Chapter 7 - Dorian
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dorian
The morning light slants through the kitchen window, catching the steam off the coffee pot. It’s early. I can hear the snowplow somewhere down the road, the hum of tires against ice.
My mother sits at the table in her robe, spooning sugar into her cup like she’s trying to sweeten the silence between us.
She doesn’t look at me when she says, “You’re mad at me.”
“I’m not,” I answer, sliding a plate of toast her way.
She hums low in her throat, the sound that usually means she doesn’t believe me. “You don’t have to lie, Dorian. I know I shouldn’t have kicked the girl out. But you know how people talk in this town.”
I take the seat across from her, trying to keep my tone steady. “Mom—”
She holds up a hand. “Don’t ‘Mom’ me. I’ve lived here long enough to know how fast gossip spreads. Half the town probably knows I’ve got multiple sclerosis before my eggs even finish cooking. I can’t have people pitying me.”
“It’s not pity,” I say quietly.
She stirs her coffee, gaze fixed on the swirling milk. “It’s close enough.”
“She wasn’t here to pity you,” I say. “Norah’s just... she’s kind. Sometimes too kind.”
Mom’s eyes soften. “And you still care about her.”
I don’t answer right away. The truth sits heavy on my tongue. “We’ve got history,” I say finally. “That’s all.”
“History doesn’t fade just because time passes.” She gives a small, knowing smile, one that used to drive me crazy when I was a teenager. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m your mother. I notice things.”
“I’m not mad,” I say again. “You were concerned. I get it.”
She nods, though her gaze drifts toward the snow outside. “Sometimes I forget how much this town knows about me. About us. It’s hard to keep anything private when everyone’s known you for forty years.”
“Fox Hollow’s never been good at minding its business,” I say, and that earns a faint laugh.
We just sit there. The old clock ticks, the smell of butter and cinnamon fills the air.
I remember mornings like this when I was a kid. She used to hum along to the radio, hair up in a messy bun, the sharpest wit in Fox Hollow. Now her hands shake when she lifts the cup.
“I just…” She exhales, shoulders sagging. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Or her. Norah’s a good girl. I panicked. People in this town love to talk, and I didn’t want them talking about me like I’m some charity case.”
“I know,” I say, voice low. “But you didn’t embarrass me.”
Her eyes flick up, sharp and tired all at once. “You sure? Because I embarrassed myself.”
I reach across the table, brushing crumbs off her sleeve. “You’re fine. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
She gives me a small, crooked smile. “You always say that like you believe it.”
“I do.”
“Hmm.” She takes another sip, then sets her mug down. “You gave up your life in Portland for this, Dorian. Don’t think I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t giving up. It was moving back. There’s a difference.”
“Still.” Her gaze softens. “I don’t want you to resent me for it. You had your firm, your friends, your life. You uprooted everything just to make sure I wasn’t alone.”
I look at her, at the fine lines carved deep around her mouth, at the woman who raised me mostly on her own. “Never,” I say. “I would never resent you. You’re my family. That’s all that matters.”
She nods, blinking fast. “You talked to your father lately?”
The question lands heavier than it should. “No.”
“You should,” she says gently. “He’s still your father.”
“Technically.”
She sighs. “You sound just like me twenty years ago.”
I can’t help a small laugh. “That’s where I get it from.”
She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth lifts. “You know, when he called last month, he asked about you. Wanted to know if you were still in the city.”
“Of course he did.” I lean back in my chair. “It’s easier to check in from a distance.”
“Dorian—”
“Mom,” I interrupt softly. “He left when I was twelve. You’re the one who stayed. You’re the one who showed up to every game, every graduation, every damn broken heart. I tried to fix my relationship with him when I went to Portland, but he screwed it up like he always does. I don’t need him.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Maybe not. But you might need closure.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say. Some doors don’t close clean. They just stay cracked, cold air seeping through, no matter how many years go by.
When she finishes her coffee, I help her up, careful not to make her feel small. “Come on. Time for your meds.”
“Bossy,” she mutters, but she doesn’t resist.
I follow her down the hall, her slippers whispering against the wood floor. The house feels different since I redid it—brighter, more open. She says it feels like living inside a magazine now. I just wanted it to be safe.
She sits on the edge of the bed while I set out her morning pills, a glass of water beside them. She takes them one by one, then sighs, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re a good boy.”
“Man,” I correct gently.
She smirks without opening her eyes. “Still my boy.”
Her bed sits near the window, quilt folded neatly at the foot, family photos on the dresser: me at graduation, and a few faded Polaroids of summer barbecues and fishing trips.
“Get some rest,” I tell her, fluffing the pillows.
She settles in, her movements slower these days, but still stubbornly independent. “You’re good at this,” she says.
“At what?”
“Taking care of people.”
I chuckle. “That’s debatable.”
She smiles faintly, eyes already half-closed. “Don’t work too hard.”
“Always do,” I murmur. I tuck the blanket over her legs. “Try to rest. I’ll be back before lunch.”
