Page 71 of The Plus One Contract

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.

Twenty-Seven

Sienna

The house is silent when I slip out of bed.

I’m not sure what I’m doing. I told myself I was hungry, but I’m halfway down the stairs when I admit the truth. I can’t sleep.

The kitchen is cast in soft darkness, the only light coming from the microwave clock glowing green. I pad across the tile and open the fridge more out of habit than appetite. The cool air hits my skin. Shelves of leftover pasta, bottled sauces, some cake I don’t remember being there earlier. None of it appeals.

I close the door gently and lean against the counter.

My phone is already in my hand, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t check it again. But I do because I can’t stop thinking about today.

The tight line of Nathan’s shoulders. The way his jaw clenched when his mother hurled poison at him and his brother slithered through the room like a bad memory come to life.

I can’t stop wondering if he’s okay. What state he’s walking back into. If he’s sleeping at all. If he’s still cleaning up her mess or just sitting in the dark.

I’m about to text him when a voice cuts through the quiet.

“What are you doing up?”

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