Twenty-Six
Nathan
Driving away from my mother’s house is like peeling off a layer of shame from my skin. It clings anyway, thick and suffocating. Sienna is quiet in the passenger seat, fiddling with a piece of hair that has escaped her ponytail. I can feel her eyes flick to me every few seconds, but she doesn’t say a word.
I usually don’t know where I’ll be for business from one week to the next, but I’m in California regularly for work. My mother has a knack for timing her meltdowns the instant I’m in state, like she’s got some built-in radar for maximum chaos. Every time, I tell myself I won’t pick up the phone. And every time, I do.
Finally, the silence becomes too loud. “You sure you’re okay?”
I ask, trying to keep my voice level. “After…that?”
“I should be asking you that.”
I grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. “Don’t worry about me.”
She sighs, tapping her fingers on the garment bag at her feet. “You keep saying that, and yet here I am, worrying.”
My jaw sets. Another wave of frustration hits me, not at her, but at the entire situation. “I’ve handled my mother for years. It’s nothing new.”
“Yeah, I get that, but maybe you shouldn’t have to handle it alone. Can’t your brother help more often?”
The sincerity in her tone scrapes at my defenses. As for my brother, he’s a bigger waste of oxygen than my father so I ignore that question. “It’s not something I wanted you involved in,”
I say curtly, merging onto the freeway.
Sienna’s quiet for a beat. Then, softly, “I’m not judging you, you know.”
I keep my gaze on the road. “Aren’t you?”
The question slips out, harsher than I intend.
She leans forward, meeting my eyes in profile. “No,”
she says, unyielding. “Not at all.”
I feel something inside me twist, equal parts gratitude and guilt, but I can’t hold that thought for long.
“Nathan…”
She tries again, but I don’t let her finish. I’m not sure I can handle her compassion right now without snapping.
My phone buzzes again from the center console. The same number. God, does she ever stop? I glance at Sienna, who looks at me with concern, then snatch the phone, swiping to ignore the call. Silence returns. My mother can wait.
“Can I ask you something?”
Sienna ventures after a while.
I tense, expecting a question about my father or the fucked-up childhood memories my mother dangled earlier, but all she says is, “Are you… I mean, do you get tired of being the one who fixes everything?”
I blow out a breath. “I fix what I can. Doesn’t mean I do it well.”
She nods slowly. “Still. You do it.”
I don’t respond, focusing on navigating the city streets. Eventually, we pull up in front of her place. I kill the engine, letting it idle.
She fiddles with the door handle, then sighs, turning to me. “Thank you for the ride. For…letting me help.”
I stare straight ahead, my voice tight. “Thank you for helping.”
Something shifts between us, that crackling energy from earlier laced with new tenderness. I can’t escape the memory of the fear in her eyes when she saw me slam Simon against the wall. Or the fierce determination in her posture when she started cleaning my mother’s house, refusing to let me send her away.
My mother’s hateful words churn in my gut. He only hit you because you— I shove the memory down. Not here. Not now.
Sienna opens her mouth, maybe to say something else, but stops. She unclips her seat belt and rummages for the emerald dress. Carefully hooking the garment bag over her arm, she half-turns. “I’ll be thinking about you,”
she blurts, cheeks flushing. “I mean…tonight, because you have to go back there.”
A wry laugh escapes me. “I’ll survive.”
She hesitates. “Sure. But if you need me…”
My chest tightens. Don’t say it, I warn myself. Because if I let her in any further, how do I keep the lines drawn? The lines that were never supposed to blur?
Instead, I nod stiffly. “I know.”
She lowers her gaze, then musters a small smile. Opening the door, she slides out. The air drifts in, and I almost regret letting it separate us. Her footsteps crunch on the driveway. She fumbles for the house keys, then glances back.
She looks worried.
For me.
My heart twists, but I clench the wheel, refusing to indulge the ache. She disappears inside. Once the door closes, I let out a long breath.
I drive back to the house in silence.
The entire route, I’m stuck replaying my mother’s words, Simon’s curses, Sienna’s wide, concerned eyes.
I hate that she saw me snap.
Hate that she might now fear me. But mostly, I hate that she saw a piece of me I’ve spent my adult life hiding. The battered kid who never knew how to fight back in a healthy way.
When I pull up to the house again, it’s almost dark. The porch light is off, or maybe it died. The door’s still locked from earlier.
I slip inside, the sour odor still lingering but now mixed with some lemon scented cleaning spray from Sienna’s best efforts.
My mother is exactly where I left her, sprawled on the couch, an empty water glass by her side. She’s snoring softly, face twisted in drunken slumber.
I exhale, kneeling to check if she’s breathing steadily. Her pulse is strong, her cheeks flushed. She’ll be hungover as hell, but she’s fine.
For a second, pity wars with anger in my chest.
If only she’d given half a damn about me when I was a kid.
Now, I’m the caretaker, the adult in the room.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Scooping up a discarded blanket from the armchair, I drape it over her.
She mutters something incoherent.
I slip out of the living room and tread carefully through the hallway.
The bedroom doors are shut.
I open one, find an unmade bed, scattered clothes, more bottles.
Christ. I flip on a lamp and start tossing empties into a trash bag. If I don’t do it now, she’ll blame me for not caring. Or maybe I do it because a small part of me still hopes she’ll see a clean house and realize she can do better.
That’s a foolish dream.
She never changes.
Time drags.
I fill a second trash bag and set it by the front door.
My brother’s gone.
No sign of him anywhere.
I’m spared that confrontation tonight.
When I pass the couch, she’s stirring again, eyes bleary. “Nathan,”
she murmurs. “Don’t leave me.”
I pause, exhaustion slamming into my bones. The memory of Sienna’s soft expression flits through my mind. You shouldn’t have to handle it alone. Maybe she’s right, but how do I let anyone help me with this mess?
I turn off the lamp, settling into the armchair with my arms folded, my gaze fixed on the threadbare carpet.
“I’m not leaving,”
I say quietly, though part of me wants to. The part that knows I can never fix her if she doesn’t want to be fixed. But I can’t turn my back. Not fully.
So I sit, walls up, jaw locked, mind wandering to the woman who left hours ago. The woman who, for reasons I can’t quite fathom, decided to stand by me in the middle of my ugliest secrets.
Even though it’s late, and even though I’m surrounded by the stench of regret and cheap vodka, a small wave of warmth pushes through the darkness, courtesy of Sienna. At least for once, I wasn’t alone in this damn house.
It’s enough to keep me here, awake, staring at my mother’s sleeping form until midnight, half-tempted to call Sienna just to hear someone who isn’t drowning in bitterness. But I don’t. I clench my fists, close my eyes, and pretend I’m a man who can handle everything, even though I know that’s a lie.
Tonight, I’ll get her through this binge, and tomorrow, I’ll focus on the fundraiser, the investor, and the fake relationship that’s starting to feel uncomfortable for reasons I don’t want to touch. God help me if it ever stops feeling like a performance because with each new piece of me Sienna sees, the lines we drew threaten to dissolve into something neither of us agreed to.
I can’t think about that right now. Not while my mother sleeps off her rage and self-pity, and the house stands in silent testimony to everything I’ve tried to leave behind.
I settle in, resting my head against the armchair, mind spinning with images of emerald dresses and wide blue eyes. I wonder if, in different circumstances, with no napkin contracts and no rules, I'd ever find the courage to let Sienna see all of me, and whether, if she did, she’d still want to stay.