Chapter 24: Mom
The smell of coffee and something sweet pulled Svet from the deepest, most untroubled sleep of her adult life. She surfaced slowly, consciousness returning in pleasant layers: the weight of a strong arm across her waist, the solid warmth at her back, the unfamiliar sense of total safety.
She blinked in the pale morning light. Joe’s side of the bed was empty, but the indent on the pillow and the residual warmth said he hadn’t been gone long.
A soft clatter came from the kitchen.
Svet stretched, her muscles humming with a pleasant ache. She spotted his grey Chargers hoodie draped over a chair and slipped it on. It swallowed her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She padded barefoot into the living area.
Joe stood at the stove, a comically small spatula in his enormous hand. He was wearing practice shorts and a tight compression shirt that outlined every formidable plane of his back and shoulders. Two plates sat on the counter beside him, loaded with golden French toast dusted with powdered sugar.
“You’re cooking,” she said, her voice still rough with sleep.
He glanced over his shoulder, a soft smile touching his lips. “I’m attempting to. It’s just bread and eggs. Don’t be too impressed.” His eyes tracked over her, head to toe, lingering on where her hands disappeared into the sleeves. “Looks better on you.”
“Everything does.” She shuffled forward, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind and pressing her cheek against his back. He was solid and warm. She felt him exhale, a contented sound.
They ate at the small breakfast bar, knees touching. The French toast was perfect, crispy at the edges and custardy within. He drank a protein shake that smelled like chalk and bananas. She sipped the coffee he’d made exactly how she liked it—a detail she hadn’t told him, but he’d observed.
“Early meeting?” she asked, nodding at the clock.
“Film at nine, then practice. Can’t be late.” He said it without the usual groan of dread she heard from other athletes. It was just a fact of his life. “You can stay. Lock up when you leave. Key’s on the ring by the door.”
The domesticity of it, the unspoken trust, sent a little thrill through her. “I might just raid your Netflix for a bit. My first class isn’t until one.”
He finished his shake, rinsed the glass, and placed it in the dishwasher. Every movement was efficient, considered. He came to her, cradled her face in his hands, and kissed her slowly, thoroughly. It tasted like syrup and coffee and him.
“I’ll text you,” he murmured against her lips.
“You better.”
He grabbed his gym bag, gave her one last, long look that made her toes curl, and was gone. The apartment settled into a profound quiet.
Svet finished her coffee, savoring the silence. She washed the two plates and two forks, wiped down the counter, her movements leisurely. She felt… placid. The seismic events of the night before had left her in a state of calm erosion. She was just Svet, in Joe’s hoodie, cleaning his kitchen. It was ordinary. It was everything.
A firm knock at the door shattered the peace.
She froze, the dish towel in her hand. Joe wouldn’t knock. Alexa had a key but would text first. The knock came again, cheerful and insistent.
Shit. Probably a neighbor, or a package.
She walked to the door, rising on her toes to peer through the peephole. A woman stood in the hallway, arms laden with two reusable grocery bags. She was in her late forties, maybe early fifties, with Alexa’s same bright eyes and an easy smile. She was dressed in stylish athleisure wear and radiated a kind of capable warmth.
Joe’s mother.
Svet’s blood turned to ice water. She looked down at herself. Joe’s hoodie. Only Joe’s hoodie. Her bare legs. Bedhead. No bra. She was a walking, talking cliché of a walk-of-shame, but in the actual apartment.
The woman knocked again. “Joe? Honey, I brought you the vitamin C I was telling you about. And those protein bars you like!”
Panic, sharp and electric, shot through Svet’s veins. Hiding was an option. Just… not move. She could become a statue. But the woman would likely use a key. She was that kind of mom.
With a trembling hand, Svet unlocked the door and pulled it open just a crack, hiding most of her body behind it.
The woman’s smiling face softened into polite surprise. “Oh! Hello!”
“Hi,” Svet squeaked.
A beat of silence. The woman’s eyes—Joe’s eyes—did a quick, discreet sweep. They noted the giant hoodie, the bare legs, the clearly-just-woken-up hair. They did not widen in judgment. They sparkled with immediate, fascinated delight.
“I’m Marianne. Joe’s mom,” she said, as if they’d met at a book club.
“Svet,” she managed. “I’m… a friend. Of Joe’s. And Alexa’s.”
