Page 22 of Faking the Heat

It’s persistent.

It’s rhythmic.

It’s my mother.

I answer, and her face smiles at me from the screen, a perfectly curated portrait of Carol Peterson in a lavender cardigan, her hair a masterpiece of suburban structural engineering.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound like a person who isn’t currently living on the struggle bus. “Everything okay? Is Dad’s knee acting up again? Please tell me the basement hasn’t flooded.”

“Oh, Mandy, don’t be so dramatic.” Her voice crackles with that chipper, elementary-school-secretary energy that usually precedes a lecture on my life choices. “We’re fine. Better than fine, actually. We’re in the car. We just passed the loop, and the traffic wasn’t nearly as bad as the news made it out to be. Your father says the construction on I-90 is finally moving, though he has plenty of opinions on the lane markers.”

The air leaves my lungs in a slow, agonizing hiss. I look at the clock on the corner of my monitor. It’s ten in the morning. “The Loop? Mom, why are you in the Loop? I thought you were volunteering at the library this morning. You said you had a stack of historical records to index.”

“We were worried about you, honey. Ever since that horrible fire... and honestly, you’ve been so vague on the phone. Every time I ask about the new apartment, you change the subject to font weights, and you know I don’t know what that means.

Your father said that you’ve been in the same place for weeks now. We used that little locator app you set up for us. You remember? The 'Safety First’ one? It says you’re at a warehouse, Mandy. It looks like a very industrial area on the map. I told your father I hoped there wasn’t a gang problem.”

My stomach does a slow, nauseating flip. The app. The family location-sharing app, which I downloaded under duress at Thanksgiving three years ago and have never once successfully remembered to disable. I look at Bowie, who has opened both eyes now and is staring at me with the focused attention of someone watching a car accident.

“Mom, listen, now isn’t a great time. I’m deep in a deadline for a very big client. Architects, Mom, very serious people… and the loft, the place where I’m staying… is a bit of a mess. It’s a workspace as much as a living space. Why don’t I meet you for lunch at that place with the little cucumber sandwiches you love? I’ll drive over now.”

“Nonsense.” I can hear the definitive click of her seatbelt through the phone. “We’re already here. Your father is just finding a parking spot.” I hear the car door close. “It looks very secure, Robert, look at those reinforced gates.”

I run over and press the button to let them in and tell them the unit number, still wildly unprepared for this particular audit of my life.

I look around the loft in a panicked blur. Sterling’s presence is everywhere. His boots are by the door, size eleven, heavy-duty, scarred with the history of a dozen fires and smelling faintly of soot. His department jacket is draped over the back of the sofa, the yellow reflective stripes practically glowing in the morning light. On the wall there’s a framed photo of Sterling and Jake at the academy, both of them grinning and soot-streaked, looking like the poster boys for heroic masculinity. There’s no version of this reality where I can explain any of it away as a temporary guest arrangement before they’ve mapped out the wedding seating chart and checked his credit score.

The elevator groans. It’s the old, industrial kind that takes its time, a slow-moving countdown to my social execution. I can hear the cables straining, the mechanical clatter of the floor numbers changing.

I thought I had five floors’ worth of time.

I do not.

I am now all panic and absolutely no disco. I scramble to the sofa and grab a pair of Sterling’s socks, thick, woolly things he uses for long shifts, and shove them under a cushion. I kick his boots behind the coat rack, nearly tripping over the hem of my own jeans. Before tossing his jacket on the hook by the door. I’m breathless, one hand braced flat against the wall, when the knock comes.

My mother steps in first, her styled blonde hair untouched by the Chicago wind, her sensible loafers clicking on the concrete floor. She’s in a tailored trench coat and a scarf that cost more than my monthly grocery budget. She looks around the loft with the practiced eye of someone who can spot a dust bunny or a lapse in character in point five seconds. Behind her, my father comes in with his hands in his pockets, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. He looks like he’s about to adjust an insurance claim on my soul.

“Amanda!” Mom sweeps me into a hug that smells like Chanel No. 5 and repressed expectations. She squeezes hard, then pulls back to inspect my face for signs of malnutrition. “Look at this place. It’s so... bohemian. Very artist in the city. Robert, look at the ceilings.”

“A/C looks good, but how’s the heating?” Dad steps past the living area to inspect the exposed ductwork with deep, structural suspicion. He taps a pipe with his knuckle. “Industrial windows like that, you’re losing thirty percent of your thermal efficiency, easy. Who owns this place? A developer? A trust? It better not be a sub-lease situation, Mandy. You know the legal headaches with those.”

“It’s a friend’s,” I manage, my voice thin and reedy. I’m clutching the hem of my shirt like it’s a life vest.

I do the math on the fact that Sterling is due home in less than thirty minutes, and that I have not warned him about the parental invasion, nor about the fact that I have probably implied, by omission, by presence, by the absolute lack of a better story, that we are something more than just he offered me his couch so I wouldn’t be homeless.

My mother’s face does the thing where it tries to look disappointed and supportive at the same time, which comes out mostly as unconvinced. She drifts toward the kitchen, her gaze landing on the 'Roommate Rules’ notebook still sitting on the counter, the spiral binding glinting.

“'No judging cereal choices,'” she reads aloud, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. “'The bathroom schedule is sacred.' Oh, Mandy. This isn’t a guest arrangement. This is domestic. These are the rules of a couple trying to find a rhythm. And who is this 'S’ who writes so neatly? Very firm penmanship. Robert, come look at this.”

I sigh before forcing a smile. “It’s... complicated.”

She turns, her eyes widening as she spots the photo of Sterling on the wall. She walks over to it, tilting her head. “Is this him? A firefighter? He’s very... robust. Very handsome, Mandy. He looks like he could carry a grand piano up a flight of stairs. Why didn’t you tell us? You know how we felt about that lawyer, Derek was always so... but this. A public servant. A hero. It’s so stable. So brave.”

“His name is Sterling,” I say, stepping between her and the photo, feeling like I’m guarding a sacred relic. “We’ve known each other for years. He’s the guy who helped me move into my last place, remember?”

“He seems like a good guy,” my father says, but he isn’t looking at the photo. He’s looking at the floor by the coat rack, where one of Sterling’s boots is peeking out from behind a shadow, a silent witness to the truth. He nudges it with the toe of his shoe, his expression unreadable. “Size eleven. Professional grade. He stays here when he’s not on shift, I assume? It’s a lot of space for one person.”

The trap is closing. I can feel the Peterson pressure mounting, that familiar, suffocating weight of their need to see me settled and safe and taken care of. And then, before the panic can properly set in, the bolt on the door clicks and turns.