- thirty four - dana
It's gonna be. . . interesting, buckle up loves
. . .
The knock at the door is sharp.
I wipe my hands on my apron and sigh. The café is still under construction, and I've been elbow-deep in dusty shelves and paint samples all morning.
My back hurts. My eyes sting from too many nights of not enough sleep. And I'm not in the mood for whoever it is.
When I open the door, the last person I expect to see is standing there, in heels that don't dare touch dirt.
The other Lancaster.
Alex's mother.
Hair perfectly styled, lips red, expression smug-like she's already won a game I didn't even know we were playing.
"I see the new job suits you," she says, glancing around the unfinished café like it's something she'd enjoy throwing money at just to demolish.
I lean on the doorframe, tugging my sleeves down to cover the paint on my wrists. I sigh, tired. "What do you want?"
My voice is rough and my throat almost hurts when I speak, since all I've been doing these past few days is... crying. Ranging from ugly, snotty crying to silent, barely there ones.
Pathetic, I know.
I can't help it.
"I just thought I'd check in on you," she says sweetly, stepping inside without being invited. Her heels clack against unfinished tile. "After all, it's not every day my son gets tangled up with a... a barista."
My jaw tightens.
I close the door slowly behind her, resisting the urge to slam it.
"This place isn't open yet," I say flatly. "And I don't remember giving you a tour invite."
"Oh, I won't be long," she says, trailing perfectly manicured fingers over a dusty countertop. "I know you're... busy." Her gaze flicks to the paint-streaked apron tied around my waist. "So hands-on. It's almost charming."
She turns, eyes gleaming like knives.
"I just thought we should have a little chat. Woman to woman," she adds.
God. Help me.
I cross my arms, hiding the chipped nail polish I haven't bothered to fix. "Please say what you came to say." And leave me the fuck alone.
She gives me a look that belongs in a courtroom or a country club-something cold and condescending, wrapped in expensive perfume.
"Alexander is doing better," she begins. My heart stutters at the mention of his name and I internally curse myself. Pathetic as fuck, Dana. "We've finally got him back on track. No more drama and no more dangerous distractions."
I raise a brow. "Are you implying that I was one?"
She smiles, slow and sharp. "You were only a phase. One he needed to outgrow."
I cannot resist the laugh that bubbles out of me. "You're really something."
"I'm his mother," she snaps, before softening instantly, like the anger was a glitch in the programming. "And I know what's best for him. He's finally clear-headed, focused. Back where he belongs."
I step forward, voice low. "And where's that? Under your thumb?"
Her lashes flutter like she's been complimented. "He's destined for more than cafés and... unfinished apartments."
She says it like the word physically offends her.
I don't say anything.
Not because I don't have words, but because I've run out of energy for people like her. People who walk into rooms they didn't build and decide what deserves to stay standing.
But then-then she slips.
"Especially after what happened at that dreadful club. He needed structure. He was spiraling after the overdose scandal."
She smiles too quickly. Too tightly.
My heart goes still.
"... Scandal?"
"Oh," she says, blinking. "Well. Yes. Of course, it was tragic. But, I mean-" A beat. "It wasn't real. The girl didn't actually overdose. It was... something that needed to be done. A little scare tactic. Enough to shake him back into reality."
The air leaves the room.
"You mean she didn't-"
"It was never about her," she says breezily, already smoothing over the moment with fake concern. "She recovered just fine. And she did it for the money, anyway. It was more about what Alex needed to see. To understand."
She meets my eyes. Dead calm.
"Sometimes you have to orchestrate a little chaos to protect your child."
I don't move. Can't.
Because I've spent weeks trying to forget the things that haunt me in silence. The ache I carry like a second skin. The guilt I couldn't scrub off no matter how hard I tried.
The reason I left behind something so, so dear to me.
Now I finally understand the scale of what I've been fighting.
This woman doesn't just play dirty. She builds entire tragedies if it'll get her what she wants.
She let Alex believe someone almostdied because of him. Let him live with that guilt. That fear. Just so he'd come crawling back. Just so she could control him.
My throat is dry, but my voice is steady.
"You let him think he killed someone," I whisper. "Just to bring him home."
She doesn't even flinch.
"He needed to come home," she says, like it's obvious. "And things were... in the way."
I take a step back.
Like distance can shield me from how monstrous that sounds.
"I should go," she says suddenly, brushing a speck of lint off her coat. "Wouldn't want to hold up your little renovation project."
I don't answer. My pulse is in my ears. There's paint on my fingertips. Dust in my lungs. Something heavier in my chest.
She turns toward the door with a smile. "Do take care, Diana. I'm sure there's a lovely little life waiting for you somewhere far, far away from my son."
She opens the door-
And I speak before I even think.
"I'm going to tell him."
She freezes.
I walk forward, slowly, like something pulled from fire.
"You messed with the wrong girl," I say. "You broke him just to win. And you think I'm going to sit on that? Pretend I never heard it?"
Her face goes pale beneath the makeup.
"I dare you to try and stop me."
