Chapter One
I didn’t grow up with lullabies or bedtime stories.
I grew up with a man who didn’t want me and a sister who made sure I never forgot why.
My father had an affair with his secretary, because why go for originality when cliché will do just fine? Red lipstick, tight pencil skirts, heels sharp enough to sever spines. She was younger, louder, and meaner in that quiet way, like someone who smiled with their teeth but never with their eyes.
That secretary?
Yeah. She was my mom.
I heard he brought her into the house like a prize he didn’t quite earn. Parked her at the dinner table like she’d always belonged there, while my sister Jackie and her mother were still trying to hold things together with burnt casseroles and forced civility. I wasn’t even born yet when that fuse was lit. I was just the explosion that followed.
Jackie was nineteen when I showed up—already halfway out the door, but still close enough to get hit by the shrapnel. Her mom left a week after my name got printed on a birth certificate.
My mom stepped up like it was a promotion. Took his previous wife’s seat at the table, wore my dad’s last name like a prize, and smiled for photos like she hadn’t just burned someone else’s life to the ground.
Even after all that, she didn’t stick around forever.
Nine years. That’s all she lasted. Nine years of playing house, of too-tight hugs that smelled like expensive perfume and denial. Nine years of wine-stained blouses and mascara that never got wiped off. Then one day—poof.
Gone.
No screaming match. No slammed doors. Just a single suitcase, a red-lipstick note on the counter, and some guy named Eric waiting in the driveway in a white convertible that looked like it belonged to someone who sold real estate and bad decisions.
I remembered watching her from the upstairs window as she walked away, heels clicking down the pavement like punctuation marks.
I was only nine.
I didn’t cry. It wasn’t because I was brave. It was because I saw it all coming.
After that, my dad made me his personal regret. Not in words—he was too proud for that—but in cold shoulders and passive-aggressive glances.
Everything I touched made him say, “that’s not yours.” Everything I did was “too much.” He didn’t hit. He didn’t shout. He just made me feel like a mistake he wasn’t allowed to erase.
He didn’t look at me like a son.
He looked at me like a receipt for something he wished he hadn’t bought.
We were never close. She was already almost gone by the time I showed up, orbiting the house like a part-time ghost. She didn’t speak to me unless she needed something—and even then; it was usually an order disguised as a favor.
That “something” almost always came in the form of her kid.
Danny.
Four years younger than me, but he strutted around like he ran the place. Like he was the older one, and I was just the guy crashing on the couch.
When we were little, his version of affection came as chaos. He called me Smellis for two straight years. Swapped my shampoo with yogurt. Peed on my Gameboy. Told everyone at our stuck-up K-8 private school I cried during Finding Nemo. Which, for the record, I didn’t. Okay, maybe a little. That scene with the jellyfish? Brutal.
At first, it was just kid stuff. Loud. Annoying. Mostly harmless.
As he got older, the edges sharpened.
He started poking at things that actually hurt. Called me a “mistake” multiple times—straight to my face. Said I was the reason his mom never looked happy. Started copying the same passive-aggressive tone Jackie used on me, like it was a family tradition.
Still, I let it slide. Every jab. Every cheap shot.
Not because he deserved it, but because I kept reminding myself that as much as I felt like an outsider, this was still the only family I had.
Unfortunately, that still meant something to me.
Growing up that way, though? It taught me a few things.
Love doesn’t leave quietly. It slams doors, breaks things, and then vanishes before you can ask why. Apologies come late—if they show up at all—and letting someone in is just volunteering to get left behind.
So yeah.
I don’t do relationships.
Correction, I had one once. If you can even call it that since it was back when I was sixteen. Her name was Julia… something. Julia-something. Big cardigans. Bigger feelings. She liked the kind that sang country music songs and soft boys. I was neither. She never asked too many questions, which I liked. Back then, silence felt like affection.
We kissed behind the gym. Held hands at a movie once. She’d put her feet in my lap while we watched The Office, and I pretended it meant something. We lasted three months. I use “lasted” loosely. In the end she said I made her feel invisible. I said I didn’t see the point in texting someone “good morning” every single day like it was part of my job description. She cried. I offered her a Pop-Tart. We broke up.
