Chapter 13
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Damien
The engine purred to life, the low growl thrumming through my palms, into the bones of my chest.
I’d messaged Emma that morning—and spent the rest of the day at war with her silence.
Each notification that lit my phone was a spark of hope burning out too quickly, leaving only the smoke of disappointment behind.
By evening, the void had become familiar—sharp around the edges, echoing with everything I hadn’t said.
But tonight wasn’t about me. My mother deserved celebration, not the wreckage I’d become. It was her birthday.
Every year since I’d moved her to New York, I’d taken her to the same steakhouse—the same corner booth, the same order: porterhouse for two, a mountain of sides she never finished but always insisted on ordering anyway.
The streets teemed with Saturday-night noise—laughter spilling from car windows, puddles flashing with neon—but my mind stayed fixed on Emma.
On the tears that had carved lines down her cheeks.
On the devastation written across her face when she’d looked at me like I was a stranger wearing my own skin.
My hands tightened around the wheel.
Shame burned through me—settled low in my gut like something rotting, spread up through my chest until I could taste it at the back of my throat.
Copper and ash.
The flavor of a man who’d ruined the only thing he wanted.
The engine idled low as I pulled into the drive. Her house—white stone, brass fixtures catching the last light of day—waited like a memory I’d built with my own hands.
Seven years ago, I’d bought it for her when her health began to falter. She’d refused every larger place I’d shown her until this one—with its small garden and its roses she still tended herself.
Even before I reached the door, the familiar chaos bled through:
the TV blaring some home-renovation show, Rosie shouting into a speakerphone, drawers slamming somewhere deeper inside.
I knocked—loudly.
The sound reverberated through the solid oak, echoing down the empty street.
No answer. The TV rattled against the windows.
I knocked again, harder, my knuckles stinging from the impact. Still nothing.
Sighing, I pulled out my phone and called her. Inside, the ringtone cut through the blare like a dying bird.
“Dianne, let me go—Damien’s calling,” came her muffled voice.
A pause, then frustration: “How do I switch the calls?”
Then—clear and triumphant—”Figlio mio! How far out are you? I’m starving.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Happy birthday, Mom. I’m outside.”
“What? Why didn’t you knock?”
“I did. Twice. You’ve got the TV up so loud I can hear the backsplash debate from the driveway.”
“I like the way that one lady talks.” She lifted her chin defensively. “It’s relaxing.”
A laugh nearly broke free. Emma had said the same thing—had joked the host could narrate a hostage crisis and still sound like she was describing throw pillows.
They’d have gotten along. Too well. The thought hit like a punch to the ribs.
A heartbeat later came the heavy sweep of the deadbolt, then the faint whoosh of air as the door opened.
Ending the call, I slid the phone into my pocket and forced a smile as she appeared in the doorway—haloed by golden light, garlic, and the faint scent of home.
“Happy birthday.” I pulled her into a hug.
“Thank you, honey,” she said, voice muffled against my chest. When she pulled back, her expression was bright and mischievous. “Are you taking me to that nice steak place again?”
“You mean the one we’ve gone to the last five years?” A brow raised. “The one I reminded you about this morning?”
She rolled her eyes, perfectly her. “You’re such a pain.”
“And you’re impossible.”
“Flattery won’t get you out of visiting more often,” she said, waving me off.
“I call every day.”
She waved that off as well. “A call’s not the same as a visit.”
I let my mouth hang in mock offense as I followed her to the car. She took my forearm for balance—the same hands that had worked two jobs and raised two boys alone after the yelling stopped.
It was one of the few truths I’d given Emma last night.
My father’s name was a blank I’d carried my whole life, one my mother never spoke and I never pressed for. Ripping that wound open hurt, but holding on to her now made it worth it.
By the time we reached the restaurant, the skyline had deepened to blue, the city stretching like a living thing outside the glass.
“Aww, thank you, sweetheart,” she said when she saw the lilies—her favorite—white with pink-tipped petals on the table. Their perfume mingled with seared meat, buttered bread, and the chill sweetness of the Chateau d’Yquem waiting in its bucket.
Flowers had been my mother’s first language of love—beauty made meaningful because it never lasted.