The door slams behind her before she can answer.
And for the first time in weeks, despite the ache in my spine and the heaviness I haven't figured out how to name- I feel like I'm breathing again.
. . .
I don't think I've ever known silence the way I've known it these past few weeks.
It's not peaceful. It's not soft.
It's jagged and cruel, scraping against the inside of my chest when I try to sleep. When I try not to think.
I couldn't stay. Not after the arrest.
Everything in that room started to feel like a bruise I kept pressing on. Every single thing in that room reminded me of him and it hurt.
I tried to breathe through it, tried to stay sane. But it felt like drowning in memories I couldn't even bear to look at.
So I ran away.
Or I thought I did.
But you can't run from your own heart, can you?
Not unless you rip it out and throw it somewhere far enough that even the ache gets lost on the way back.
I reach the door before I realize I've been walking here on autopilot.
The old place. Our place. My key still fits. Of course it does.
I hesitate, hand on the doorknob. My stomach twists.
How do I face him?
I left.
I left him when he was already at his lowest.
Even though I knew-knew-his parents would get him out fast.
I still couldn't do it. Couldn't bare to look at him, not after everything.
Not when I was already struggling to hold myself together.
I brace myself and open the door after what felt like hours.
The room is chaos.
Clothes everywhere. Sheets half on the bed. One of his jackets slung over my chair. There's a cracked mug in the corner like it's been thrown. Cigarettes scattered on the floor.
But no sign of... him.
My heart stutters.
He's been here. Recently. The air still smells like him. That clean, cold scent of soap and smoke and something deeper I never found the name for.
My knees feel weird. Like they might give out.
I press a hand to the wall. Try to breathe. Try not to cry.
A single tear escapes anyway. Warm, stupid. I swipe it away fast.
I miss him.
God, I miss him so much it hurts to swallow.
But I can't stay here. I can't wait in this graveyard of us. It's unbearable.
So I turn.
I walk back to the apartment. My mom's place now. With Kyle. It's small, our new apartment. A little too loud. The walls are thin and the couch sags. But it's... enough. It's safe. It's supposed to feel like home.
So why doesn't it?
Each step feels heavier than the last, like I'm dragging every memory behind me.
Like maybe if I walk slow enough, I won't have to feel how much it hurts.
I push open the front door, toe off my shoes, and step inside. I hear my mother's voice and I think to myself why Kyle is home this early when he was supposed to be home by the evening.
Suddenly, I freeze. Because there's another voice. Low. Familiar. It echoes softly down the hall.
And suddenly I can't breathe again.
Because I know that voice in a way that I've never known anything.
The voice I told myself I shouldn't want to hear again.
The same voice I didn't realize I was dying to hear.
Alex.
He's here. In my home.
And my heart is doing things I don't think I'll ever recover from.
My feet stay rooted to the floor.
I hear him laugh-quiet, tired, like he's trying not to take up too much space. And that's what wrecks me. Because Alex doesn't laugh like that. Not unless he's hurting.
Not unless he's somewhere he doesn't believe he belongs.
I inch forward, silent as a shadow, careful not to make a sound on the creaky floorboards. My breath gets caught somewhere between my chest and throat, and I don't even know what I'm doing. I just need to see him.
And then-I do. I peak from behind the walls.
It's like an addict starving for a high, finally getting the purest dose.
He's standing in the kitchen, facing my mom. And I almost drop dead on the spot.
He's soaked. Rain-soaked. Hair dripping in messy strands that cling to his forehead and temple, plastered down but still somehow infuriatingly perfect.
His black T-shirt-God, that stupid black T-shirt-is plastered to his chest, clinging to every sharp, carved line like it was designed to remind me of all the nights I stared at him when I should've been asleep.
The sleeves hug his arms tight, every vein and tattoo dark against his skin, like they're branded there by lightning. His jaw is sharp, clenched. That little scar under his left brow looks raw and new again under the fluorescent light.
His eyes-dark, impossibly dark-flick between my mom and the steam curling off the cup she's just handed him.
He takes it in both hands. His fingers, long and strong, curl around the mug like he's holding onto it for dear life.
My throat dries.
How does he manage to look like heartbreak and heaven collided into one person?
Oh, how much I missed him.
"I didn't even know it was supposed to rain," my mom says, sweet and soft, like she's known him forever. Like this isn't so painfully surreal.
Alex shrugs, the motion making his shirt stretch a little more across his shoulders. He awkwardly rubs his neck. "It wasn't. Sky just kinda lost it, I guess."
She laughs-a real one and hands him a dry towel. "Sounds like the city. Come sit, you'll catch cold."
He hesitates, and for a second, I think he might bolt.
But then he nods, almost shy, and sinks down into one of the kitchen chairs.
He's there, soaked and beautiful and in my kitchen like a fever dream that somehow bled into the real world.
"I was just making hot chocolate for Dana. I'll get you Kyle's clothes right away," my mom says, pouring another mug.
My name-on her lips-makes his eyes shift.
Fast. Sharp. He looks toward the hallway.
