Page 23

Chapter Twenty-One

Nico

M y brain short-circuited.

“My mother?” I repeated, trying to make the words compute, like maybe if I said them out loud, they’d start to make sense. “That can’t be right. She’s never even been to New York, and we don’t exactly have a tight-knit ‘let’s-drop-in-on-each-other-unannounced’ kind of relationship.”

Bradley glanced at me, concern softening the corners of his mouth. “You should go see what’s going on. I’ll come with you.”

I shook my head before he could stand.

“No. If it’s really her… I need to know what the hell she wants. Alone.”

His brow creased, and for a second, I thought he might argue. But then he gave a small nod and squeezed my hand again under the desk.

I slipped out of the office, heart pounding. Each step felt like a rubber band pulled tighter and tighter across my chest. I moved through the hallway on autopilot, passing doors left ajar, glimpses of familiar madness peeking out.

In Studio B, two guys were mid-thrust on a squeaky mattress while a boom mic operator casually munched on a protein bar.

One studio over, someone was being spanked.

And I thought, if my mother actually knew what I do for a living, she’d either drop dead on the spot or try to exorcize me with holy water and a QVC crucifix.

Reception loomed ahead, a tiny oasis of fake calm in a building full of sex, sweat, and smoke machines. A place where paperwork got stamped and lube was ordered in bulk.

And there she was.

Floris.

Wearing a peach-colored blouse that clung too tightly to her midsection, dark sunglasses on her head, and a purse the size of a microwave swinging from her arm like a weapon of maternal destruction.

She still wore that brassy blonde hair, a color no one outside of south Georgia had worn unironically since 1998.

Next to her stood a man I didn’t recognize. Mid-thirties, and slick as an oil spill. Bleach-blond goatee, wraparound sunglasses resting on his forehead, a confederate flag belt buckle that screamed this man has definitely said “I don’t trust the government” while microwaving gas station shrimp.

“Nicholas!” she cried, arms flung wide like we were in a Hallmark Christmas movie. “Baby, look at you!”

I stopped a safe distance away and held out my hand. “Hi, Mom.”

Her open-arms faltered mid-air, then flopped to her sides like broken wings. Her expression twisted into a smile so brittle it could’ve cracked glass. She recovered quick though, with a dramatic exhale like she was the one who’d been wronged.

“This is Thom,” she said, motioning to the man beside her. “That’s Thom with an H. My boyfriend.”

Thom nodded. Or maybe twitched. It was hard to tell. His eyes flicked up and down my body in a way that made my skin crawl, but he didn’t say a word. Just stood there looking smug and sweaty.

I blinked. “You’re… sightseeing?”

“That’s right!” Floris said brightly. “We’re takin’ in the Big Apple! Thought we’d drop by and say hi. You know, see where my baby works. You’ve got a job here, right? Maybe you could show us around?”

She said it with that thick Southern drawl that made every sentence sound like a challenge dipped in syrup.

I glanced toward the hallway, where moans and slaps echoed faintly through the thin walls.

“Yeah, no. No tour,” I blurted. “But… I can take you to lunch. Somewhere nearby. My treat.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, that’d be just lovely.”

It wasn’t lovely. It felt like being dragged backward through time.

“Petyr,” I murmured as I passed the desk. He leaned forward instinctively. “Tell Bradley I’ll check in with him later, alright?”

Petyr nodded, eyes bouncing between me and the southern soap opera happening just behind me.

Then I turned, ushered Floris and Thom toward the door, my hand resting lightly on my mom’s back like I could guide her out without touching her too much. Like physical contact would make the past rush in too fast.

My stomach twisted.

Something was wrong.

Something about her showing up here, out of nowhere, with a man I’d never seen before and that fake smile plastered to her face.

Floris didn’t just visit. She wasn’t the drop-in for brunch kind of parent.

Hell, she wasn’t even the remember your birthday kind of parent.

Last time we spoke, she begged for money.

Her only reason for ever reaching out to me.

And now she wanted lunch?

I glanced back at Thom as we stepped out into the July sun. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his tan looked chemically enhanced, like he marinated in a tanning bed and Axe body spray.

