Chapter 34
Iwoke up in Andrew’s bed alone, which seemed like bullshit.
We’d literally just—I mean, last night—and now he was just. . . gone? I sprawled across his ridiculously oversized mattress, squinting at the sunlight blazing through floor-to-ceiling windows, trying to decide if I was offended or impressed that he could even function this early.
Then I smelled bacon.
Okay. Less offended.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The penthouse was quiet except for sounds coming from the kitchen, the sizzle of something in a pan, cabinets opening and closing.
Andrew was cooking?
I could hear him moving around in the kitchen, the fridge opening, something being set on the counter.
Right. Meal prep. He had those containers delivered twice a week, perfectly portioned meals he could just heat up. I’d seen the invoices.
Still. He was up. Making. . . well, probably reheating breakfast. That counted for something.
I found one of his T-shirts and pulled it on. Added my boxer briefs. That was decent enough for morning-after meal-prep breakfast, right?
I walked toward the kitchen, still half-asleep, glasses on, my hair definitely a disaster.
“You know, you could’ve woken me up if you were—”
I stopped dead.
The woman at the stove turned around.
This was not Andrew.
Although she looked like him. The woman staring at me seemed to be in her mid-fifties, blonde hair in a messy bun, wearing jeans and a Wardens sweatshirt. Holding a spatula. Completely at home in Andrew’s kitchen.
She looked at me. I looked at her.
“Oh,” she said. Then her face broke into a delighted smile. “Oh! You must be Matthew.”
I froze. Mortified. Yes, I was Matthew, but I was currently Matthew standing in her son’s kitchen in nothing but a T-shirt and underwear, my hair sticking up, obviously having just rolled out of her son’s bed.
“Hi. I mean. I—uh—I should—” I gestured back toward the bedroom. “Pants. I should put on pants.”
“Honey, relax. I’ve seen worse.” She turned back to the stove, completely unbothered. “You like eggs? I’m making eggs. Drew has no food in this place so I brought groceries.”
I stood there, brain short-circuiting.
Drew?
This was Andrew’s mom. Andrew’s mom. And I was standing in her son’s kitchen in my underwear.
“Coffee’s fresh,” she continued, pointing to the French press with her spatula like Andrew pointed with his hockey stick—direct, no-nonsense, brooking no argument. “You look like shit. Drink some.”
I moved on autopilot to the cabinet, pulled down a mug, and poured coffee. It was something to do with my hands. Something that wasn’t standing there like an idiot.
“I’m Diane, by the way.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Since my dumbass son apparently didn’t warn you I might show up.”
“I’m Matthew. Which. . . you already know. And no, he didn’t.”
“Of course he fucking didn’t. Kid has zero sense of communication.” She cracked eggs into the pan with more force than necessary. “How do you take your eggs?”
“I—uh—scrambled?”
“Good. Sit down, you’re making me nervous hovering there like that.”
I sat at the kitchen island, clutching my coffee like a lifeline.
Diane moved around the kitchen like a tornado, opening cabinets, slamming them shut, muttering about ‘Drew’s’ complete lack of basic supplies.
“So,” she said, whisking eggs aggressively. “You’re the one who’s been making my son lose his goddamn mind.”
I choked on my coffee. “I’m—what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, sweetie. You’re clearly smart. Drew doesn’t waste time on idiots, believe me.” She poured the eggs into the pan. “He texted me last night asking how to make French toast. French. Fucking. Toast. The boy has never voluntarily cooked breakfast in his entire life.”
My face was on fire. “Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ I knew something was up. Either someone died or he’d met someone worth impressing.” She pointed the spatula at me. “Since no one’s dead, here I am.”
The front door opened.
Andrew stopped when he saw me. Then saw his mom. Then saw the breakfast spread. “What the fuck?”
“Good morning to you too, asshole.” Diane waved her spatula at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I brought my own groceries because you had jack shit in this place. How are you still alive?”
“I order food.”
“Let me guess. Chicken and rice? Every single day?” She gestured at me with the spatula. “Matthew needs real food. You can’t just feed him protein shakes and meal prep bullshit.” She turned back to the stove. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
“You texted me about French toast. That’s basically asking.”
“That was me asking for a recipe, not for you to show up at eight in the morning.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Drew.” She pointed at the grocery bags Andrew was holding. “What’d you buy?”
“More groceries. Since apparently mine aren’t good enough.”
“They’re not. You had beer, eggs, and some sad-looking chicken. That’s it.” She started pulling things out of his bags. “Oh good, you actually bought vegetables. Miracle.”
Andrew looked at me, and despite the chaos, his mouth twitched. “Nice shirt.”
I looked down at his shirt, oversized and wrinkled. “Uh. Thanks.”
“Looks better on you.”
Diane snorted. “Jesus Christ, you two are disgusting. I love it.”
“Mom.”
“What? You are.” She pointed between us. “Look at you, all doe-eyed. It’s adorable, and I fucking hate it.”
“Can you not—”
“I’m your mother. It’s my job to embarrass you.” She cracked more eggs. “So are you two dating? Like, seriously dating? With intention?”
The kitchen went silent.
“Uh—”
“Yeah,” Andrew said at the same time.
Diane’s eyebrows shot up. She looked between us, grinning. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
“Mom—”
She was enjoying this way too much. “Like, are we talking marriage here? Long-term? Or is this a fuck buddy situation? A situationship, isn’t that what it’s called?”
“Fucking hell, Mom.”
“I’m just asking! I want to know if I should start planning or—”
“We—” I started to say.
“We might be,” Andrew said.
I stared at him. He was looking at his mother, jaw set, defiant.
Diane’s grin widened. “Andrew Michael Knox, are you telling me you’re serious about this boy?”
“Yes.”
“Like, actually serious? Not just fucking around?”
