Chapter 37
Hey, Mama
Eli
The drive home is weighed down by the events of Sunday evening.
My truck is quiet and my body is finally starting to relax after spending the day holding my breath.
I left the hospital reluctantly, grateful beyond words that Drake and Lara insisted I stay put while they handled the pitch.
Family came first, they said. No debate. No guilt layered into it.
They held me down. And they did an amazing job. I had nothing to worry about.
When I step into the house, more silence greets me immediately. This silence is different. It feels vacant.
My house still smells like her. Faint traces of the body oils she started wearing here clinging stubbornly to the air like they refuse to leave, even if she has. I didn’t expect the ache. Didn’t plan for how much I’d miss her presence, the way she filled rooms without trying.
Guilt presses in thinking about how I got short with her when everything happened with my mom.
I shut down instead of letting her in. Not because I didn’t want her there, but because I didn’t know how to need her that much.
I didn’t know how to burden her with something so raw and I hate myself for it.
I hate that the feeling of being discarded is what she left with.
I shower, letting the heat batter my shoulders, hoping it might scrub the last week out of me. The hospital. The fear. The pitch. Her. It’s like I’m trying to wash myself back to normal. Back the version of me that existed before Max walked into my life and rearranged everything. Me.
This is what I’ve always done. When things get messy, I rinse them off. Compartmentalize. Reset. Go back to the man who knows how to function without wanting more than he can keep. So why does it feel impossible now? Why does the quiet taunt me even under the water, pressing in instead of fading?
When I finally step out, towel slung low around my waist, the bathroom is thick with steam and unanswered thoughts. My phone lights up on the counter, waiting for me.
Drake: We’re at the Peppermint Elephant. Come meet us out for a celebratory drink.
Me: Not in the mood. Tomorrow?
The phone rings immediately and I roll my eyes.
“What,” I say, irritation threaded through my voice, even though I know Drake is just doing what Drake does best. He wears me down until I cave.
“Bro!” he shouts over the noise. Laughter. Music. Glasses clinking. “We killed the pitch. Secured the second-largest investment of the entire summit. You won’t have to worry about funding your projects for the next ten years. You’re coming out.”
I huff, but it comes out closer to a pout than a protest. “Fine. One drink.”
“Famous last words,” he says, laughing.
I hang up, shaking my head, a reluctant smile forming on my mouth. Persistent bastard.
But that’s also why he’s my best friend.
It’s 1 a.m. on a Monday morning, and The Peppermint Elephant is buzzing. Too loud, too bright, like the world didn’t get the memo that everything in my life nearly came apart this weekend.
I take a deep breath before stepping inside from the cold, the warmth and noise of the bar hitting me all at once.
The attendants recognize me immediately, parting without being asked, smiling and nodding as I move through the space.
Someone claps me on the shoulder. Someone else raises a glass in my direction.
Word travels fast around here—especially good news.
Drake and Lara are already at our usual table in the VIP section. They’re laughing, leaned in close and for a split second, it nearly rubs me the wrong way. But I shake it off and chalk it up to celebration.
Drake spots me first and stands, throwing his arms wide like I’ve just returned from war. “There he is!” he calls, loud enough to draw attention.
Lara turns, her face lighting up when she sees me. “You just missed everyone,” she says as I slide into the seat across from them. “The rest of the team was here earlier. Drinks. Toasts. Way too many drunken speeches. They all took off about ten minutes ago.”
I glance around, taking in the half-empty glasses, victory is still very much alive in the space.
Drake pushes a drink toward me. “Perfect timing,” he says. “Now we can celebrate properly.”
For the first time all day, I let myself sit back and breathe.
Drake raises his glass first. “To winning the pitch. To funding secured. And to not having to fake confidence for the next ten years.”
Lara clinks hers against his. “To impact. To growth. And to the fact that we absolutely did not pull this off alone. Here’s to the team.”
They both look at me.
“She was essential,” Lara states directly. “Every single judge's comment focused on the systems, the tech, the clarity, and how flawlessly it all worked together. Max was responsible for that.”
Drake nods. “And I know things got a bit out of hand with the press leaks and the fake relationship stuff—”
I cut my eyes at him. “You think? My mom said her Bible study group has me on some sort of prayer watch list, or something”
He laughs, then raises his hands in surrender. “I admit it was a bit much, even for me. But the idea to use her skills, make her part of the team? It was a brilliant idea and we couldn’t have done it without her. Admit it.”
“Fine. You weren’t wrong,” I admit.
I take a sip, letting the whiskey burn. They’re right. I know they are. The win feels good, but there’s still a hollow note underneath it.
Drake leans back, studying me. “So. Are you going to see her again?”
“No,” I say flatly. Quickly
I’m starting to sound like the Bear again and I swear I almost hear Max say it in my head.