I didn’t know what this was yet, but I knew one thing for sure:

This wasn’t a casual mother-son reunion.

* * *

They rejected six restaurants in a row.

A cozy Korean noodle spot? “Too spicy.”

The vegan sushi place? “We don’t eat fish that ain’t cooked.”

Italian bistro? “I don’t trust them people with all that garlic.”

A Dominican cafe blasting merengue? “What is this music?”

A sleek ramen joint? “I don’t like soup where I can’t see the bottom.”

And the empanada cart I secretly loved? Thom muttered something about “not eatin’ outta a truck like some stray dog.”

By the time we hit Big Clucker’s Southern Buffet, I was ready to crawl into a pothole and vanish.

“This looks perfect,” Mom declared, her voice bright with false joy as we stepped under the flashing neon sign shaped like a winking chicken. “Just like home!”

Thom nodded solemnly, like this place was hallowed ground. “Bet they even got real sweet tea.”

The dining room smelled like fryer oil and melted plastic. The buffet stretched across the back wall like an overfed parade float. Trays of beige food under heating lamps, glistening with suspiciously high gloss. My arteries tightened just looking at it.

We got a booth by the window, a sticky vinyl monstrosity that squeaked every time someone breathed. I slid in across from them and immediately regretted everything.

Mom loaded her plate with mac and cheese, fried okra, and what looked like three different kinds of gravy. Thom returned with a small mountain of chicken thighs and something unidentifiable but aggressively orange.

“You not eatin’, Nicholas?” she asked between bites, like we were catching up over brunch and not actively living in my personal hell.

“I’m good,” I said, poking at a sad biscuit I’d taken to blend in. “Not super hungry.”

She made a face. “You’ve always been picky.”

That’s one way to describe being homeless and starving at seventeen because you threw me out.

I didn’t say it. Just nodded and took a sip of watery iced tea.

“So,” she said brightly, like this was The View, “you likin’ New York? Been here what… seven years?”

“Eight.”

“Eight! Look at you. City man now.” She elbowed Thom, who grunted in response. “He always was independent. Never needed his momma for nothin’.”

“Right,” I said, voice flat.

Thom swallowed a huge bite of chicken, wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, and grinned at me. “I sell boats,” he announced.

There was a pause.

“I… okay?”

“And I dabble in crypto.”

I blinked. “That explains the belt buckle.”

He laughed like I’d just delivered the line of the century, then took a huge gulp of soda. “Got a jet ski for every day of the week back home. Maybe I can take you out sometime.”

“Thrilling,” I muttered.

The waitress stopped by to check on us, a tough-looking woman with tired eyes and a name tag that said DEB. Her accent was pure Queens—fast, nasal, efficient.

“You guys need anything else?” she asked, already reaching for the sweet tea pitcher.

Thom blinked. “Huh?”

She repeated herself. “Do you need anything else?”

“Again, sorry?”

Deb rolled her eyes so hard I think they saw the kitchen behind her. “Do. You. Need. Anything. Else.”

Thom looked at Mom, baffled. “Can’t understand a damn word she says.”

I wanted the booth to collapse in on me like a sinkhole.

Deb, to her credit, didn’t flinch. She filled our glasses and walked away with the grace of someone who’s seen worse. And judging by the regulars here, she probably had.

“So,” Mom said, spearing a hunk of baked potato drowned in cheese sauce. “This studio you work at. It’s like… for movies, right?”

I coughed. “Sure. Movies.”

“Any famous people work there?”

I shot her a look. “None that you’d recognize unless you’ve been on the internet after midnight.”

She laughed, like I’d said something adorable, and patted my hand across the table. Her nails were chipped pink, and the gesture made my skin prickle.

Thom chimed in again, uninvited. “So, what exactly do you do there? Like, you act or… is it more behind the scenes?”

You first, Thom. Do you buy your crypto off Craigslist or just whisper at your boat until it transfers Ethereum?

“I’m on camera,” I said, forcing the words out. “I’m… an actor.”

His eyes widened like he’d uncovered a national treasure. “Hot damn. I knew you looked like someone who works out.”