Last I heard, she got married to some guy who probably owns throw pillows with inspirational quotes on them and sends her floral arrangements on Wednesdays just because. She sent me an invitation to the wedding that took place last year. Why? I don’t know. Pity? Masochism? Facebook algorithm?
Needless to say, I didn’t go. I hope she’s happy. Really. She deserved someone a little more… capable of emotional depth.
Me?
I realized something important after that.
I liked women. A lot. Just not in the monogamous, meet-the-parents, build-a-life-together kind of way.
So, I stuck to what worked for me and the partners I chose.
Mutual hookups. Quick. Clean. Hot.
No sleepovers. No toothbrushes. No drawers cleared or “what are we?” talks. No memorizing anyone’s coffee order or pretending I care about what Mercury’s doing in whatever house it lives in.
Giving my body to someone? Easy. Fun. Messy in a good way. Sometimes cinematic, sometimes clumsy. Ideally a little sweaty. Bonus points if someone ends up biting something.
But giving away my heart?
No, thanks.
That’s the kind of mess that doesn’t wash out. That’s trust, vulnerability, emotions that hang around long after the clothes are back on. That’s crying over someone who doesn’t text back. That’s love songs on loop and nights staring at the ceiling like a chump.
I’ve had more fun being chronically single than I probably should admit. I know where to touch, what to say, when to take it slow and when to ruin someone’s expectations in the best way. That kind of experience doesn’t come from date nights and moonlit walks.
It comes from knowing people without ever needing to know them.
Love was for people who hadn’t been taught what it cost.
As if summoning that very thing, my phone buzzed on the counter.
Again. For probably the hundredth time today.
The name of my screen haunted my phone all day: DANNY.
I didn’t need to answer to know what this was about.
The kid had been calling me non-stop ever since his latest romance imploded. Five months of near-daily updates, rants, and dramatics. Somewhere along the line, I’d apparently become his personal heartbreak hotline. I still don’t understand why.
Against my better judgment—and because ignoring him only made him more relentless—I picked up.
“Ellis!” Danny’s voice came through immediately, already frantic. “Do you think she’s gonna be there tonight?”
No ‘hello’. No ‘how are you?’ No ‘hey man, sorry to bug you again while you were probably enjoying your very peaceful evening’.
Just straight into the spiral. Typical.
Not even a ′Hi, Uncle Ellis’. He only pulled out the ‘uncle’ card when he was desperate or trying to get out of trouble. Usually both.
I didn’t bother asking who she was.
It was always the same she.
He never used her name. Not when they were dating. Not when they were fighting. Not when he called me from the curb at 2 a.m. after she dumped him — his voice screaming and cursing on the phone. Just ‘her’, ‘she’, ‘the girlfriend’, ’my ex; ’. Never a name, but I never asked either, because the way he talked about her seemed more like she was a concept instead of a person. Like that was all she’d ever be.
And I—lucky me—got front-row seats to every breakdown, every play-by-play text message analysis, every jealous freakout about what she posted on Instagram or who she might’ve smiled at in class.
I put up with this for two and a half years while they were on-again, off again and even now for these five long, excruciating months since they finally ended it and stayed there.
“Danny,” I sighed, dragging a hand down my face, leaning back in my chair like I was bracing myself for another round of emotional dodgeball. “You have to seriously stop calling me about your ex.”
“She’s not technically my ex,” he said, like it was supposed to be a charming technicality. “We’re just…on a break. Kind of. I mean, she does this all the time. Not usually for this long, but I know her, Ellis. I know how her brain works.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“It’s been five months,” I said flatly. “She’s not coming back. Give it up.”
“She loves me,” he said, way too confidently. “She won’t ever actually leave me. She can’t. That girl’s broken in ways she doesn’t even understand. I’m the only one who gets it.”
Ah, there it was. Sometimes I wondered if he was a narcissist. He always pulled out twisted thoughts when logic stopped working.
“Love is bullshit,” I muttered, trying to defuse. “You know that just as much as I do.”
“You just don’t know how to play the game.” I could hear a breathy chuckle over the line, like he was letting me in on some sleazy locker-room secret. “I’m telling you—if you ever want to date, you have to go after the broken ones. They love like they’re starving. Like they’ve got something to prove.”
