Chapter 107 Compromise
Elena: POV
Mom's hand suddenly reached across the table and grabbed mine. Then she grabbed Ethan's.
Before I could process what was happening, she pressed our hands together.
"You two are supposed to be dating," she said, her tone light but pointed. "But you look like strangers having a business meeting."
My fingers went stiff against Ethan's palm.
Fuck.
I'd forgotten—Mom still thought we were together. The fake relationship I'd agreed to at that bonfire, the lie I'd built to make her happy, to give her one less thing to worry about in the time she had left.
Ethan's hand was warm. Steady. He didn't pull away.
"Sorry, Mrs. Vance," he said smoothly. "Elena's just mad I showed up without warning."
"Mad is an understatement," I muttered.
But I didn't move away from his hand. Because if I did, Mom would know something was wrong. She'd see through the cracks, start asking questions I couldn't answer, and I couldn't—I wouldn't—let her spend her last months worrying about me.
So I curled my fingers around his and forced a smile that felt like swallowing glass.
"He has this habit of making decisions for me," I said.
Ethan's thumb brushed the back of my hand.
"Old habits," he said quietly.
Mom looked between us, and for a second I thought she'd call bullshit. But then her face softened, and she squeezed both our hands before letting go.
"Well," she said, "I think it's sweet. He came all this way to look after you."
Sweet. Right.
I swallowed the anger rising in my throat and turned to Ethan. "Fine. You can come with us. But you're still doing your research trip, got it? I'm not letting you derail your work because of some paranoid idea that we need protecting."
His eyes searched mine. "Deal."
---
The town was small—one of those places where everyone knew everyone, and strangers got second looks. We walked down Main Street, past antique shops and a bakery that smelled like cinnamon and burnt sugar. Mom walked between us, her arm looped through mine, and every few steps she'd point at something and smile.
"Look at that," she said, gesturing to a mural on the side of a hardware store. Faded paint, peeling at the edges, but you could still make out the scene—mountains in the background, a family standing in front of a farmhouse.
"Beautiful," she murmured.
Ethan pulled out his phone and took a picture. Then another one of Mom standing in front of it, her hand shading her eyes from the sun.
I watched him. The way he framed the shot, adjusted the angle, asked Mom to move a little to the left. Like he actually gave a shit.
"Your turn," he said, nodding at me.
"I'm fine."
"Elena." Mom tugged my arm. "Come on. One picture."
I sighed and stepped next to her. Ethan crouched slightly, lining up the shot, and I tried not to think about how normal this felt. How easy it would be to pretend.
The shutter clicked.
"Got it," he said.
We kept walking. Mom stopped at a small shop selling handmade pottery, ran her fingers over the glaze on a bowl.
Ethan hung back, hands in his pockets, giving us space but never too far away.
---
By the time we found a diner for lunch, Mom was slowing down. I could see it in the way she leaned heavier on my arm, the way her breath came a little shorter.
"Let's sit," I said quickly.
The diner was classic small-town America—vinyl booths, checkerboard floors, a jukebox in the corner playing something twangy. We slid into a booth, Mom on one side, Ethan and me on the other.
The waitress came over, took our orders. Mom asked for soup and crackers. Nothing else.
My stomach knotted.
"That's all?" I asked.
"I'm not very hungry, sweetheart."
Liar.
She wasn't hungry because food made her sick. Because the tumor in her pancreas was pressing on everything, making it impossible to eat without pain.
I ordered a salad I knew I wouldn't finish. Ethan got a burger and fries, and when the food came, he pushed the fries toward me without a word.
I stared at them. Then at him.
"Eat," he said simply.
I picked up a fry. It tasted like cardboard.
Mom managed three spoonfuls of soup before she set down the spoon and pressed a hand to her stomach.
"Mom—"
"I'm fine," she said. But her face had gone pale, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.
I dug into my bag and pulled out the bottle of pills Dr. Smith had prescribed. Anti-nausea meds. They barely worked, but they were better than nothing.
I shook one into my palm and handed it to her with her water glass.
"Take it."
She did, her hand trembling slightly. Then she leaned back against the booth and closed her eyes.
Ethan didn't say anything. But I could feel him watching.
"I need to use the restroom," Mom said after a minute. She stood, steadying herself on the edge of the table, and I moved to get up.
"I can manage," she said gently. "Stay. Eat something."
I watched her walk toward the back of the diner, her steps careful, deliberate. Like she was carrying something fragile.
The silence at the table was suffocating.
"Elena—"
"Don't," I said.
Ethan leaned forward, his forearms on the table. "Is your mom sick?"
The question hit like a punch.
I didn't look at him. Just stared at the fries on the plate, the grease pooling at the edges.
"Why would you think that?"
"Because she barely ate. Because you're carrying medication in your purse. Because she doesn't look well." He stopped.
My throat closed up.
He wasn't wrong. He wasn't being cruel. He was just... observant.
And I hated him for it.
"She's been having some health issues," I said finally. "That's why we're doing this trip. She wanted to get away for a while."
"How serious is it?"
I didn't answer.
"Elena."
"She's sick, okay?" The words came out sharper than I meant. "And I don't want to talk about it."
He didn't push. Just nodded slowly. "I'm sorry."
I didn't want his pity. Didn't want anyone's pity.
"Look," I said, my voice tight. "This trip matters to her. So if you're going to be here, just—just don't make it harder than it already is."
"I won't."
I finally looked at him. His expression was serious. No smirk, no deflection. Just... sincerity.
"This trip," he said quietly, "it matters to her. I get that. And I promise, I'm not here to ruin it. I'm here because—" He hesitated. "Because I care about you. Whether you want me to or not."
Something twisted in my chest.
"I didn't ask you to care."
"I know."
The restroom door opened, and Mom emerged, looking a little steadier. She walked back to the table, and Ethan stood to let her slide into the booth.
"Better?" I asked.
"Much," she said, though I could tell she was lying.
Ethan sat back down. His knee brushed mine under the table, but I moved away.
I knew how he felt about me; I was also grateful to him, but I still couldn't let go.
"So," Mom said brightly. "What's the plan for this afternoon?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but Ethan spoke first.
"I was thinking we could take the scenic route," he said. "There's a state park about an hour north. Trails, viewpoints. Good for photos."
Mom's face lit up. "That sounds perfect."