22. Look After You #3
Time stands still.
My heart thuds against my ribs and all the air from my lungs evaporate into nothing.
“El—you okay? Did I say something wrong?”
I cough awkwardly, trying to remember how to breathe. How to speak.
And just like that—I desperately tape the door back onto its hinges, flimsy as it is. It shields something far too tender, far too broken—my heart.
“Brody, you…can’t say things like that.”
“Sorry, sorry. Won’t happen again, don’t report me to HR.” He laughs but the sound falls flat. We return to our respective tasks. Him drying and me scrubbing.
Would he have been the better choice?
Perhaps we would be living in bliss instead of this awkward place between the sheets.
“Have you guys spoken? Since everything?” He ventures after a moment.
I nod, slow. “He called months ago. Drunk. I hung up.” My voice tightens. “He still calls, but I don’t want to pick up—there’s really nothing else to say.”
I don’t tell Broderick how every move Alex makes still gnaws at me—feeds an ache that festers and grows, leaving me trapped in a web of dreams and regrets. A web that Broderick is now tangled in.
What’s worse is that the damage Alex left behind makes me question everything Broderick says and does—even though he’s done nothing to deserve it.
“So you don’t want closure?” he asks finally, cocking his head, like he’s studying the shape of my silence.
“What for? He made his choice. He doesn’t want me,” I whisper, hating how fragile I sound.
“And if he still did?” He looks at me, hopeful.
I don’t answer. The question hangs heavy in the air.
Could I really go back to Alex after everything with Broderick?
The thought alone tears me apart—one part of me clinging to what I had with Alex, unable to move on; the other drawn to the possibilities with Broderick, always looking back.
When I don’t answer, his smile drops a little and I can’t help the guilt bubbling under the surface, to close the distance to reassure him, but I don’t. I stand there staring at him like a heartless idiot.
“You like pie?” he asks like none of this just happened.
“Pie?”
He’s already untying his apron. “Yeah. Dessert. Food. You know—Thanksgiving traditions.”
I dry my hands. “I mean, yeah. Who doesn’t like pie?”
“Cool.” He grabs his coat. “You’re coming with me.”
It’s the first time either of us really discussed Alex since the breakup—and just like that, Broderick moves us past it—with pie.
“Hey, Mr. Schwartz, thank you for all your help! It was another great year,” one of the volunteers says as we pass by.
“Hopefully even better next year,” Broderick replies.
“I don’t doubt it,” the man agrees, walking away.
“You’ve done this before?” I ask.
“Every year.” He shrugs. “You sound surprised?”
“Kind of, you’re so busy with everything else, I’d assumed that it would be easier to just donate to their cause.”
“It would—and I definitely still donate.” He winks. “But after my dad died, we used to come here, or places like it, to eat and spend Thanksgiving—And spending time with these people bringing them joy, makes me happy.”
Oh.
The image of Broderick as a kid, coming here because he had nowhere else to go, settles heavily in my chest. It makes my problems—with Alex, with my father—feel small. Almost embarrassing.
“You’re kind of incredible,” I say quietly. “You know that, right?”
Broderick shrugs again, cheeks flushing as a shy smile tugs at his mouth, and he leads me toward his car out front.
I follow, surprised by the pull in my chest—by how easily this side of him draws me in.
How it makes me examine parts of myself that would prefer convenience over actually giving a fuck about things that matter.
Luca trails behind us, giving me a pointed look as I slide into Broderick’s passenger seat.
It’s not like Broderick can’t keep me safe. He’s bigger than Luca.
We pull up to a narrow brownstone in Brooklyn, tucked between a dry cleaner and a deli with a flickering neon sign. The air smells like garlic and dried leaves.
Broderick holds the door open, his arm brushing mine as I pass.
Inside, warmth. The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg—something roasted and rich. Soft jazz hums from a speaker on a shelf.
“Ma?” Broderick calls.
Wait. What? Ma?
We’re at his mom’s house? I’m at his mom’s house.
For pie.
What the fuck.
“Broderick is this okay?” Every nerve in my body snaps awake. My palms go clammy. My mouth goes dry.
“More than okay,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on my back. “You’re welcome here.”
My heart doesn’t know how to react to that.
First his brother and their family and now this.
This isn’t casual. This isn’t a late-night bite, a dumb joke about dessert.
This is his mother.
“We’re in here,” a woman calls out.