I duck back a step, heart slamming against my ribs so hard, it might just come out.
God, what am I doing? I should walk in. Say something. Anything.
But I can't.
Because I'm overwhelmed.
Utterly, helplessly overwhelmed.
Because that's him.
That's the boy who wrecked me, kissed me like I was his last breath, shattered me and stitched me back. And even now-especially now-he looks like every version of pain and love I've ever known.
Alex murmurs his thanks to my mom, quiet but sincere. The words feel heavy, like they carry more weight than he meant them to. He looks at her, and for the first time, there's no arrogance in his gaze. No masks. Just uncertainty.
His usual smirk, the one that makes you think he's untouchable, is gone. It's been replaced with something softer, almost fragile. I can't help but feel that weight in the air between them.
He's trying to gauge her-trying to figure out if this kindness is real, or if it's some new form of manipulation he hasn't learned to protect himself against.
And that's when it hits me like a punch to the gut.
Alex doesn't know how to receive kindness. He doesn't know how to let love in. Not because he doesn't want it, but because it's always been weaponized against him.
His mom's love-her expectation, her control.
My mom smiles at him, still unaware of the battle going on in his head, but Alex, he's stuck.
He looks at her with that guarded, almost haunted expression, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
As if love is just something to be feared, not something to be embraced.
I can see it clearly now.
The way his mom's never really been there for him. The way she's never really seen him. All of that-every single thing that twisted his perception of affection into something cold-seems to flash across his face in one agonizing moment.
It makes me sad.
My heart is racing, and I'm pretty sure my feet are glued to the floor.
I can barely breathe as I watch my mom move out of the kitchen, her movements casual when she sees me standing outside, eavesdropping. Like deer caught in headlights.
I whisper, barely audible, "I-I just came. I didn't plan on... I didn't think he'd be here."
Her smile turns into a soft chuckle.
"I know, sweetheart," she says, and there's something so understanding in the way she says it, it feels like she already knows the storm brewing inside me. "But now that he is, go to talk to him."
She grabs a dry hoodie from the counter-Kyle's, and turns toward me with a knowing look in her eyes. She holds the hoodie out to me and her gaze locks with mine, full of silent understanding.
I hesitate for only a second before she hands it to me, like she's known exactly what I need. Her eyes flick to the hallway, then back to me.
"Go on," she says softly, her voice carrying just a hint of excitement.
It's like she knows more than I do right now.
I give her a small nod before turning toward the kitchen. I hesitate in the doorway, but Alex isn't looking at me yet. He's staring at the mug in his hands, lost in thought.
He doesn't even know I'm here.
I know I can't keep pretending like we're strangers. Not when everything in me wants to reach out and pull him closer.
Not when every inch of me aches to be with him again.
He looks up.
And when our eyes lock, it's like the floor gets yanked out from under me.
Alex stands up so fast the chair nearly topples over.
"Archer," he whispers. Just that. Like it's all he's been trying not to say for weeks.
And suddenly he's in front of me.
Close. Too close. He smells like rain and regret and something warm I missed so much.
I don't move. I can't.
He stares at me like I might vanish if he blinks. His chest rises and falls like he ran all the way here, like every step carved my name into his lungs.
And his eyes—God, his eyes—drink me in like he's starving, like he's been surviving on scraps and I'm the first real thing he's seen in weeks. There's disbelief in them. Relief. Ache. Like I've broken him just by existing.
His hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for me. He doesn't.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice low and rough. Heavy with emotions. "For everything." The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere bruised.
He breathes in like it physically hurts to be this honest.
"I missed you. I miss you every damn minute of the day, and I don't know how to stop." His voice drops, softer than I've ever heard it.
"Say something, Dana, baby, please."
His eyes search mine like he's terrified of what he might find—like the answer to everything is written on my face, and he's too scared to read it.
They flicker from my eyes to my lips, to the tear-stained edge of my cheek, then back again. There's a tremble in them. Desperation. Like he's trying to memorize me in case I disappear again.
I forgot how dark they were up close-how they made everything else blur. The kind of eyes you fall into. The kind that ruin you, slowly and sweetly.
He doesn't touch me. But it's like I can feel the heat rolling off him anyway, like my body remembers every inch of his without needing permission.
I swallow hard, finally forcing my mouth to open, to do something—say something. But all that comes out is, "You're soaked. Please... just change into this."
My voice is barely above a whisper, shaky, like the words are balancing on the edge of something much bigger. I hold out the clothes.
Alex's gaze drops to it, then flicks back to me. His fingers brush mine when he takes it. It's barely a touch, but it burns. Sharp and real.
"I wasn't sure you'd want to see me," he says, voice low, raw around the edges.
I shake my head, trying to find air.
I stare at him-at the mess of his hair, at the vulnerability barely masked by the edge in his posture, at the way his throat bobs when he swallows.
This man. This maddening, beautiful man.
He looks like everything I tried to forget and failed.
How do I tell him that his mother orchestrated the whole thing? That the girl didn't overdose. That he wasn't behind the near death of anyone.