My mom always used to have a saying: When life knocks you on your ass, you get back up, put on your face, and keep on living.

So that's just what I do the next morning.

I drag my butt back into the bathroom, after having spent most of the night locked in there. I take a shower, wash up with the soap that smells like fresh citrus, shave off the stubble that's grown since yesterday, and start putting on my face.

My hair gets styled, gelled into a faux-hawk, since I don't feel like I can pull off a full mohawk today. I rub some moisturizer into my skin to hide the bags under my eyes. Put on a little eyeliner to take the focus away from any lingering tiredness. Then I dress in the tightest pair of jeans I own—the ones that always make me feel like a million bucks—lace up a pair of literal combat boots, throw on a sweater, scarf, and gloves, and head to work.

I never bothered to turn the heat on last night, so the fact that it's fucking freezing when I step out of my apartment isn't a big surprise. I face the wind head-on, not caring if my cheeks and nose get a little red from its assault. The weather's the least of my problems today, and it must know it because it backs the hell off even as I'm scraping ice from my windshield.

I turn up my radio, blasting some R&B as I drive to the diner. All of this is routine for me, just like brushing my teeth. It feels comfortable and ordinary and for the first time since I got those texts, I'm not thinking about Blake.

My mind's focused on a thousand different things, instead. What kind of special I can offer today to make up for the limited menu yesterday. Who I can call if one or both of my cooks are still out. Whether or not I want to bring my tailgating trailer to the high school games next football season. I even find myself wondering what Reeve's doing right now—if he's sitting behind a desk looking bored and grumpy.

I'm actually humming by the time I unlock the back door and let myself into the kitchen. It's some extreme "fake it till you make it," but spitting in the face of fear and worry always works for Mom. The apple can't fall that far from the tree.

As I step inside, though, I nearly trip over something. The telltale clatter tells me exactly what it was, and I bend down to pick up the offending pots and pans.

That cold, nauseating sense of dread washes over me, but I try to talk myself out of it. It's probably just raccoons. We had a bunch of them get into the kitchen a couple years back. They tore everything off the counters and raided the pantry, making a complete mess of the kitchen. I had to disinfect everything top to bottom and have the health inspector come out to okay the place afterward, but I'd take that over the images my brain is conjuring.

As I go to put the pots and pans away, though, I feel glass crunch under my boot. My heart sinks further, my fingers clenching around the handle of a sauté pan. I don't want to turn on the light; I don't want to have my worst fears confirmed.

Put on your face and keep on living, I remind myself, reaching for the switch.

Fluorescent light floods the kitchen, and my legs threaten to give out right then and there.

Pots and pans have been torn out of the cupboards and thrown all over the floor, some with enough force to crack tile. Glass covers the stovetops, the counters, and the floor from the busted-out service window. An assortment of knives lay against the wall, little nicks in it like someone tried to throw them and see if they'd stick. The fridge and freezer are both wide open, eggs smashed all over the place, sauces drizzled down the sides of every appliance I own.

And the front of the diner…

I catch a glimpse of downed chairs in the bit of light that spills out from the kitchen, but it's not until I turn on the guest seating light switches that I see the extent of the damage.

Half of the light fixtures are on the floor, their bulbs smashed. There's glass and filament all over, and it's like walking through a minefield to try and see everything else. Pictures yanked off the walls, more broken tile, and a huge hole in one of the front windows mark the highlights.

I rush over to the register, hoping against hope that somebody tried to pry it open. I empty it every night, but if this was just some random smash and grab, the person responsible wouldn't know that.

But no. The register is one of the few things that was left untouched. This wasn't about money. It was about sending a message.

I try to come up with another explanation; to think of something that will keep me from falling into this dark place I want to crawl into. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of something that doesn't belong here. Something colorful and innocent that makes the bile rise in the back of my throat.

A small statue of a carousel horse.

Memory hits me, fighting past the defenses I've tried to erect. A summer night in Coney Island. It was the first place Blake and I ever went together. He pulled out all the stops.

My fists clench, and tears sting my eyes. I feel small, like a speck of a man standing amid an ocean that's about to sweep him away.

And then I hear a car door close.

I scramble back into the kitchen, reaching for the first knife I can find, knowing I won't be able to fend him off with it. My nerves are wound so tight that every step sends pain jolting through my body.

"Jesus Roosevelt Christ."

Relief washes over me at the sound of my mom's voice, but it's quickly replaced by sharp, lancing panic.

She can't see this. She can't know. What's she even doing here? I have to figure out something to say, and I—

"Eric?!"

