He's not my dad

part 31

I go back the following day, already regretting my life choices as I push the apartment door open.
“I’m coming in!” I shout, one hand clamped dramatically over my eyes. “You have exactly one minute to cover yourselves and restore my faith in humanity.”
Noel’s laugh answers me first. “Relax, Taylor. Everyone’s fully dressed. Sadly.”
I peek through my fingers anyway, just in case, and immediately drop my hand. Bree and Noel are on opposite ends of the sofa, clothed, coffee mugs in hand like a very domestic sitcom.
Noel stands. “I’m really sorry about what you walked in on last night. That was… not ideal.”
“That’s one word for it,” I mutter, though I manage a smile.
I hesitate before asking, “So… are you two back together?”
Bree answers this time. “We are.”
I blink. “Oh.”
Noel nods. “We’ve forgiven each other.”
Each other.
That catches my attention.
“I wasn’t exactly innocent either,” he adds quietly. He doesn’t elaborate, just looks at Bree with something sad and fond all at once. She reaches for his hand, squeezing it.
Well. That’s more emotional complexity than I was prepared for before breakfast.
We talk for a while—safe topics, light jokes, the awkwardness slowly fading. Eventually I excuse myself and head upstairs, finally unpacking my suitcase like a functioning adult.

I’m halfway through  clothes when there’s a knock at the apartment door.

Bree doesn't even get a chance to answer before it opens.

My mother breezes in like she owns the place, which, frankly, she behaves she does. I can hear her chatting animatedly with Bree downstairs, her voice carrying effortlessly.
Finally she's in my room and malwa herself comfortable on my bed.

“You’ve been back almost a week and you haven’t come to see me,” she says accusingly.

I stare at her. “It hasn’t been a week.”

She waves that off. “Details.”

She immediately launches into country club gossip—who’s divorcing who, who’s had work done badly, who’s pretending they haven’t. I half-listen while folding jeans.

“There’s a function on Saturday,” she adds casually. “I’d like you to attend.”

“I can’t,” I say. “Chuck has a gig.”
She sighs deeply, like I’ve personally disappointed her ancestors. “Your father and I haven’t seen you in weeks. Missing one show is hardly the end of the world. Charles will survive.”

Right on cue, Chuck appears in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
“Charles is completely fine with it,” he says cheerfully, “but he’d prefer to be called Chuck.”

My mother laughs, utterly delighted. She crosses the room, kisses his cheek, and says, “You’re charming. Sunday lunch. Both of you.”

I open my mouth to protest, then close it. “Fine.”

“Wonderful,” she says, already turning to leave. “I’ll expect you.”

Once she’s gone, Chuck flops backward onto the bed dramatically.

“I was just talking to Noel,” he says. “Didn’t recognize him with his clothes on.”

I snort.
From downstairs, my mother calls, “I’m not even going to ask!”

Chuck grins at me. “Your family’s amazing.”
I shake my head, laughing. “You have no idea.”

........

We sit on the sofa watching TV, a half-forgotten reality show playing in the background while we eat salad from mismatched bowls. It should feel calm—normal, even—but Chuck can’t sit still.
His knee bounces nonstop, a restless rhythm against the coffee table. He shifts, taps his fingers, drums lightly against his thigh like there’s a song stuck inside him that won’t let him rest.
“You want to go out?” he asks suddenly.
I glance at him. “No. I want a quiet night in.”
I soften my voice. “We’ve been partying and drinking every night for weeks. I’m exhausted.”
He nods immediately. “Yeah. You’re right. Totally right.”
But his body doesn’t get the memo. He keeps fidgeting, shifting his weight, standing up only to sit back down again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bree watching him. She catches my gaze and subtly mouths, Is he okay?
I shrug, barely perceptible. I honestly don’t know.
A few minutes pass, then Chuck stands abruptly, like he’s made a decision mid-thought.
“I’m gonna head home and unpack,” he says.
I blink. “I thought you were staying here tonight?”
“I don’t really have much spare time this week,” he says quickly. “I should get my laundry done, get everything put away.”
“Do you need help?” I ask, standing.
He shakes his head at once. “No. You stay here. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
He leans down and kisses the top of my head—gentle, familiar—and then he’s already grabbing his jacket, already halfway to the door.
And then he’s gone.
The silence he leaves behind feels heavier than it should.
I turn back to the sofa to find Bree and Noel both staring at me.
“What was that?” Bree asks carefully.
I sink back into my seat, picking at my salad. “I don’t know.”
And that’s the part that unsettles me the most.