Page 89 of When We Are Falling

I’m alreadyon edge as I walk toward the restaurant, my mind replaying all the recent arguments with Ethan, the way our relationship has soured, while wondering why it is he wants to meet. How is it possible to love someone so much and for them to drive me so damned crazy?

I really love him, like right down to the very marrow in my bones, and that’s what makes it all so much harder. Anyone else, and I’d have walked away by now. But it’sEthan. If I’m completely honest with myself, part of me wants to let him in, but I know I have to keep him at a distance, remain firmly on my own two feet…

But he won’t accept that. And the more he pushes, and the more I accommodate him and let him in, the more I risk losing myself when things blow up in my face.Ugh. Why does love have to be so hard?

Pushing the door open, I glance around the busy restaurant and stop. Ethan sits at a table with my moms, and even fromhere, tension radiates off them. My heart stops in my chest before taking off at a sprint, the air suddenly too thick to take a proper breath. The door handle is the only thing keeping me upright as I take in the scene. What the hell is going on?

This isn’t a simple lunch—it’s a powder keg waiting to explode.

For a fleeting second, I fight the urge to just turn around and pretend I was never here so I don’t have to come face-to-face with everything that’s wrong with my family. But they’re all looking at me now, waiting, and there’s no turning back.

A hard swallow forced over the ache in my throat. I don’t know what’s going on, or why Ethan invited me to this lunch, but looking at the way my moms are sitting on opposite sides of the table, tense expressions on their faces, I honestly can’t think of anything worse.

My feet move on their own, carrying me across the room, around tables set with linens, familiar faces passing in a blur. With every step closer, the sick feeling in my stomach gets worse.

“Hi,” I say, leaning down to kiss Ethan on the cheek. His lips brush my skin, and when we briefly make eye contact, he gives me a look filled with regret and a silent apology.

I turn to my moms, giving them both quick, tight hugs, my movements stiff, mechanical. I’m on autopilot, just going through the motions so I can survive this. Sitting down on the wooden chair, hands clasped in my lap, my fingers digging into my palms.

The waiter approaches our table with a smooth, practiced grace that comes from years of navigating a busy restaurant floor. He’s tall and lean, with neatly combed dark hair and a crisp white shirt topped by a deep burgundy waistcoat. There’s a polite smile on his face, but his eyes have a sharp, observant quality.

He looks between us. “Are we ready to order?”

I reach for the laminated menu in the center of the table, trying to focus on the words printed there. The dishes barely register as I skim through them.

Mama Charlotte orders after Ethan, sitting stiffly in her chair, her oversized knitted sweater draping over her frame like a protective shield. Her dark coiled hair, cropped shorter than last time I saw her, is flecked with strands of gray that match the storm brewing in her eyes.

As the waiter moves to Mom, Mama Charlotte keeps her gaze focused on the table, her fingers occasionally fidgeting with the hem of her black skirt. Now and then, she glances up.

On the surface, Mom looks a little more relaxed as she orders the salmon pasta special, but there’s tension in her shoulders. Her light cardigan is pulled tightly around her, while the neat bun that pulls back her gray-streaked hair makes the lines of worry on her face look even deeper, and she keeps one hand in her lap, the other hand at the edge of the table, fingers tapping the surface lightly.

The space between the two of them is charged, filled with unspoken words and emotions, and enough hurt to last several lifetimes.

The waiter finally turns his attention to me, pen poised to take my order.

“Um… I think I’ll just go with…” I finally just pick the first thing my eyes settle on, blurting it out. “…The grilled chicken salad, please.”

He nods, jotting it down. “And something to drink?”

“Just water will be fine. Thanks.” My voice sounds distant, detached, like it belongs to someone else.

The waiter leaves, and silence follows. Ethan’s gaze is on me, but I can’t look at him. And my moms… God, it hurts to see themlike this, sitting at the same table but so far apart, both physically and emotionally. I haven’t seen them together in months.

I want to ask Ethan what the hell is going on, but I don’t want him or my moms to know how much this is tearing me apart. I don’t want them to see that I’m not as strong as I’ve been pretending to be, that I can’t handle everything that’s thrown at me. So I stay quiet, my eyes fixed on the table like this is all just fuckinggreat.

The awkward silence stretches, Mom’s fingers still tapping on the edge of the table. It’s probably only been ten seconds, but it feels like ten hours. My eyes flicker between my moms, both of them sitting there like strangers who don’t know how to start a conversation, then at Ethan, who’s looking between the three of us.

This is killing me. We used to be so close, the three of us against the world. Now, it’s like there’s this invisible wall between us, and I don’t know how to tear it down.

Mom clears her throat, looking at me. “Ethan mentioned you’ve been under some stress lately. Is everything okay, sweetie?”

“Everything’s fine.” I shoot Ethan a look, and he glances away. Ireallywish he hadn’t said anything to my moms.

Three sets of eyes are on me, waiting for me to say more. I glance down at the table, tracing the wood grain with my gaze. “I mean, there’s just the usual stuff with the Tavern and the cleanup. But it’s all under control. None of you need to worry.”

“You’ll let us know if you need a break, won’t you?” Mama Charlotte says, leaning forward. “We can hire a manager at any time.”

“I’m really fine, I promise you. I love working at the Tavern, you know that.” I look up and take in the familiar planes of her face—the woman who insisted on reading to me before bed well into my teen years, who always made me feel safe and loved.

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