Emma’s flowers last night had been the same. An apology without words. Hope laid bare—and shattered.
“I love it here,” Mom murmured, gazing through the glass as I popped the bottle and poured two healthy measures.
“Yeah, I know.”
We ordered quickly, not bothering with the menu—her porterhouse for two, my filet mignon, medium rare. Me? Sweet potato, extra brown sugar—just like last night.
“What were you talking to Dianne about earlier?” I asked.
Her whole expression lit up. “Oh—your cousin Alice is getting married next year.”
“Really? To whom?”
Her grin turned sly. “It’s a man.”
I choked, coughing into my napkin. “Alice? As in Pride-parade-Alice?”
“Apparently he just appeared one day,” she said, amused. “Dianne’s as confused as we are. Alice says he’s the one.”
“Damn. Hope it works out for her.”
“Me, too.” Her tone shifted. The telltale shift before the question I always dreaded. “Speaking of finding love…”
I groaned under my breath. Here we go.
When are you getting married?
I want grandbabies.
You’re not getting any younger.
The same script. Every year. The same guilt-stained performance I never had the heart to shut down. It was also the reason I’d ended up on that damn dating site in the first place.
I’d never brought anyone home. Never even hinted. My relationships had always been the kind you didn’t introduce to your mother—arrangements built on convenience, control, need. Never connection. Never risk.
Until Emma.
With her, I wanted everything I’d sworn I didn’t need.
Sunday dinners. Lazy mornings. A home that didn’t echo when I walked through it.
Her voice in the kitchen. Her laugh in my bed. Her.
I wanted her fire, her wit, the way she could cut and heal in the same sentence.
For the first time, I wanted a partner. A real one.
“Jesus. Every year,” I muttered, forcing a grin that fell flat. The thud of my wine glass betrayed me.
“I want my grandbabies, Damien.”
A vision pressed against my mind.
Emma.
A baby tucked against her chest.
Our baby.
The thought hit like blasphemy—something I had no right to imagine, no right to want.
My jaw locked.
Teeth grinding until pain sparked behind my molars.
As if I could punish myself into deserving it.
How fucking pathetic.
The thought sliced through the ache, clean and merciless.
How had a crush turned into this—an obsession wearing the shape of affection? How had I let her crawl so deep under my skin that even now, after she’d looked at me like I was a stranger wearing my own face, I still wanted her forgiveness more than air?
This isn’t healthy. I rubbed a hand over my face. These are the thoughts stalkers have right before they kill the girl just to wear her skin.
“I know.” The words came through clenched teeth. “I’m just… focused on work right now.”
“You say that every year,” she tsked.
I reached for my glass, just as the waiter arrived.
“Ma’am, your porterhouse,” he said, setting the plate in front of her. “And your steak, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Enjoy.” The waiter smiled before retreating.
We adjusted our plates, repositioned napkins—filling the silence with ritual.
Then she spoke again, softer this time. “Sebastian called a couple nights ago. He says he’s clean again.”
The knife paused mid-slice, pressure digging into the char line. “That’s good,” I managed.
She smiled faintly. “He sounded clean. It’s been a while since I heard him like that.” Her attention fell to her plate. “He asked about you.”
A muscle ticked in my jaw. “Really?”
“I told him you were doing well—and reminded him to call you sometime.”
“Does he have a number now?”
She shook her head. “Collect call. Probably from a payphone.”
I tried to remember the last phone booth I’d seen. Came up empty. “Next time he calls, let me know. I’ll try to catch him.”
“I will,” she said, taking a sip of wine.
After that, the conversation lightened. Lavender that refused to bloom. A neighbor she swore was stealing her mail. The easy rhythm of her stories carried us through dessert, her laughter filling the booth with warmth.
When the check came, I pulled out a small velvet box and slid it across the table. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
Her face lit up as she opened it. “Oh, you didn’t have to,” she lied, fingers brushing the silver brooch inlaid with sapphires.
“It goes with that navy blouse you love—the one with the buttons you hate.”
She laughed, gentle and delighted. “You’re the sweetest thing.”
By the time we stood, the night had mellowed into tenderness. Four to-go boxes balanced in my arms—her leftovers, her cake, my replacement for last night’s disaster of a tiramisu.
