over again.
Mom looks up as I walk in and slides a plate across the counter toward me, followed by a little bowl of freshly grated Parmesan.
I sit at the island, trying to act casual, pretending it's just any other dinner with my mom. I glance around the kitchen—the same one I stood in just two weeks ago during family dinner—and then I flinch.
Because that memory brings another one barreling in right behind it—dropping Sophie off at home that night.
◆◆◆
I pulled up to the curb, and not in our designated parking spot, "Brian and Chris wanna get a couple of drinks. They asked me to meet them at Haunts. Is that okay, sweetie?"
Sophie looked at me with tired but trust-filled eyes and leaned over to kiss me, "That's fine, I'm gonna get a bath and head to bed anyway. I'm beat."
"Enjoy your bath, I love you," I reached up and caressed her jaw. She loved that move—said it melted her into a puddle when I did it. She became so pliable, so sweet under my hands. I felt a little sick using it like that, weaponizing something so tender.
"I love you too, be safe," she kissed me once more and hugged me from over the center console. "Text me when you're heading home."
"Don't wait up, sweetie," I said, forcing a playful smile. "You know how we get."