17. You’re Home
YOU’RE HOME
PARKER
The warm lights glow through the front windows of the townhouse, casting soft amber rectangles across the driveway.
He’s home. He’s here waiting for me.
By the time I push open the front door, exhaustion has already begun melting off my shoulders, replaced by something dangerously close to relief, and I don’t even bother kicking off my shoes before my eyes find him sitting at the kitchen island.
For a moment, I can only stare. His laptop is open in front of him, the screen casting a pale glow across his face while a mug of tea sits abandoned beside it with the tag hanging over the rim.
Anders looks up at the sound of the door.
His hair is still damp from a shower, sandy strands curling slightly at the ends, and even from across the room I swear I can smell that absurdly expensive shampoo he insists on buying because he read an article about microplastics and spent three hours researching alternatives that came in a glass bottle.
I’ve missed him in the visceral, physical sense that makes my pulse stumble and my lungs tighten. It feels like my body has spent months recognizing an absence my brain hasn’t been willing to acknowledge. He’s wearing one of my t-shirts, and the sight of it nearly undoes me.
When he notices me staring, his expression softens. “You’re home,” he says quietly, his words hitting harder than they should. His face settles into something warm and tender, that reaches straight through my ribcage and entangles itself around my heart.
When he closes his laptop and slides off the barstool, I find myself dropping my travel bag without even realizing it.
I cross the room before he does. My hand rises automatically as I cup his cheek, the relief lasting less than a second.
Every muscle in my body locks. His skin feels like marble left outside during winter, and a sharp pulse of unease twists through my stomach before I immediately shove it away because that doesn’t make any sense.
I’ve touched Anders a thousand times and he’s always been warm. He’s never felt cold like this.
His eyes flutter shut beneath my palm, and he releases a slow breath that sounds like sweet relief. “I don’t want you to leave again,” he murmurs, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. “Promise me you won’t ever leave me, Pet’ka.”
“I would never,” I tell him, my voice rougher than intended. “Never, sweetheart.”
“You sure?” he asks softly, fighting off a little skepticism.
I nod. “I’ll never leave.”
His expression changes, the warmth leaving his eyes first. Then the corners of his mouth curl down, shifting into something entirely different. “But you already have,” he whispers coldly.
And then the kitchen seems quieter, like the air’s gotten heavier all of a sudden.
“No,” I say immediately, blinking rapidly. “Sweetheart, I—”
“It’s been so long.” The words cut straight through me like a blade. “I’ve tried staying away, but I don’t think I can anymore.” His voice trembles. “It’s too hard, Pet’ka. I don’t know why you’re making me do this.”
“You don’t have to stay away.” I step closer, the kitchen lights seem brighter now, harsh enough to sting my eyes.
“You don’t have to,” I repeat, pressing my forehead against his, but he’s still freezing.
“Look at me.” Anders closes his eyes. “I’m right here, baby.
I won’t leave you. I’ll never leave you. ”
His entire body goes rigid—every muscle, breath, inch. He’s almost stoic in the way he tenses.
“Anders?”
Slowly, he opens his eyes, then he looks past me. The change is immediate. A whirlwind of fear and anger and something darker. His fingers tighten painfully around my wrist. “Tell them to go.”
I frown. “Who?”
“They’re not supposed to be here.” The words come out strained, almost desperate. “Parker, please.”
I turn. Luca is leaning against the kitchen counter.
Except something is wrong. It takes me a second to understand what, but when I do, my stomach churns, his arms are bare.
No black ink winding over hard muscle and skin.
Nothing…Just smooth forearms resting against the countertop.
It’s uncanny in a way that makes my stomach churn.
Emelie is right next to him with her arm now around Anders.
“What, did you forget we’re here?” Luca asks. His smile stretches wider than it should and it’s really creeping the fuck out of me.
“We came all this way,” Emelie says. And then the voice stops me cold. Every trace of France has vanished from her words, replaced by a flat American accent that sounds wrong coming from her mouth.
Wrong enough that my pulse immediately spikes, heating my entire body. “You didn’t—”
“They’re not supposed to be here,” Anders says again. This time he’s shaking. “Tell them to leave.”
“I can’t just tell them to leave. Anders, they’re—”
“Fuck you.” The words explode from him as he shoves me backward. It’s like the kitchen seems to lurch with the movement as the lights flicker and the room stretches wider. “You’re never going to change,” he mutters. “I don’t know why I keep convincing myself you will. You’ve never cared about me—”
My stomach drops. “Hey,” I say quickly. “Just wait. You’re upset.”
“Because you fucking did this to me!” His voice echoes too loudly, as if the walls are repeating it back. His eyes are glassy…almost broken. “I’ll never be able to be put back together.”
“Stop.” My heartbeat pounds recklessly against my ribs. “I can help you.”
“You aren’t helping,” Luca says. I turn, immediately taken aback by his vanished smile and blank expression.
His bare arms hang at his sides. “You always think you’re helping.
” Now the words don’t even sound like Luca’s.
They sound like mine. “Look what you did to him.” His gaze darkens.
“Look what you did to my brother, Rogelio.”
“Rogelio? Luca—”
“If you come anywhere near my kid again, I’ll kill you.”
The room tilts.
“All you do is hurt him,” Emelie says, “you hurt him.”
“You tell yourself you’re trying to help me,” Anders mutters. His eyes lock onto mine. “You always do.” A crack appears in the kitchen window behind him. “I’m leaving.”