The drive home was silent. By the time we reached her house, her blinks had grown slower.
I carried the food inside, packed it into the fridge, and turned to find her already settled in her recliner—slippers on, remote in hand.
I bent and kissed her forehead. “Happy birthday, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart. Drive safe.”
The door clicked shut behind me, sealing in warmth. Outside, the porch light hummed against the night.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Then I checked my phone—the last time I’d check, I lied to myself.
Her name glowed on the screen like a prayer answered.
Or a sentence delivered.
My body froze—but my heart didn’t. It pounded harder with every second.
8:47 PM
E: Hi.
A single word, and every wall I’d built crumbled. I dragged a trembling hand through my hair. A dozen responses fought to surface, but none felt right. Every rehearsed line scattered like startled birds, leaving only truth.
Me: I’m happy to hear from you.
I hit send before I could think better of it. Blood roared in my ears, my palms slick. Each second without a reply stretched into eternity, the air itself suspended.
Amber light spilled through the windshield, gilding the interior in molten gold as I slid behind the driver’s seat.
E: I talked to Candace.
Candace. Shit. I braced for impact.
Me: What did she say?
The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.
My hope—my desperation—tethered to three flickering dots.
I started the engine, its low growl rumbling through me, but I couldn’t shift into drive. Couldn’t move.
Then my phone lit up again. My pulse slammed against my ribs.
E: She was pissed.
The phone nearly slipped from my hand. Heat rushed through me as I typed, barely breathing.
Me: I can imagine.
E: So am I.
Shit. I wiped my palms against my jeans.
E: But I’m not ready to walk away.
“Fuck yes!” The shout tore free before I could stop it.
A woman walking her dog glared through the windshield. I didn’t care. I started typing—ten, twenty possible replies—but nothing was enough.
E: And I want to watch Twilight.
I blinked. Twilight? A test, maybe?
Me: I love Twilight.
The words weren’t all true—but not a lie either. I’d hated it when it first came out, back when obsessive fan girls filled the hallways arguing over Edward or Jacob. But somehow, I already knew it was about to become my favorite movie.
E: I’ve got it pulled up now. Netflix has it.
I exhaled hard.
Me: Do you want me to watch it with you?
My pulse hammered so loud it drowned the hum of the car.
E: Yes.
“Jesus Christ.” My head hit the seat. She wanted to watch a movie—with me. Like we were us again.
Me: I’d absolutely love that, Emma. I’m driving home—give me fifteen minutes?
Blank screen. No typing.
But I didn’t care. A door had been cracked open, and I wasn’t going to miss my chance to slip through.
I slammed the gearshift into drive and tore through the streets.
Twelve minutes—and more than a few broken traffic laws—later, I skidded to a stop. Cake in hand, keys tossed to the valet, I sprinted for the elevator. The ascent felt endless. I jabbed the button again, again, watching numbers crawl—10… 20… 30...
Come on.
My phone buzzed.
E: Take your time. I’m just getting snacks ready.
Relief hit so hard I sagged against the wall, eyes closing. She was still there. Still waiting.
45… 46… 47… 48.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened onto the still glow of my apartment—the flicker of the fireplace, dark wood, ordered calm that suddenly felt too still.
Me: Just walked in. Give me two minutes. What snacks are we having?
Keys hit the table. I sank into the couch, chest tight. The TV flared to life—Bella. Edward. A piano line I hadn’t realized I still remembered.
E: Chocolate. It’s been a very emotional twenty-four hours.
Guilt clawed at my throat.
Me: That’s fair.
E: I’m sending my number. I don’t want to message through this app anymore.
The next text delivered as promised.
I understood instantly. Read wasn’t just a name—it was a ghost, a version of me built on half-truths and distance. A mask she had every right to bury.
But this—stepping beyond it—felt like shedding skin. The first breath of something real.
My hands shook as I saved it. Emma. Not E. Not the alias. Just her.
I opened a new thread—no mask, no disguise.
Me: Hey, Emma. It’s me.
It wasn’t poetic. But it was true.
If she answered now, she’d be answering me.
Not the mask.
Not the lie.
Not Read.
Damien—the man who’d deceived her, who’d hurt her, who still wanted her so badly it felt like dying.
Me.