Chapter 36
Seven fucking days of slinging pizzas like it's therapy. Five mind-numbing gaming streams where I pretend my life isn't imploding. And now this—watching Greg Miller, champion of emotional constipation, morph into a picture-perfect husband.
I should be handling this better. The message from Pixel Dreams is still sitting in my inbox, burning a hole through every excuse I've made.
It promises everything I've secretly wanted but never had the guts to go after.
Their words echo in my head with every delivery, and I've read them so many times, I could recite them in my sleep.
But instead of dealing with any of that, I'm standing in my childhood kitchen, witnessing the same man who once called therapy ‘expensive whining' ask Mom if she wants to try that new French place in Brookside.
For dinner. Together. Like a date.
What the actual fuck.
He's carrying her groceries. Opening car doors. Yesterday I caught him humming. Humming. Greg Miller doesn't hum. He grunts and scowls and lectures about proper tire rotation schedules.
This is the same guy who taught me that emotions were weakness, that romance was for "soft men who can't handle real life.
" The architect of my belief system that feelings equal failure.
Who rolled his eyes every time Mom mentioned wanting to go somewhere nice, who treated date nights like she was asking him to donate a kidney.
And suddenly he's Prince fucking Charming?
"Did you see the flowers he brought home?" Mom's glowing, sorting through recipe cards. "Just because it was Tuesday."
The Dad I know thinks flowers are for funerals and "people with more money than sense." But there they are on the counter—roses mixed with some purple things that probably have fancy names I don't care about.
Here's what's really screwing with my head. If Greg Miller can suddenly flip a switch and become Husband of the Year, then what the hell was my entire childhood?
Because I learned from him. Every time some girl I was seeing started hinting about anniversaries or Valentine's Day, I'd think of Dad's eye-rolls, and figure I was smart to keep things casual. Why get sucked into all that romantic bullshit when it just makes everyone miserable?
Except now he's over there planning weekend getaways like he didn't spend years acting allergic to effort.
The rage hits me sharp and sudden and completely irrational.
If he could do this the whole time, if this version of him existed under all that grumpy bastard exterior, then why didn't he? Why did I grow up thinking romance was for suckers and emotional guys were weak?
More importantly . . . what does that make me?
Dad's laughing now at something Mom said about their first apartment. That sound pisses me off even more because it's proof he was holding out on us this whole time.
I need a drink. Or ten. Usually when my brain starts doing this spiral thing, I'd head to Ivy's. She'd make that weird tea, and let me word-vomit all over her couch until the urge to punch walls dulled.
But I can't. Not after the wedding. Not after that kiss that I keep saying meant nothing but replays in my head like a broken record.
So instead, I'm here, caught in the middle of my parents' second-act romance.
Watching my father dismantle every excuse I've ever made for keeping people at arm's length.
Doing my best not to dwell on the memory of Ivy's lips, or the fact that Boston's just six hours away, or how I'm nowhere near as fine as I say I am.
My phone buzzes. Another notification from the new dating app I downloaded in a moment of desperate denial. Like if I lean hard enough into being That Guy again, everything will go back to normal.
I need space—to clear my head, to figure out why seeing my dad finally show up for Mom feels like a personal betrayal.
But the one person who helps me make sense of my mess is the reason everything's messy in the first place.
So yeah. I'm fine.
Totally fucking fine.
I pull up Brodie's contact, staring at our last conversation from two weeks ago, some dumb post with tattoo horror stories.
Me: Need a wingman tonight. O'Malley's?
His response is immediate.
Brodie: No.
Me: Come on. Free drinks?
Brodie: Still no.
I stare at that last text. Brodie's probably hunched over his drafting table right now, designing some masterpiece while judging the rest of us mere mortals.
He's got that whole tortured artist thing down.
All deep thoughts and meaningful silences.
Sometimes, I catch him watching me like he's waiting for me to crack; to finally say something real.
But that's the thing about us, we've perfected this dance of almost-friendship.
Beer and football scores. Surface-level bullshit that never cuts deeper than last night's game or which bartender's working tonight.
He doesn't ask why I'm really calling, and I don't tell him how much my life is imploding.
My thumb hovers over James's name. Another friendship built on comfortable lies. We're both too busy running from our own shit to call each other out. It's perfect, really. He pretends not to notice when I'm spiraling, and I ignore how he still flinches every time someone mentions Daphne.
Me: WHERE R U ASSHOLE? BOUT TO REPLACE U WITH brODIE.
Nothing.
Me: brODIE SAYS HE'LL BE MY NEW BFF. HE GETS ME.
Which is a complete lie since Brodie already shot me down, but James doesn't have to know that. All I want is for him to show up at O'Malley's so I can fake normal for one damn night.
When he doesn't respond, I play dirty.
Me: JAMES. O'MALLEY'S. NOW. OR I START TELLING DAPHNE YOU STILL HAVE A CRUSH ON HER.
James: You wouldn't dare.
Perfect. He won't ask about the Pixel Dreams email burning a hole in my inbox. Won't mention how I keep checking my phone like maybe Ivy will reach out, or how I haven't seen her since the wedding. How I've been avoiding her.
I grab my keys, ready to escape into a night of bad decisions and worse whiskey.
"Going out?" Mom calls just as I reach the door.
"Yeah." I force my signature everything's-fine grin. The one that usually works on everyone except her. "Don't wait up."
"Caleb." Her voice gentles, and something in me pulls taut. When I turn, she's got that mom-radar look. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?"
For a second, I nearly crack. Come close to spilling everything.
"Nothing to talk about." I shrug instead. "Just meeting James."
She watches me a beat longer, then sighs. "Be safe."
"Always am."
Tonight can be about bad decisions and worse drinks. About pretending I'm still that guy who doesn't want more than this. The one who isn't terrified of ending up like his dad, realizing too late what he's been missing.
Time to do what I do best. Pretend everything's fine until it actually is.
Or until I'm drunk enough to forget it isn't.