“Mom.”
“Answer the question.”
“Yes. I’m serious.” He looked at me, and something in his expression made my chest tight. “Very fucking serious. He’s my boyfriend.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Diane looked delighted. “Well, shit. Okay then.” She plated the food, brought it over. “Matthew, I need you to know that he’s a pain in the ass, but he’s a good man when he wants to be. Just stubborn as hell and shit at talking about his feelings.”
“He’s not that bad,” I said.
Both of them looked at me.
“What?” I said. “He’s not. He’s—” I looked at Andrew, then back at Diane. “He’s intense. And yeah, he doesn’t always say what he’s thinking. But he shows up. He’s honest. He doesn’t bullshit people.” I paused. “And he cares more than he lets on.”
The kitchen was quiet.
Diane stared at me for a long moment. Then she smiled, really smiled, warm and genuine. “Okay. I like you.”
“Thank you?”
“No, I mean it. Most people are too scared of him to say shit like that.” She looked at Andrew. “You picked a good one.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you that.”
Diane took a bite of bacon. “Drew’s possessive, though. Fair warning.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said.
“And he’s got a temper.”
“Also noticed.”
“And he can be a real dick sometimes.”
“Mom.”
“What? You can.” She turned back to me. “But he’s loyal. And he works harder than anyone I know.” She pointed her fork at Andrew. “Even if he is terrible at calling his mother.”
“I texted you last night.”
“To ask about French toast. That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
“It does not.”
They bickered for another minute, and I just watched, coffee in hand, trying to process everything that had just happened.
Andrew had said yes. To serious.
Eventually Diane stood up and grabbed her purse. “Alright, I’m out. I’ve got shit to do.”
“You just got here.”
“And now I’m leaving.” She kissed Andrew’s forehead. “Don’t fuck this up.”
“I’m not planning on it.”
“I’m serious, Drew.” She grabbed his face with both hands. “This one’s good. Be good back. You hear me?”
Andrew’s jaw tightened. “I know, Mom.”
“Good.” She released him, turned to me. “You’re welcome over to my place anytime, Matthew. Seriously. Even if this idiot doesn’t invite you properly.”
“Thank you.”
“And if he does fuck it up—and I mean when, because he will at some point—” She pulled out her phone. “What’s your number? I’ll give you mine.”
“Mom—”
“Shut up. I’m getting his number.” She looked at me expectantly.
I gave her my number. She typed it in immediately.
“Perfect. Now if he’s being an asshole, you call me. I’ll set him straight.”
“I’m not going to—”
“You will. He’s my son. I love him. But Drew can be a real dick when he’s scared.” She kissed Andrew’s forehead again. “Love you, baby. Try not to be a disaster.”
“Love you too. Now get out of my apartment.”
She laughed, grabbed her stuff, and headed for the door. “Don’t let him scare you off before Thanksgiving, Matthew. I want to show you off to the family!”
“MOM!”
The door closed behind her.
Andrew and I sat there in silence for a moment.
“So,” I said finally. “Boyfriends.”
Andrew’s ears went red. “She asked.”
“And you said we were boyfriends.”
“Yeah. I did.” He looked at me, challenging. “Problem?”
I should have been freaking out. Should have been panicking. But instead, I just felt—
Steady.
“No,” I said. “No problem.”
He pulled me closer, kissed me. “Good. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold. She’ll kill me if she finds out I let you waste it.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a minute. Then I looked at him.
“She’s great, by the way. Your mom.”
“She’s a nightmare.”
“She’s like you.”
“That’s what I said.” But he was smiling. “It’s always been her and me, you know. Since I was seven.”
I waited for him to say more.
“My dad—” Andrew stared at his coffee. “We had money. Always did. But he spent a lot of it on drugs. Coke, mostly. Pills. Whatever he could get his hands on.” He swallowed.
“Mom divorced him when she finally figured out how bad it was. Took me and left. She worked her ass off to make sure I had everything I needed. Hockey equipment, coaches, all of it. Never complained. Never made me feel like it was a burden.”
That explained so much. The intensity. The way he looked at his mom. The fierce loyalty.
“That’s why people like Archibald piss me off so much,” Andrew continued.
“And everyone like him. The whole party scene, the drugs, acting like it’s no big deal.
” His hands fisted on the counter. “I’ve seen what that shit does.
What it takes from people. And these rich assholes just—” He stopped. “Sorry. I just—”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“Yeah, well.” He grabbed his coffee, took a drink. “It’s why I don’t fuck around with that stuff. Never have. Never will.”
I thought about Ben. About the hotel room. About the drugs that weren’t mine but became my problem anyway.
I should tell him. This was the perfect opening.
“Your mom’s amazing,” I said instead. “For what she did. Raising you on her own.”
“Yeah. She is.” His expression softened.
We stood there in his kitchen, morning light streaming in, the smell of coffee and toast still in the air. It felt domestic. Like something I could get used to.
Like something I wanted to get used to.
This one’s good. Be good back.
I thought about possibilities. About what it might be like to have this. Breakfast and inside jokes and someone’s mom who showed up unannounced because she cared.
Maybe this could work. Maybe I could have this.
I was still smiling when I reached my building later, climbing the stairs to my floor.
Then I saw him.
Sitting on the floor outside my door, long legs stretched out, looking at his phone.
He looked up when he heard my footsteps.
That smile. Warm. Familiar.
Benjamin Harroway.
Instantly, the warmth from this morning evaporated and was replaced by ice.
“Matt.” He stood, perfect clothing, perfect posture, perfect everything.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. My keys were in my hand, but I couldn’t remember how to use them.
“I know this is unexpected,” Ben continued, his voice smooth and measured. The voice that had sold a billion dollars in movie tickets. He gestured at my door. “But aren’t you going to invite me in?”