Chapter 12
The Visit
Nate
I wake to the kettle screaming, sharp and metallic; it cuts through the thick pounding headache I’m sporting before I open my eyes.
My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my back is a long throbbing cramp.
I’m lying on a couch I don’t recognize—sunken in the middle, fuzzy beige material, and someone’s musk cologne and air freshener clings to its fabric.
Next to my head, is a trash can half filled with vomit.
To my right, Andrzej moves around the kitchen, opening drawers. A spoon clinks against a mug as he pours tea. Then, Andrzej meets my eyes, a faint curl to his mouth as he folds his arms across his chest.
Andrzej pours honey and warm water in a mug then stirs them together, with judgment and pity on his face. He sits in front of me, on the coffee table, one brow lifted.
“Do you remember?” he asks.
I scrub a hand over my face. My mouth isn’t dry anymore; it’s overflowing with regret. “Yeah.” I nod, forcing the word out; the ghost of that back-of-the-throat burn creeps up with them, the taste of last night’s alcohol still clinging. “She kissed Julian.”
Robyn’s lips on him and her tongue pushing its way into his mouth flashes in my mind, making me heave. Nine seconds is a long fucking time.
He nods, slow. “She kissed him before or after you started yelling?”
I freeze halfway through sitting up. He doesn’t even flinch, just takes another sip.
“Yeah,” he says, “that’s what I thought.”
There’s no point pretending. The words come out rough. “I made a mistake—I wasn’t trying to—”
“I bet you weren’t.” The kettle clicks off behind him. “Thing is, Nate, you keep making all these mistakes lately then acting surprised when people don’t put up with ‘The Stupid Nate Show’.”
I drop my head on the couch’s backrest. The ceiling’s cracked, faint spiderweb lines above me mimicking the Robyn-shaped hole inside my chest.
He sets the mug down and wipes his hands on a dish towel. “Anyway,” he says, tone softening, “your mom’s been calling. Couple dozen times.”
That gets me upright. She’s visiting today. Fuck. “What did she say?”
“Phone’s on the counter.” He nods toward it. The device is vibrating, screen lighting up. I can imagine the string of missed calls.
He looks at me, unreadable. “You might want to pick up. Before she calls Robyn.”
I make sure to empty Andrzej’s trash can and clean up after myself before I leave.
The place smells of Lysol, which is an improvement, and the tomato juice he made me drink, which isn’t.
He handed me a tumbler of it before I left, swearing it’s his people’s cure for hangovers.
The acidity still burns on my tongue, and I don’t have the heart to tell him I may never trust Polish remedies again.
Outside, the daylight hits like punishment, too bright for how I feel. I fish my phone out of my jacket and call my mom. I was supposed to take her to brunch around ten; it’s almost noon now. No car, no plan, just guilt buzzing under my skin. The phone rings twice before she picks up.
“Nate,” she says, warm but edged. It’s her you’re in trouble tone I know so well.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry, I—” I clear my throat. “Rough night.”
“I gathered.” Dishes clink in the background, with the chatter and the hum of a restaurant. “I was going to wait for you, but you never answered, so I grabbed brunch.”
“Alone?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
“Oh, no, not alone.” A pause. “I’m ready to head back to your place. Are you there yet? You weren’t this morning.”
“No, but I will be.” I cut across the street, the cold air biting my face. “I stayed at a friend’s. I’m leaving now.”
“Nate,” she says, and her voice drops into something cold and cautious. I stop mid-step. “That friend you stayed with—is it Tessa?”
“No.” I take a cautious step, my fingers tightening around the phone. That name shouldn’t make sourness coil in my gut.
“Good.” Her tone lightens, all brightness again. “Maybe drink some water before I get there. It’s like you smoked a pack and a half of bad decisions last night.”
The line clicks dead before I can respond.
By the time I make it back to my building, she’s already waiting outside, rolling a small paisley suitcase back and forth beside her.
She looks almost comically petite next to the twin snake plants that flank the entrance.
Her copper hair’s loose and wavy, glinting in the afternoon light with the warm sheen of aged pennies.
She looks healthier—thinner around the hips and stomach than last time I saw her, which means the low-fat diet her doctor pushed might actually be working.
I step up to her, and she cups my face with both hands, brushing her fingers against my five o’clock shadow that’s turning into a poorly kept beard.
She tilts my face so she can look into my eyes.