“Our time was up,” I add. “She was always supposed to go home. That was the deal. It’s for the best.”
Lara squints at me like she’s trying to diagnose something. Drake laughs outright.
“Bullshit,” they say, nearly in unison.
“I’m serious,” I insist.
They don’t believe me.
“Eli,” Lara says gently. “I’ve never seen you with a woman like this before.
Drake nods. “And you’ve definitely never looked this miserable after a woman has left. Especially after winning tens of millions of dollars.”
The waitress comes and replaces my now empty drink. “What exactly are you getting at?”
“That you’re lying to yourself.” Drake says, deadpan.
I don’t respond.
I am not lying to myself. I’m protecting myself.
“Besides,” I say, mostly to myself. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin at this point. I was sort of an asshole when I found out about my mom. Then she had to leave abruptly for work. I haven’t really been able to catch up with her. I don’t even know what to say to her now.”
“You say you’re sorry, E.” Drake says, matter of factly with a side of shade.
Lara tilts her head, thinking. Then her eyes light up. “Wait. Oh. I’ve got it.”
“What?” I ask warily.
She grins. “Max is a closet hopeless romantic.”
I stare blankly. “She also used to take things apart when she was a kid.”
Lara and Drake both frown. “What?”
“Oh!” I shout sarcastically. “I thought we were just listing random ass facts about Max!”
She stares at me blankly. “Are you done now?”
Drake mutters under his breath. “Asshole.”
Lara takes a sip of her drink and I don’t miss the way Drake seems to be hanging on Lara’s every word. “Max pretends she’s practical and immune to grand gestures,” Lara continues, warming up, “but she eats that girly stuff up. She just needs to believe it’s real.”
I shake my head. “I’m not doing a rom-com flash mob or showing up to her house with a damn boombox, Lara. I don’t do hopeless romantic shit.”
“You already did,” Drake says, his voice flat and knowing. “You just didn’t realize it.”
Lara pulls up one of the articles Drake planted on her phone and slides it across the table toward me.
The articles I was vehemently against but now seem to have been exactly what we needed.
There’s a picture attached to this article.
A candid shot of me and Max, heads bent close together as we go over design plans.
“If you ask me,” she says, tapping the screen with a knowing look, “this looks anything but fake.”
I let that thought settle, and without warning, the last week crashes into me like a freight train.
I think about finding her in the snow—that first moment of “sassy-crass” fire that should have annoyed me but instead hooked me.
I remember the weight of her in my arms, the way she looked in my oversized flannels, and the quiet, sacred intensity of her in that greenhouse.
Every move I made this week—chopping wood just so she’d watch, teaching her to bottle oils, letting her into the mess of my family—it wasn't just hospitality. It was a slow-motion surrender. I’d been playing the lead in a story I told myself I’d never try to write.
A type of story that wasn’t meant for me.
I’m a nice guy—I’ll admit that. And yes, I’ve always found a certain kind of pleasure in the act of taking care.
But the truth is, every “non-romantic” gesture and every calculated step I took was nothing more than a cover.
I was playing a part, trying to ignore the fact that she had already captured me.
And all it took was a few…minutes in her presence.
We spill out of the bar a little while later, the early morning sharp and quiet compared to the noise inside the Peppermint Elephant. Drake claps me on the shoulder. Lara squeezes my arm.
“Think about it,” she says. “Really think about it.”
I do.
The second I’m alone, I pull out my phone and fire off a text. I don't know why, but the image of her in that gold dress—the one I never even got to see her in outside the boutique—flashes across my mind.
Me: Hey, Mama.
I look at the clock and see that it’s after 2 a.m. and wonder if I’m disturbing her.
The dots appear immediately.
Lil Mama: Hey.
One word.
Okay. I deserve that.
Me: Did I wake you?
Lil Mama: No. Can’t sleep.
Me: That normal?
The silence rattles me. Her lack of an immediate reply sends my mind spiraling, filling in gaps it has no business touching. Is she with someone else? Has she already moved on or replaced me with a new distraction?
It’s silly and I have to remind myself that this was the deal. The terms we agreed to. Even if my body—or my traitorous heart—never got the memo.
Her response finally comes through.
Lil Mama: Truth?
Me: Please.
Lil Mama: Apparently, I forgot how to sleep when I’m not with you.
And fuck. Max must’ve left a little hopeless romantic behind, because I catch myself calculating the drive to her as if she lives right around the corner.
How long it would take. What time I’d have to leave.
How soon I could be standing in front of her again.
I shut that down fast.
Not because I don’t want to go, but because I can’t half-ass anything where she’s concerned. Especially not after she didn’t curse me out or shut me down the way I half-expected just now.
So instead, I make a plan.
I’m not standing here questioning whether she fits into my life.
She does.
And I’m done pretending I can leave her behind or that I can let her go.
I can’t.
I need my woman.