“Svet! Of course!” Marianne’s smile became radiant. “Alexa talks about you all the time. I’ve been hoping to meet you.” She hefted the grocery bags. “I’m just dropping some things off. I was in the neighborhood. May I?”
Trapped. Svet was utterly trapped. She could not say no to this nice woman holding groceries. She opened the door wider, acutely aware of the hem of the hoodie riding up.
Marianne breezed in, her eyes taking in the clean kitchen, the two coffee mugs on the counter. She set the bags down. “Joe’s at practice, I assume?”
“Yeah. Just left.”
“And he left you here to fend for yourself? Typical.” She chuckled, pulling out bottles of vitamins and boxes of bars. “He made you breakfast, at least. I saw the pan in the sink. He only cooks for people he likes.”
Svet felt a blush scorch its way from her chest to her hairline. She stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, pulling the sleeves over her hands. “It was really good.”
Marianne finished unpacking and turned, leaning back against the counter. Her gaze was kind, direct, and utterly disarming. “I won’t stay. I just wanted to put these away. But I am so very glad to finally meet you, Svet.”
The way she said ‘finally’ implied knowledge Svet hadn’t granted her. Stories from Alexa, probably. Maybe even hints from Joe.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Svet said, the words automatic.
“He’s different, you know,” Marianne said conversationally, as if remarking on the weather. “Since you’ve been around. Lighter. He used to come home from visits with Alexa all quiet and… I don’t know, watchful. Now he’s just quiet.” She smiled. “It’s a good quiet.”
Svet didn’t know what to say. This was a level of maternal insight she was unprepared for.
Marianne pushed off the counter and walked toward the door. She paused, placing a hand on Svet’s arm. Her touch was gentle. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? He’ll never ask, but he likes when people he cares about… permeate. It makes him feel rooted.”
With that, she gave Svet’s arm a little squeeze, opened the door, and was gone with a final, warm smile.
The door clicked shut.
Svet stood motionless in the silent apartment. The encounter had lasted less than three minutes. It had been perfectly nice. Terrifyingly nice. And yet, she felt like she’d been put through a spiritual wringer.
Her eyes landed on her phone on the breakfast bar. She strode over, snatched it up, and pulled up Joe’s contact. Her thumbs flew over the screen, panic translating into blunt, all-caps urgency.
SVET: YOUR MOTHER WAS HERE.
She stared at the sent message. The three dots appeared almost immediately. They bounced. Then stopped. No response.
The reality of the situation crashed down. She was standing in her boyfriend’s apartment, wearing only his clothes, having just had a lovely chat with his mother, who clearly knew exactly what was going on. The comfortable silence of the apartment now felt exposing. Vulnerable.
She typed another message, her fingers jittery.
SVET: I am wearing your hoodie. And nothing else. She brought vitamins.
The dots bounced again. A full minute passed. Svet paced, the soft fabric of the hoodie brushing her thighs.
Her phone finally buzzed.
JOE: Okay.
SVET: OKAY?! That’s all you have? OKAY? She was NICE, Joe. Disconcertingly nice. She said you’re “lighter.”
JOE: She likes you.
SVET: How do you know? She just met me! I looked like a concubine who did the laundry!
JOE: She texted me. Said you were adorable. Told me to bring you for dinner on Sunday.
Svet stopped pacing. She read the last message twice. Sunday dinner. A familial orbit. It was too fast. It was a tractor beam.
SVET: No.
JOE: Too late. Already said yes.
SVET: JOE.
JOE: Come home NOW.
She blinked at the screen. The words were a command, but the context flipped them. He wasn’t telling her to leave. He was telling her to stay. To be there when he got back. To reclaim the space his mother’s visit had somehow shifted.
The panic receded, replaced by a low, steady thrum of anxiety… and something else. A stubborn flicker of defiance. He wasn’t hiding her. He was adding her to the grocery list. Bring Svet for Sunday dinner.
She took a deep, shaking breath. She walked to the window, looking out at the perfectly ordinary Tuesday morning. Then she texted back, her decision solidifying with each tap.
SVET: You’d better bring more French toast.
The three dots bounced once, then his final reply landed.
JOE: It’s a date.
Svet held the phone to her chest. She was in his hoodie, in his kitchen, on his schedule. The path was unfolding in front of her, fast and terrifying, paved with vitamins and French toast and a nice woman’s knowing smile. There was no pretending now. For anyone. She was permeating. And against all her better judgment, against every defensive instinct she’d spent years honing, she wanted to be rooted, too.