Page 67 of The Plus One Contract

She blinks unsteadily. “Oh, you came… good. I thought… he was going to kill me.” She half collapses against the wall, scowling. “Where’s that bastard?”

Nathan catches her before she slides to the floor, hooking an arm under her shoulders. “He’s gone,” he says curtly. “What happened?”

She laughs, the sound sharp. “I told him to pack his shit. He didn’t like that.” Her eyes drift to me. “Who’s she?”

My spine stiffens. Nathan’s mother calls meshe, like I’m an unwanted insect. Or maybe she’s just too drunk to form polite words.

His lips press in a thin line. “Sienna,” he says. “A friend. Look at me.”

She shoves at him half-heartedly. “You never tell me anything,” she mumbles, her voice turning sticky-sweet with complaint. “My own son, a big shot. Too big to come see his mother unless I practically die.”

Exhaling, the muscles in his jaw work as he helps her to the ratty couch. She flops down, rubbing her hand over her face. Her robe slips, revealing bruises or maybe just smudges of filth on her arm.

“Why do you always have to be so—” She burps, blinking heavily, “—so…disapproving, baby?”

I stand frozen near the door, uncertain whether to approach.

Nathan glances at me, a flicker of helplessness crossing his features. He opens his mouth to speak, but his mother slaps a hand on his shoulder.

“Water,” she declares, like a queen giving an order.

I snap into action. “I’ll get it,” I offer, wanting to do something. He shoots me a cautious nod, like he appreciates the help but hates that I’m witnessing all of this.

I pick my way through the debris of scattered bottles, an overturned stool, and crumpled newspapers. The kitchen is in no better shape—dirty dishes, spilled alcohol on the counters, reeking of old sour wine. I find a relatively clean glass, rinse it quickly, and fill it with water.

When I return, Nathan has pulled the curtains open, allowing some light to enter. His mother flinches at the sudden glow. I step carefully over a puddle of… something I don’t want to identify and hand her the glass.

She takes it with an unsteady hand. “You’re too nice,” she slurs at me, focusing those bleary eyes. “You shouldn’t waste your time on my son. He…he doesn’t know how to love properly.” Then she giggles, a bizarre, broken sound, and tries to pat my cheek.

Nathan tenses, fists clenched at his sides. “Stop,” he snaps at her. “Let’s just…get you cleaned up, all right?”

She smirks, swaying. “Should’ve just let Simon kill me. At least that would’ve brought you running faster.”

My stomach twists at the cruelty in her tone. She’s not just drunk; she’s manipulative, cotton-candy sweet with a bitter core. No wonder Nathan was so reluctant to bring me here.

He kneels by the couch, rummaging for any sign of injuries, lips set in a grim line. “You’re done with Simon,” he says flatly. “I’m changing the locks. This time, don’t give him a key.”

She scowls. “Like you don’t give me the money to do anything I want anyway.” She hiccups, then tries to stand. Nathan steadies her, guiding her back down. She mutters a half-apology that dissolves into a complaint about the room spinning.

I watch as he wipes a smear of something from her cheek with a rag he found on the floor. The tenderness in his motions is overshadowed by the anger etched into his face.

She sniffles, then suddenly goes rigid, eyes blazing. “It’s your fault, you know.”

His spine stiffens. “What is?”

“You never learned to keep your father happy. He only hit you because you…you were always—” Her words trail into an incoherent jumble. Then, with renewed viciousness, “He was right. You never knew when to shut up. Always fighting him—”

“Stop,” Nathan bites out. “You’re drunk, and you don’t know what you’re saying.”

She snorts, leaning forward, jabbing a finger at him. “I know exactly what I’m saying, baby. You took your fancy scholarships, your big city dreams, and left me behind.” Her voice rises to an ugly shriek. “You left me.”

His eyes flick toward me, full of pure dread. He doesn’t want me to hear this, but I can’t tear my gaze away. My chest aches as everything inside me screams that this is heartbreak and manipulation twisted together.

He says nothing. All color drains from his face, and I realize with painful clarity that she’s done this a million times—guilt-tripping him, rewriting their history to make him the villain.

I take a shaky breath. “I’ll—uh—check the kitchen,” I mumble, stepping away to give him space because the look on his face, that raw flicker of shame, demands I give him some privacy.

He nods in stiff gratitude, turning back to his mother. “You’re done,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “Lay down. Sleep it off. We’ll talk tomorrow, or not at all.”

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