Chapter 2 #2
Ma lowered herself into the chair at the kitchen table, the same one she’d sat at my whole life.
I swallowed hard.
“I’m staying,” I said.
Her head snapped up. “Ethan, no. You don’t need to—”
“I’m staying for the weekend.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. That look — the one she got when she hated needing help — crossed her face.
“I’ll order food,” I added. “You’re not cooking.”
“I can make soup.”
“You’re not touching the stove.”
I ordered delivery from the place she liked — nothing fancy, but warm and filling. I made sure she ate. Sat there until she finished half the container even though she insisted she wasn’t hungry.
I turned the TV on low. Charged her phone. Set it right next to her hand.
“I’m running out for supplies,” I said. “I’ll be back.”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Ethan, no. I’m fine.”
I crouched in front of her chair, hands resting on my knees.
“You’re not fine,” I said quietly. “You fainted at work.”
She looked away.
“You should’ve told me,” I went on, the words coming faster now. “If I wasn’t sending enough money—”
Her head snapped back toward me.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I would’ve sent more,” I said. “I can send more. I’ll take on another client. I’ll push for the promotion. I’ll find another job if I have to—”
“Stop,” she said.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them.
“I don’t spend your money on anything but gas and food,” she said, voice shaking. “And your sister’s tuition.”
My chest tightened.
“You got out,” she whispered. “You worked so hard to get out of this life. I won’t pull you back.”
I shook my head. “That’s not how this works.”
She reached for my hand, her grip weaker than it used to be.
“I want the same for her,” she said. “College. Choices. Something better.”
I closed my eyes.
All the bar lights.
The boat.
The polished version of myself I’d been building so carefully.
None of it mattered more than this.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She squeezed my hand once.
And for the first time since the phone call, my breathing finally slowed.
I stayed.
Because no matter how far I went, or how shiny my life looked from the outside—
This was still home.
And she was still my responsibility.
Whether I wanted to admit it or not.
The cart was already too full when Tony called.
I had two-by-fours stacked diagonally, drywall balanced on the bottom rack, boxes of screws rattling every time I shifted my weight.
Shower pan leaning like a surfboard against the side.
Cement board, tile spacers, grout, thinset.
A new valve kit. Grab bars still in my hands, cold metal biting into my palms.
My pencil was tucked behind my ear without me realizing when I’d put it there.
“Jesus,” Tony said when I answered telling him where I was. “You building a house?”
“Just fixing one,” I said, shoving the cart forward with my hip.
There was a pause. Then, casual—but not really—
“So,” he said. “You want me to swing by the bar tonight?”
I stopped walking.
“What for?”
A grin crept into his voice. I could hear it even through the phone.
“To see if your mystery girl shows up. Thought I’d do some recon.”
I pictured it instantly.
Tony at the bar. Dark hair. Easy confidence. That old-money, Italian thing he never even tried to hide. The way people leaned in when he talked. The way women clocked him before he ever opened his mouth.
I swallowed.
“She’s not… like that,” I said.
Tony laughed. “Every girl’s ‘not like that’ until they are.”
“I didn’t say that,” I muttered.
“You didn’t have to.”
I stared at the shelves of tile, rows and rows of clean, perfect squares, all possibility and labor and distraction.
“She said same place,” Tony went on. “Same time. You don’t want me to at least keep an eye out?”
I did.
God, I did.
But the image of Sage noticing Tony first—of that spark flickering somewhere else—hit me harder than it should have.
“No,” I said finally. “Don’t.”
Tony didn’t push. That was his gift.
“All right,” he said. “Offer stands.”
“I know.”
I hung up and exhaled slowly.
Two days.
Two days was nothing.
I rolled the cart forward again, already planning.
Rip out the tub-shower combo. Old porcelain had to go anyway. New shower pan, tiled walls, proper drainage. Grab bars anchored into studs. A fold-down seat if I had time. Ramp out back—temporary, but sturdy. Angle it right so she wouldn’t have to strain.
I could see it all before I touched a tool.
The work grounded me.
I was loading the last of the cement board into my trunk when someone clapped their hands sharp and loud behind me.
“Holy shit,” a voice said. “Is that you, Ethan?”
I turned.
Ernie.
Same crooked grin. Same dark curls sticking out from under a Red Sox cap. A little thicker around the middle now, but still carrying himself like a guy who knew how to take up space.
We slapped hands, pulled into a quick one-armed hug.
“Look at you,” he said. “Corporate as hell.”
I laughed. “You still judging people in parking lots?”
“Only the ones who deserve it,” he said, eyeing the supplies. “What are you doing? Flipping houses?”
“Fixing my mom’s bathroom.”
Ernie nodded, approving. “Good son.”
We stood there a second, the noise of carts and forklifts filling the space.
“You still play?” he asked, nodding at my hands. “Bass?”
Something in my chest tightened.
I shook my head. “Nah. Nine-to-five guy now.”
“That’s a shame,” he said easily. “You were good. Remember the garage on Pine Street? Those shitty amps?”
I smiled despite myself. “Neighbors hated us.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “But we got paid in beer.”
The word paid stuck.
I watched him walk away, pushing his cart toward plumbing, and the idea didn’t scare me the way it once would have.
Not quitting.
Not running.
Just… adding.
Day job stays.
Mortgage stays.
Health insurance, promotions, stability — all of it stays.
But nights?
Nights could earn something back.
Gigs instead of cover charges.
Cash instead of bleeding money on drinks.
Music without pretending I was twenty-two again.
A side thing.
A pressure valve.
A way to make extra money without breaking the life I’d built.
I closed the trunk, leaned back against my car, and let myself imagine it.
Work by day.
Music by night.
Not choosing one version of myself over the other.
Finally letting them coexist.
I grabbed the receipt off the windshield and slid into the driver’s seat.
Two days of work.
A ramp.
A shower.
A plan.
And for the first time since the phone rang at my desk, the math worked out.
Money problem: handled.
Now all I had to do was survive the weekend — and figure out whether the girl who’d blown into my life like a summer storm would still be there when I came back up for air.