For half a second, I said nothing. Then, slowly, calmly, I asked, “What the fuck did you just say?”
“I’m just saying—”
“No,” I cut in, my voice sharper now. “I heard you. That’s some sick shit, Danny. Never say that to me again.”
Didn’t know what made him think I was a safe place to say that, but I sure the hell wasn’t. Just because I didn’t do relationships didn’t mean I supported that kind of behavior. Absolutely not.
“What? It’s not like I mean it in a bad way. I’m just saying they cling harder. They don’t walk away for long. That’s loyalty, man.” He continued on.
“That’s manipulation,” I snapped. “That’s you admitting you look for girls with emotional trauma just for the fun of it.”
He groaned. “Okay, okay, chill. I’m just messing around. I don’t actually do that. You’re so fucking sensitive.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, shaking my head. “You should just stay single until you die.”
There was a pause, then the backpedal. “Look, back on topic... If she’s there and I talk to her… that’s not pathetic, right? I mean, it’s normal, right? Just checking in. Being civil. Unless it’s pathetic. Do I look pathetic?”
“I won’t be there,” I said, teeth gritted. “So I can’t tell you how pathetic you’ll look. Which is probably a blessing.”
“Well…you could be there.”
There it was. The real reason for the call.
“No.”
“C’mon, man. If you’re there, I won’t do anything stupid.”
“You’ve said that before,” I said, already exhausted. “Then I had to carry your glitter-covered ass out of someone’s backyard while you screamed the lyrics to a Mumford & Sons song and threw up on my shoes.”
“That was one time.”
“Twice. You don’t remember the second one because you were so drunk you tried to use an empty beer box as a pillow and told some girl she looked like Margot Robbie if she’d ‘seen some shit.’”
Danny sighed. “Please? Just one hour? I just need someone to stop me from going full, idiot.”
“You already are a full idiot.”
“Then stop me from overflowing.”
I stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
I didn’t owe Danny anything. Realistically, I knew that. However, reality had never really outweighed guilt for me.
I’d spent my whole life being told I was the reason everything fell apart. The product of an affair that shattered a family. The kid no one planned for. The unwanted reminder of my father’s mistakes. The reason Jackie lost her mom, her peaceful home, and her version of a happy ending.
I’d grown up swallowing guilt like vitamins—daily, bitter, and with no real benefit.
So yeah, part of me still felt like I owed something, even though I shouldn’t. Even if it was just listening to Danny’s drama. Even if it was just showing up and making sure he didn’t throw himself into traffic or try to win his ex back with a karaoke version of “Hotline Bling.”
“She might not even show up,” I said after a beat. “And if she does, you should probably just leave her the hell alone.”
There was a pause.
Then Danny’s voice quietly asking, “You really think she might show up?”
I swear I was losing brain cells every moment I talk to this man-child.
“I don’t know, Danny. I don’t know her.”
“She likes parties. But like, not the loud kind. She used to hang back and people-watch. She said it made her feel less awkward.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“She used to dress all slutty at first,” he added casually, and my stomach turned. “Like, way too much skin for someone dating me. Guys would stare. I mean, I made a few comments, and she started dressing more chill. Like she got it. She changed for me. That means something, right?”
I went quiet.
“... Ellis?” he said, as if he thought I might have hung up.
I exhaled slowly. “You know you sound like a complete asshole, right?”
He seemed to ignore me as he rambled on. “What if she’s wearing something like that again? What if she’s with someone else already?”
“Why do you care so much about if she’ll be there or what she’s wearing? She broke up with you. Besides, since then, didn’t you ‘accidentally’ hook up with half a sorority?”
“Exaggeration. Also, they came onto me.”
I clenched my jaw. “Jeez, Danny.”
“She’s probably gonna be there.” He repeated, again making me groan in frustration.
“And I’m probably not.”
A beat.
“Don’t make me show up at your house and bang on your door until you come out.”
I sighed. A long, drawn-out, soul-sucking sigh.
I knew he meant it. He would. He has before. I wasn’t about to deal with that again.
“One hour.”
“Yes! You’re the best—”
I hung up before he could finish.
