Chapter 97 Playing House
Elena: POV
"I don't know..."
The words came out weak. Pathetic.
Ethan leaned forward, eyes searching mine across the restaurant table. "It would just be for a quick visit. I don't want to intrude, but—"
"Then don't."
Too sharp. Too defensive.
He blinked, surprised by the edge in my voice.
Fuck. You're blowing this.
I pressed my palms against my thighs under the table, trying to ground myself.
"I just mean—" I took a breath. "She's tired a lot. She might not be up for visitors."
Liar. You just don't want him to see.
Don't want him to see the way she's shrinking. The yellow in her eyes. The tremor in her hands.
Don't want him to look at you with that pitying expression people get when they realize you're about to lose everything.
Again.
"Elena." Ethan's voice was gentle. Too gentle. "My mom's going to ask about her. If I've never met her, especially since you're staying with her... it'll look weird."
"We don't have to stay long," he continued. "Just long enough for me to say hello. Show my face. Make it believable."
"I know it's a lot to ask," Ethan said quietly.
He reached across the table, fingers brushing mine.
"But if we're going to do this—if we're going to make people believe we're together—we need to sell it."
Sell it.
Like I was a product. A commodity.
No. That's not what he means.
I looked down at his hand covering mine. Warm. Steady.
Safe.
And suddenly I was so fucking tired.
Tired of fighting. Tired of hiding. Tired of carrying everything alone.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he could just meet her. Say hello. Leave.
Maybe she'd like him.
That thought hurt more than it should.
Maybe she'd see him and think, 'Finally. Finally, my daughter found someone good.'
Even if it's all bullshit.
"Okay."
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
Ethan's eyes lit up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I pulled my hand back, wrapped both arms around myself. "But just for a little while. And if she's having a bad day, we leave. No questions asked."
"Deal." He smiled—bright, relieved.
---
The drive to Mom's place felt like crawling toward a firing squad.
I sat in Ethan's car—some sleek BMW that smelled like new leather and expensive cologne—watching the Florida coastline blur past my window. My hands wouldn't stop twisting in my lap.
This is a mistake.
"You okay?" Ethan's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.
I forced a smile. "Fine."
"You don't look fine." He glanced over. "You look like you're about to bolt."
Not a bad idea.
"I just—" I took a breath. "I don't want her to see through this."
"Elena." He squeezed my knee briefly. "We've got this. I'm a professor. I lie to students about why their essays are brilliant when they're barely coherent. I can handle one mom."
The casual arrogance grated on me.
He doesn't get it.
But I just nodded and turned back to the window.
---
Mom's house came into view—a small, sun-faded cottage with peeling paint and a garden fighting the heat. The sight made my chest constrict.
Ethan killed the engine. For a moment, we just sat there.
"If this is too much—"
"It's not." I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Let's just get this over with."
I climbed out before I could change my mind. Ethan followed, adjusting his perfectly pressed linen shirt.
God, he's good at this.
The front door opened before we reached it.
Mom stood there, wearing a loose floral dress that hung off her frame like a costume two sizes too big. Her collarbones jutted out. Her face was gaunt.
She's getting worse.
But she was smiling. That bright, warm smile that had gotten me through every nightmare.
"Elena!" She opened her arms, and I fell into them, breathing in lavender and something medicinal.
"Hey, Mom."
She pulled back, eyes flicking past me to Ethan.
“So this is the famous Ethan! Elena told me all about you.”
Ethan stepped forward, hand extended, smile practiced.
"Mrs. Vance? I'm Ethan Blackwell. It's an honor to finally meet you."
Liar. I've barely mentioned her.
Mom's eyebrows shot up. "Blackwell. That name sounds familiar. Aren't you—"
"Elena's professor from Parsons," he finished smoothly. "Though I prefer to think of myself as her boyfriend now."
The word hit like a slap.
Boyfriend.
My fingers caught his sleeve. A warning.
He glanced at me, something in his eyes. Trust me.
"What?" He grinned at Mom. "Gotta commit to the bit, right? Go big or go home."
Mom looked at me. Really looked.
For a second, I thought she'd call bullshit.
But then she laughed—bright, delighted.
"Well," she said, stepping aside. "That's good. That's really good, sweetheart."
No. It's not good. It's a lie.
But I smiled and followed her inside.
---
The house was worse than I remembered.
I'd been so focused on Mom—medication, meals, moments of weakness—that I hadn't really looked at the place.
Now, with Ethan's eyes scanning everything, I saw it all.
Window frame cracked. Door handle loose. Water stain spreading across the ceiling.
How did I miss this?
Ethan noticed. Of course he did.
"Mrs. Vance," he said, moving toward the window before either of us could speak. "This frame—it's rotting."
He jiggled the door handle. "This is a safety hazard. If someone tried to force their way in, this wouldn't hold."
Mom waved a hand. "Oh, it's been like that for months. I keep meaning to call someone, but—"
"You can't leave it like this." His voice was firm. "The window's letting in moisture. You'll get mold. And the door—" He turned to me. "Elena, your mom could get hurt."
Oh, for fuck's sake. He's laying it on thick.
But Mom was eating it up.
"Well, I suppose you're right. I just didn't want to bother anyone."
"It's not a bother." Ethan smiled—warm, genuine, perfect. "I'd be happy to help. I've got time now. I could fix these up for you."
‘We're about to go on a long journey though. Is it worth repairing the house? But then again, we might return later.’
Mom's hand went to her chest. "Oh, you don't have to—"
"I want to." He glanced at me. "Elena's important to me. That makes you important to me too."
Stop. Please, just stop.
My chest felt tight.
This is exactly what you wanted. So she'd think you were okay.
So why does it feel like drowning?
"That's very sweet of you, Ethan," Mom said softly.
She turned to me, eyes bright.
"He's a good one, isn't he? You told me he was your design professor before. And now he's your boyfriend? That's quite a leap."
Here it is. The moment where I either come clean or dig deeper.
I opened my mouth to say it—He's not really my boyfriend. We're just pretending.
But then I looked at her.
Really looked.
At the way her dress hung on her shrinking frame. At the faint yellow in her eyes. At the tremor in her hands.
She's dying.
She's dying, and she's terrified I'll be alone.
She needs this.
So I swallowed the truth.
And I lied to the one person who'd never lied to me.
"Yeah," I said. "He's... he's really good."
The words tasted like ash.
Mom smiled—radiant, relieved—and something broke inside me.
"Come on," she said, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Sit down. Let me get you both some water."
Ethan moved to follow her, but I stayed rooted.
What the hell are you doing?
You just lied to your dying mother.
What kind of person does that?
But I already knew the answer.
The kind who's too broken to do anything else.
"Elena?" Mom's voice drifted from the kitchen. "You coming?"
I forced my feet to move.
One step. Then another.
Just keep pretending. Just keep playing the part.
---
Mom was already in the kitchen when I walked in. Ethan had taken a seat at the small table, looking perfectly at ease.
God, I hate how natural he makes this look.
"Sit, sit," Mom said, pulling out a chair for me. Her hands shook as she reached for glasses.
"Mom, let me—"
"I've got it." She shot me a look—Don't treat me like I'm helpless.
So I sat.
And I watched her pour water with trembling hands.
Mom handed the water glass to Ethan. "Ethan, drink some water."