“You and your meetings.” Her words slur slightly as the medication takes hold. “Tell your fancy boss hello.”
“Denzel’s not that fancy,” I say, smiling faintly. “He just likes to sound important.”
Her laugh follows me out of the room.
I close the door quietly and head to my office—a converted study at the back of the house overlooking the woods. My laptop hums to life, screen lighting up with unread emails and calendar reminders.
At nine sharp, my meeting with Denzel begins. His face appears in the video window, framed by the kind of sleek city office I used to live in every day.
“Morning, Dorian,” he says, his tone brisk but friendly. “How’s Fox Hollow treating you?”
“Snowy,” I say. “But good.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Denzel leans back, clasping his hands. “You’re settling in fine, then?”
“As much as I can. It’s quieter than Portland.”
He chuckles. “You’ll get used to it. Now, Marketing’s building a campaign for the town’s redevelopment efforts.”
“Redevelopment?” I repeat.
“Yeah, the community hall project. You’ve met with the mayor, right? Brighton something?”
“Walter Brighton,” I confirm. “We’ve exchanged emails, but not met yet.”
“Good. Because our PR team’s pushing this as a project to ‘restore small-town heritage,’” he says, fingers making air quotes. “It’s good optics. Makes it look like part of something bigger, not just another development.”
I nod slowly. “So the hall is basically the face of the campaign.”
“Exactly. Once the renovations start, we’ll bring in press. A story about preserving history while creating modern living spaces. You know how the board loves those narratives.”
“Got it,” I say, jotting notes. “I’ll set a meeting with Brighton this week.”
“Perfect. And Dorian—good work on the relocation. I know moving back wasn’t easy.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
When the call ends, I sit for a while, staring at the snow-covered trees outside. The project makes sense on paper—cleaner branding, good press, local goodwill. But part of me can’t shake the thought that we’re dressing up profit as philanthropy.
Still, the cabins will bring jobs. Maybe that’s something.
I check emails, finalize budgets, adjust a few site schedules. The quiet of the house hums around me. The old radiator ticking, the faint wind against the eaves. I should focus, but my mind keeps drifting down the hall.
Mom.
She’s been doing better lately. Some good days, some not. But I can’t be here twenty-four-seven.
I’ve got a cleaning service that comes three times a week, but she needs more than dusting and laundry. She needs someone who can watch for the little things, like missed doses, fatigue, the slow tremor that gets worse when she’s tired.
A caregiver would help. I know that. But it feels like admitting something I’m not ready to face.
I run a hand through my hair and lean back in the chair.
I used to think moving back here was the solution. That I could rebuild both her world and mine at once. But sitting in this house, the snow falling in lazy spirals outside, it hits me—maybe I’ve been patching cracks instead of fixing the foundation.
I left for Portland chasing success, sacrificing my relationship with Norah in the process. I built a life there, and despite what I felt, I told myself I was at least still taking care of Mom from afar.
Paying bills. Checking in. Visiting when I could. But was that enough?
Now I’m here, and she’s down the hall, asleep after breakfast. I’ve redone the house, made it brighter, stronger, and better insulated against winter. And yet... sometimes it still feels cold.
I open another document, numbers and timelines filling the screen. The work steadies me, gives shape to the chaos.
By noon, I’ve reviewed two design proposals and sent out five emails. I check on Mom again. She’s awake, propped against the pillows, reading an old gardening magazine.
“Hey,” I say softly. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like someone who forgot how to sleep in,” she says, smiling.
“Lunch soon. You want soup?”
“That’d be nice.”
I head to the kitchen, heat up some tomato basil, and slice fresh bread. When I bring it back, she’s turned on the TV, watching one of those daytime shows where everyone’s arguing about recipes.
“You really don’t have to wait on me,” she says as I set the tray down.
“I’m not waiting on you. I’m just... making sure you’re okay.”
She tilts her head. “That’s waiting on me.”
I grin. “Then I guess I am.”
She laughs softly, her eyes drifting to the photo frames on the dresser. “You were always the steady one,” she says. “Even when you were little. I used to find you fixing your toys with tape instead of crying when they broke.”
I shrug. “Guess I never outgrew it.”
Her gaze lingers, warm and wistful. “I’m proud of you, Dorian. I don’t say that enough.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Thanks, Mom.”
She reaches for my hand, her grip light but firm. “I know I drive you crazy sometimes. But having you here, it helps more than you know.”
I squeeze her hand gently. “It helps me too.”
For a while, we just sit there, the soft hum of the TV filling the space. Snow keeps falling outside, steady as breath.
Later, after I’ve cleaned up and she’s resting again, I return to my desk. My laptop blinks with a reminder: Community Hall Site Review—Pending Approval.
I open the file, scanning through the renderings, the cost projections, the marketing blurbs. Words like “heritage,” “renewal,” “hope for small-town revival.”
At least when I focus on work, I don’t have to worry so much about Mom… and the mess that my life feels like at the moment.