“Georgia is that you?” Broderick calls out, his voice booming excitedly.
Oh fuck, his sister is here too.
A woman bounds out of the kitchen and throws her arms around Broderick.
Another woman peeks out from the kitchen, apron still on, hair clipped back with a plastic claw. Her eyes—green and knowing—match his. That must be his mother.
“There you are,” she says, drying her hands on a towel. “I thought maybe you’d gotten pulled into another shift.”
“Who’s this?” Georgia asks, her tone teasing as she eyes me up and down, not in a judgmental way, just curious. She’s not as tall as Broderick, her brown hair in a shoulder-length bob. She’s beautiful just like him, with the same dimples to match, as a smile spreads across her face.
“This is Elena.” Broderick kisses his mother’s cheeks, then gestures toward me.
Georgia’s eyes widen. “He’s not brought a girl home…not since…”
Broderick coughs. “This annoying person is my little sister, Georgia.”
“It’s lovely to meet you.” Georgia and Broderick exchange a look at one another.
His mother smile softens. “So you’re the Elena.”
I freeze. My first instinct is to make a hasty exit. But my feet don’t move.
He’s told her about us? What does she think this is?
“I’m Marie,” she says, crossing the room with her hands still dusted in flour.
Before I can react, she pulls me into a warm, sugar-scented hug.
I stand there stiff, arms caught somewhere between polite and full panic.
“I made pie,” she says, like that explains everything. “And some dinner. Just in case he showed up hungry. He always does.”
I smile—small, real, terrified.
“I’m not trying to crash your night,” I murmur, hyper-aware of every out-of-place hair, how tight my sweater feels, every beat of my heart.
“You’re not crashing anything. Sit,” she says, waving toward the dining room table. “You look like you’ve had a long day.”
Broderick nudges my back, gentle. “Told you.”
Then he disappears into the kitchen, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t just walk me into an emotional minefield.
I lower myself into the chair, unsure at first. Warmth seeps into me, soft and steady, loosening what the day has tightened. My body yields—but my mind doesn’t seem to get the message.
His sister is here and he brought me to his mom’s house.
For pie.
This isn’t just sweet. It’s a thing. A move. Something that means more than either of us has said out loud. My heart thuds behind my ribs like it already knows. I’m in too deep.
The table is small, square, worn at the corners. A vase with orange tulips in the center.
Marie brings out plates, two at a time, humming something soft and familiar under her breath.
She’s wearing socks with little sunflowers on them.
Broderick returns a moment later and sets down a dish of roasted chicken and some kind of stuffing that looked way too good to be last-minute.
“You didn’t have to fix me a plate.”
“Of course I did,” Broderick says, stealing a slice of bread before she can swat him.
“Oh no you didn’t,” Marie jokes.
“Well I helped,” he says with a boyish grin.
Georgia rolls her eyes. “His idea of helping is eating everything before I could plate it.”
He shrugs, mouth already full.
He’s so playful around his family—I can’t help but smile.
“Thank you, Georgia, all of you—I really appreciate it.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Marie says, placing a gentle hand on my back. Reminding me momentarily of my mother. Something she would do.
We sit. No fancy linens. No assigned seating. No pre-meal toast about legacy or the stock market. Just plates and warmth and the kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be filled.
It’s cozy—perfect.
Marie passes me the bowl of potatoes. “So, how long have you and my son been circling each other?”
My fork freezes mid-air.
Broderick chokes on his drink. Georgia barks out a laugh before taking a sip of her wine.
“Ma.”
“What?” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m old, not blind.”
“We’re not…” I start, then trail off. I don’t even know what we are.
Marie nods slowly, lets it hang. “Well. He’s a good one, if you’re wondering.”
“He is,” I murmur.
Because it’s the truth. But it’s me who is damaged. I wonder if she can see that?
Broderick’s hand slides under the table, giving my thigh a gentle squeeze.
I place my hand over his and squeeze in return.
We eat. We talk—thankfully avoiding anymore awkward topics.
Marie tells a story about Broderick as a kid, how he used to build cities out of cereal boxes in their tiny Queens apartment. Georgia adds fun anecdotes about how hard Broderick worked for them growing up. The best big brother.
He groans, turns red, tries to shut her up with more food, but she keeps going—laughing through every word.
And I let myself laugh too.
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her with a softness that knocks the air from my lungs.
I’d pegged him all wrong at the start.