Page 63 of False Start

I turn onto our street, and the house comes into view. It's decorated, the lights are on, and both cars are in the driveway. Worried a neighbor might spot me, I slow down. There's no music; I guess they aren't hosting a party this year. Ducking down behind Dad's car, I peer through the window.

Mom and Dad are sitting in the dining room. I can see a turkey, and Dad's serving Mom something from a casserole dish. Her award-winning mac and cheese, maybe? When I tried to make it, the cheese separated, and all I had to show after dirtying every dish in my kitchen was a greasy, slightly burned mess.

I try to lean closer to see more than the back of Mom's head, but my boot slips on a patch of ice. When I look up, Dad's staring right at me. I freeze, not sure what to do.Do I come up and knock on the door? Do I wave? Do I run screaming in the opposite direction?

But before I can make up my mind, Dad frowns and turns away. He picks up a gravy boat and says something to Mom, purposely avoiding my gaze. I stand up, swallow around the lump in my throat, and take off running.

This isn't my home. Those aren't my parents. The life I knew here is gone. It died with Andre.

Chapter twenty-seven

Cory

"Goaway!"

Damon's voice crackles through the intercom of his short-term rental in Alphabet City, and I wince. He's been on edge since he got back, skipping out on bro time and even snapping at Mom and Dad last week at dinner. In our separate group text, the brothers all agreed that an intervention was in order to pull Damon out of his funk, but I volunteered to reach out one-on-one instead.

Adam called me immediately afterwards, his voice skeptical over the line. He and Damon are the closest, and I know my reputation as an asshole precedes me. But I needed something—anything—to get my mind off Denise.

This time last year, spending the holidays alone wouldn't have mattered. In fact, I avoided even hooking up between November and January, otherwise women would get the wrong idea. But almost two months without Denise, and I'm crawling out of my skin.

We didn't get to watch the parade and stuff our faces together on Thanksgiving. We didn't get to share a hot cocoa on Christmas. And even though I tagged along to one of Noah's industry parties, dressed to the nines and sloshed on way too much champagne, I rang in the new year just as sad and lonely as the day I walked out of her apartment.

"C'mon, bro," I press, nodding at a passing dog-walker struggling with a corgi, a German Shepherd, and two overly enthusiastic golden retrievers. "If you leave me out here on the sidewalk, your cheesesteak is gonna go all cold and soggy."

The buzzer sounds and I smirk. I knew he'd open the door for food. I make my way up the narrow staircase to the third floor of the pre-war building. Why a grown man tall enough to play professional basketball chose to live in a dollhouse-size apartment is beyond me.

I knock when I reach his door, and he opens it just a crack, the chain still on.

"Are you serious?" I scoff. "You're really not going to let me in?"

My patience is wearing real fuckin' thin. Olde City was packed when I came by for the sub, and it started drizzling on the way over here.

I wave the sandwich in front of the opening and the douchebag finally lets me in with an audible sigh.

"Uh, you're welcome," I snark once I'm inside.

The apartment's even smaller than I thought from the hallway. His living room-slash-kitchen-slash-bedroom can't be more than ten feet by ten feet, most of which are taken up by a large futon and entertainment system. I'll bet he's still paying over five Gs a month, though.

"Thanks," Damon grumbles, before unceremoniously snatching the sandwich from my grip. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

I give him a one-finger salute and make myself as comfortable as possible on a futon that's giving me flashbacks to freshman year in college.

"Besides to bless you with the beauty of my face?" I say sarcastically, earning an eye roll. "I'm here because we're worried about you, bro."

Damon eyes me warily while tearing into his sandwich.

"Who's 'we'?" he asks around a way-too-big bite of cheesesteak.

"Everyone, man. All the bros. Mom. Dad. They wanted to stage an intervention or some shit until I told them I'd try talking with you. I doubt you would've enjoyed an ambush."

He chews but says nothing, and I let out a frustrated breath.

"Damon, talk to me, man. It's either that, or we see how many Park brothers it takes to turn this studio into a clown car."

Damon frowns, and his shoulders slump in defeat. He even sets down his sandwich, so I know this is serious.

"I got released from my contract."

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