Hangover and sleep deprivation stare back at her, but she doesn’t care.
Her much shorter frame means I have to lean down.
When I press my cheek to the top of her head, something in my chest finally unclenches.
There’s nothing like a hug from Mom to make the world feel a little less raw.
Well … except a hug from Robyn, of course.
The relief I felt is a bit less intense when I remember that.
Mom talks a mile a minute as I fumble with the front door, warning me about my blazer being all wrong for the sharp, cold wind.
Chicago is teasing us with spring—a chill that stings the face and sneaks down your collar.
We get inside with little conversation, making small talk.
I carry her suitcase and bag, my arms straining slightly.
I bet Julian wouldn’t be straining. I shake the thought off.
Once we’re settled at the kitchen island, I pour glasses of water, the ice clinking against the glass.
“How’s Margie?” I ask, thinking it’s an innocuous question.
Mom’s cheeks flush at the name, and she presses her lips together before answering. “Margie’s fine. Why are you so interested in knowing how Tessa’s mom is doing?”
I arch an eyebrow. “I’m not. But she’s our neighbor.” My voice rises slightly at the end, tilting it into a question.
Mom doesn’t like that. A small, tight prick of confusion gnaws at me. “You’d think Tessa would have told you how her mom was doing,” she says. She lifts her water to her lips, her knuckles blanching against the glass. “Have you gotten a chance to catch up with her since she moved back?”
I rub the back of my neck, my chest constricting in a way that presses at the frayed edges of the empty space between my lungs—Robyn’s spot. “Yes. A couple of times. She’s doing okay.”
Mom huffs. “Of course she is.” My mom’s blue eyes meet mine, freezing hell over before she speaks. “And how’s Robyn? How’s the girl you wanted to give your grandmother’s ring to? That you wanted to ask to be your wife?”
Shit. I rack my brain, trying to figure out if I told my mom anything about how I was struggling with Robyn’s schedule. She’s going to be pissed that Robyn dumped me. I swallow past the bile and the lingering vodka haze.
I decide to tone it down; I still believe I can fix this. Robyn loves me and I love her. “Well … we’re … Things have been kind of hard for a few weeks. Robyn asked for some space.”
Her gaze hardens, and the warmth in her voice cools to steel. She leans forward slightly, tapping her fingers against the countertop.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I know you love Robyn for me, and we’ll figure it out. It’s just … it’s rough having such different schedules.”
Her eyes narrow, and the shift is subtle but unmistakable. Disappointment coils into anger in her glacial eyes. “Yeah. I know firsthand how hard it is to share your life with a liar.”
Shock knocks the air from me. Before I can speak, she pulls out her phone and clicks something, and the low bass beat of a song pulses from the speakers in an uplifting rhythm. I’ve heard it before but can’t place it. She sets the phone in the center of the island between us, and my stomach drops.
On the screen is Tessa and me in the car. We’re not touching yet, but I know what happens next. My stomach lurches. I can’t believe this fucking thing keeps following me around like a scarlet letter.
“What the fuck, Mom? Why would you bring that up?”
“Because you didn’t,” she snaps, voice sharp. “And because I’m embarrassed to have raised a son who would do this to a girl he claims to love. At least your father kept things private before he left us.”
I recoil, disgust curling through me at the comparison. My father left us because he hated that Mom’s job mattered more than him. I am nothing like him. I haven’t left; I stayed. I back up a step, my hand scraping the edge of the countertop.
“I—” My voice comes out brittle. I take a step forward and stop, gripping the edge of the island with both hands. My knuckles whiten, pulse hammering. “Mom, I didn’t—This isn’t what it looks like!”
Her blue eyes don’t flinch. She leans back against the island, arms crossed, and I feel small in a way I haven’t since middle school. My stomach twists again, and I taste whatever’s left of the vodka rising up.
“You know how I’ve seen this?” she asks, her tone more clipped. More accusatory. “Margie informed me it looked like our kids finally got together.”
I pace in a half circle, and the hardwood floor creaks under my weight. Brushing my hand against the smooth back of a chair, I take a deep breath before slamming my hand onto the countertop, rattling the glasses. The sound echoes in the kitchen, sharp and accusing.
“I’ve never been nor will I ever be with Tessa,” I spit out.
Mom tilts her head, lips pressed into a tight line, watching me like I’m a child again—caught, guilty, unworthy of trust.