“No.” It’s almost revolting the way my voice echoes from the distance. “You don’t mean that.” He can’t leave. I need him. I fucking need him.
“I’m leaving,” he repeats, giving me a stern look. “And you’re going to be alone.”
The crack in the glass spreads.
“You can’t do that,” I beg. “Anders—sweetheart. Don’t say that.”
He can’t leave me. I’m the only person who knows exactly what he needs. He needs me just as much as I need him.
Anders shakes his head. “Everyone leaves eventually, Parker.”
The room begins shaking. The overhead lights burst, casting darkness across the kitchen. Anders takes a step backward, shaking his head before he takes another.
“You just give them a reason.”
And then I wake up. My eyes land on the hotel phone sitting on the nightstand.
For a while, I just stare at it. The dream is still sitting heavily in my chest, clinging to me in an unshakeable way, and no matter how many times I remind myself that none of it was real, I can’t seem to get rid of the lingering image of Anders standing in that kitchen looking at me like I was the reason he’d fallen apart.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m already reaching for the receiver.
One second I’m staring at the phone, and the next, the number is already being dialed.
As soon as the first ring sounds, regret begins creeping in.
By the second, I feel ridiculous. And by the third, I’m wondering what the hell I’m supposed to say if he actually answers.
It’s after three in the morning. He’s probably asleep.
If he even notices the missed call tomorrow, he’ll assume someone dialed the wrong number.
By the fourth ring, I’m reaching for the disconnect button. Then the ringing stops. “Hello?”
Every thought in my head evaporates. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I haven’t heard his voice in weeks. Not really. Just on the rare occasions we’ve passed each other at home.
Sleep has roughened the fringe of his voice, turning it softer and lower than usual, and hearing it unexpectedly feels like somebody reached inside my chest and squeezed.
“Hello?” he asks again.
I should hang up. Or maybe I should apologize.
I should say literally anything, but instead, I just sit there holding the receiver against my ear like an idiot.
A few seconds pass before I hear a subtle shift on the other end of the line, as though he’s sitting up in bed.
“Parker?” I immediately drag a hand down my face.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
There isn’t a single good explanation for this. I called him in the middle of the night because of a dream.
A fucking dream.
The silence settles between us again and I can hear him breathing. He’s waiting and probably wondering whether I’ve finally gone off the deep end.
“I just…” I stop and shake my head even though he can’t see it. “I needed to make sure you’re okay.” The words sound pathetic the second they leave my mouth.
Anders doesn’t answer right away. At first, I think he’s deciding whether or not to hang up on me. When he finally speaks, whatever softness had been lingering from sleep is gone. “No, Parker.” The sharpness in his voice catches me off guard. “I’m not okay.”
His words hit harder than they should. It’s just pure, unfiltered honesty.
My grip tightens around the receiver. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
I mean—what apology could possibly fix everything that’s happened between us?
What reassurance could I offer that wouldn’t sound completely hollow coming from me?
The line disconnects before I can figure it out, the dial tone humming against my ear.
I stare at the opposite wall for several seconds before slowly lowering the receiver back into its cradle.
The putrid feeling arrives almost immediately.
I sit there for a while with both elbows braced against my knees, replaying the conversation over and over again.
I wish hearing that he was fine would’ve allowed me to go back to sleep and pretend things weren’t as bad as they actually are.
Instead, all he’s done is confirm what I already knew.
He’s hurting, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
Eventually I reach for my cellphone. The screen illuminates the dark room immediately, forcing me to squint as I unlock it and open our text thread.
Anders
LOOK AT THIS ONE
PETKA COME ONNN MAN
genuinely going to cry if you say no to this one
Me
He’s cute
Anders
i’ll name him benito
Me
You’re not naming your hypothetical dog after Bad Bunny
Sweetheart
Anders
don’t you sweetheart me
petchka
all you do is break my heart
That was more than a month ago. Anders has been trying to get me to get a black lab since the moment he first moved in. Every time he sees a new adoption posted, he sends me the link and comes up with just about anything to try and convince me to say yes.
My thumb pauses when I reach a photograph. The image expands and I’m immediately taken back to when I took it.
I was on the back porch smoking a cigarette when Anders opened the sliding door with a furious look on his face.
He immediately plucked the cigarette out of my hand and told me lung cancer was calling my name.
He was just making the cutest face ever, so I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and snapped a pic before he could stop me.
And then he complained about it for the rest of the afternoon.
Not because I took a picture of him, of course, but because I refused to send it to him afterward.
He needed it posted to his Instagram story like his life depended on it.
Lying awake in a hotel room at three-thirty in the morning, it’s easy to admit that I hadn’t wanted anyone else to see it.
The smile Anders is wearing in the photograph isn’t one of the practiced expressions he manufactures for his posts.
His eyes are bright with amusement, and his head is tipped slightly to one side.
There’s something so openly happy about the expression that it almost feels private, like I’d accidentally captured a moment that wasn’t meant for anyone else. Including me.
Fighting exhaustion, I study every detail like I’m afraid I’ll forget it.
At some point, my grip loosens around the phone. Exhaustion finally drags me under.
The photograph remains open on the screen, illuminating the dark hotel room with a pale blue glow, and the last thing I see before sleep takes me is Anders smiling back at me from a moment I would give just about anything to return to.