The fear in her own voice is what forces me to calm the fuck down. I remember our talk last night, and how I relented when she asked to at least come in and help with the baking this morning. She's here for that, and as long as I keep my face on, this doesn't have to be a big deal.

Beyond the fact that the diner she poured her blood, sweat, and tears into is a shambles.

"I'm okay," I answer, setting the knife on the counter and heading out into the diner proper. "I got here just a few minutes before you did."

"What the hell happened?" She looks paler than normal, and I can't tell how much of it is the busted lights and how much is the situation.

"Guessing it wasn't raccoons this time," I say dryly, fanning my fingers through my hair.

"Christ," she repeats. "Did anybody call you? What the hell are we paying this alarm company for if they aren't going to tell us when somebody's destroying our diner!"

The alarm. My gaze cuts to the panel even as Mom makes her way over to it, her steps unsteady despite her cane. Why didn't it go off? Blake wouldn't have…

No. You made the code your mother's birthday, you fucking idiot. Of course Blake knew what it was.

"It's not even armed," she grouses, fiddling with the buttons.

That carousel horse is still on the counter, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to lunge for it. As soon as I get close enough, though, I snatch it and shove it into my coat.

"It went off when I opened the back door. I disarmed it right before you got here."

She looks at me the same way she used to look at me when I told her I didn't have any homework. She knows I'm lying. But just like then, she wants me to fess up instead of prying it out of me.

I just grab a broom and dustpan and say nothing at all. Until she gets out her phone.

"Who are you calling?" I ask, my heart threatening to pound out of my chest.

"Bobby Flay. I figure maybe he was trying to sabotage us so we can't ever compete against him." Her tone is dryer than mine, and she adds, "The police, Eric."

"Don't!" My voice breaks, making me sound like I'm fourteen again. "Please."

Mom slowly lowers the phone and looks me straight in the eye. "Why don't you want me to report this?"

"What are they even going to do? We don't have security cameras, and it's not like they can get good prints off this place. Hundreds of people have their hands all over everything all day long."

I'm struggling, and she knows it. Her gaze pierces through me, and in that moment, all I'm thinking is that I can't believe people say me and Mom have the same eyes. Hers are way more intense; way more powerful.

"We can't file an insurance claim without a police report," she says.

"We don't need one. I've got some funds tucked away, and as soon as the town sees this place, they'll probably offer to pitch in anyway."

She stands in front of me now, and it'd be a miracle if she couldn't hear the tireless pounding of my heart. She used to be able to get me to fess up just by staring at me, hands on her hips. But that was always small things. No, I didn't finish my homework. Yes, I was smoking by the dumpsters at school. No, I wasn't over at Kelly's place last night.

This is way bigger. Too big.

I don't want you to call because I know who did it and I don't want you or anyone else to know what he did to me. What he's still doing to me.

I don't want you to look at me like I need your protection—like I'm less than everything you raised me to be.

I can't say any of that to her, so I do something I've never done past this point: I lie.

"A couple days ago, a few rednecks came in here looking to start a fight. They asked for me personally, started spewing shit to my face. I threw them out; figured they'd move on." Letting out a sigh, I look at the damage all around me. "Apparently they didn't."

"Eric, if some punks are harassing you, you should've—"

"I can handle it!" I shoot back, a little too defensively.

I already know what she's going to say, though. She's going to tell me I should've called her, and then she'll go on and on about how I shouldn't stand for those sorts of people giving me any shit.

"This doesn't look like handling it," she says, her voice a mix of emotions I can't decipher.

There's one I do recognize, though: Pity. And I don't want any part of it.

"I’ll report the break-in,” I relent, already knowing that if I don’t, some other well-meaning soul in this town will, “but I’m not naming names. If we make a big fuss about this, then they get exactly what they wanted: The queer boy running to the cops to protect him. We'll close today and get things cleaned up, then it'll be business as usual tomorrow. Like nothing happened."

She just stares at me, her lips parted, and shakes her head. "This is insane, Eric."

"It's my call," I say firmly, hating myself all the while. "If you really want to help me, grab a broom and some gloves. Otherwise… I'll deal with it."

We've had this discussion, this clash of wills a million times. But it's never been like this. She's right. This is insane. And when she finally relents and goes to grab a broom, I know this isn't the end of it.

Gracie Tillman puts my stubborn streak to shame, and she's always been able to wait me out till the bitter end.

All I can hope is that somehow I'll be able to stave her off. At least long enough for me to deal with this Blake situation on my own, no matter how much the scared little boy inside of me wants to tell her everything.