Mom let out a nervous titter and picked up a biscuit she definitely didn’t need.

I glanced at the clock on my phone. We’d been here twenty minutes. It felt like a month.

“I should get back soon,” I said, standing. “We’ve got a tight production schedule.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Mom said quickly. “We just got here! We’re on vacation! Thom’s never been to New York before, and we wanna see the sights.”

Thom nodded sagely. “We wanna go see that big lady statue. The one with the torch.”

“The Statue of Liberty?” I deadpanned.

“Yeah. That gal.”

My jaw tightened.

They looked at me with matching expressions of hopeful idiocy, like this entire trip was a spontaneous Eat Pray Scam moment. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t thrown me out into the street with a trash bag full of clothes and a Bible.

And now she wanted to sightsee?

“Please, Nicholas,” Mom said, her voice dropping into that syrupy register she used to use when asking for favors that came with guilt sprinkles. “We came all this way.”

I took a slow breath through my nose.

Smile, Nico. Be polite. Be fake. Survive lunch and send them on their merry Staten Island Ferry ride.

“Fine,” I said, standing. “Let’s go see Lady Liberty.”

If only she were real and accepting asylum applicants.

* * *

“I just can’t believe how fancy it all is,” Mom said for the third time, stepping gingerly over my rug like it was made of human hair. “Nicholas, this place is gorgeous. And in New York City? This must cost a fortune.”

I watched her touch nearly every surface like she was planning to list it on Zillow later. She trailed a manicured nail along the edge of my bookshelf, poked at my throw pillows, opened a kitchen cabinet and gasped like I’d hidden gold bars behind the coffee mugs.

“It’s small,” I said, slouching against the wall with my arms crossed. “Barely a two-bedroom. I have neighbors who scream through the walls and a radiator that sounds like it’s coughing up ghosts.”

She didn’t hear a word of it.

“Real hardwood floors,” she cooed. “Look at you, making it in the big city. You always were a striver.”

Right. I’d strived my way through homelessness, porn, and ramen for dinner five nights a week. Real pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps energy.

Thom, naturally, had made a beeline for the bathroom the second we got in. That had been fifteen minutes ago.

Fifteen.

No flush. No sounds. Just the occasional thump, like maybe he was fighting the medicine cabinet for dominance.

“Is he okay in there?” I asked, already praying for a plumbing disaster big enough to end the visit.

Mom waved it off. “Oh, you know Thom. Sensitive tummy.”

God.

I wanted them out. I wanted my apartment back. I wanted my air back. I wanted to crawl into a hole lined with sarcasm and denial and never speak of today again.

Mom plopped down on the edge of the couch, fanning herself dramatically like she’d just walked across the desert instead of from the elevator. “Do you entertain guests here often?” she asked with a knowing little smile.

“Not really,” I muttered. Unless you count filming adult content on the same couch, you’re now contaminating with the weight of your judgment and cheap perfume.

She looked around again. “You must make good money.”

I didn’t answer.

Eventually, blessedly, the toilet flushed. A few seconds later, Thom emerged, looking… suspiciously refreshed. Like he’d just done something he absolutely should not have done in someone else’s home.

I didn’t want to know.

He smiled. “Nice place, buddy. You got any beer?”

“Nope,” I said, already heading for the door. “Time to get you two back to your hotel.”

“Oh, we’re stayin’ in Queens!” Mom chirped. “A cute little place called The Galaxy Moon Inn. Real eclectic.”

“Sounds radioactive,” I said.

She ignored me and gathered her purse. Thom clapped me on the back a little too hard, like we were frat brothers instead of total strangers, and then, finally, they left.

The second the door closed behind them, I bolted it and leaned against it like they might try to ghost back in. The apartment fell quiet. Blessedly, deliciously quiet. I crossed the room in slow motion and collapsed onto the couch, limbs heavy and buzzing from emotional static.

My mother. Here.

With that man.

Pretending this was normal.

Pretending we were a family.

Pretending I hadn’t been erased for years.

I pulled out my phone, hands a little shaky, and opened my texts.

To: Bradley

I need you. Can you please come to my place?