Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 51

XANDER'S POV

I drop onto the couch the second I get home, the cushions swallowing me whole. My hand drags through my hair, and I make a mental note to get a haircut before the week ends, my reflection in the bathroom mirror this morning had me one bad day away from auditioning for a midlife-crisis indie band.

Normally I’d grab my phone and order something I’ll regret eating halfway through, but my eyes wander to the kitchen. The fridge hums softly as I pull it open. My gaze snags on the containers Jax packed for me. The same Jax who should’ve just been easy to hate....vain, smug, but no, he’s got to be talented in the kitchen too.

The man’s a walking contradiction.

"God forbid you just be an arrogant jerk with zero skills," I mutter under my breath, pulling out two containers.

One’s got this thick, golden chicken broth that smells like it’s been slow-cooked with secrets. The other’s full of vibrant rice dotted with tiny vegetables, actual knife-work vegetables, not “dumped frozen from a bag” vegetables. I plate them, heat them up, and by the time I walk back to the couch, the scent’s curled itself around me like it knows it’s winning.

It’s Monday, which means I have to call Mum. If I don’t, she’ll text me pictures of abstract shapes with captions like 'this is the void your absence leaves in my life'. I hit her contact, and she answers on the first ring like she’s been staring at her phone, willing it to happen.

“Hello, lovebug.”

A smile tugs at me before I can help it. “Hi, Mum.”

She’s already launching into it, no brakes, no transition. “This painting is giving me grief. I’ve been staring at it for hours, and it just… refuses to tell me what it wants to be. I might have to change the exhibition date.”

“You’ll pull through,” I say, shifting the plate on my lap. “You always do.”

I can see her in my head, paint-stained jeans, a streak of blue across her cheek like she forgot she’s a person and not the canvas. Dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. The smell of turpentine clinging to her skin.

“How’s my boy?” she asks. “What’s been going on with you? How’s work?”

“I’m okay,” I say. It feels like lying. “Work’s fine.” That feels like an even bigger lie, but I let it stand.

“Oh!” She perks up in that way that means I’m about to hear gossip I didn’t ask for. “Do you remember your cousin Maggie? Not the one with the birds, the other one. She got a divorce because her husband told her he was ‘allergic to long-term commitments’ and then immediately moved in with his yoga instructor. I always did have a bad feeling about the guy.”

I snort. “ Of course you did.”

I take a bite of the rice and broth, and Jesus...it’s good. The flavors are warm and clean and completely unfair to my ability to not think about Jax. I chew slower, because the weight in my chest hasn’t moved all day.

I can’t tell Layla, she’s got her own storm brewing, and I’m not about to hand her another thing to spin into a joke. Addy wouldn’t get it. Or worse, she’d tell Layla, and it’d be ammo for months.

I’ve always told my mum everything… except anything that even sniffs of romance. But right now, I need the release. I need the way she’ll cut through my mess without even trying.

“Mum…” I say her name like a test, and she goes quiet.

“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, like she can feel me hesitating through the phone.

My eyes fix on the food. I set the spoon down. My pulse is suddenly louder than the hum of the fridge in the next room.

“There’s this guy…” I start, the words tasting strange in my mouth.

Her gasp is instant, sharp and delighted.

“Ohhh, hang on—hang on. Let me sit down for this.”

I blink at the phone. “What? No, actually, never mind—”

“Absolutely not,” she cuts in. “I have been rehearsing for this day since you came out, Xander. Don’t you dare rob me of it.”

I groan, already regretting opening my mouth. “It’s not...”

“So,” she barrels right over me, “who’s the guy? Where did you meet? And are we talking something beautifully messy and new, or have you already stared into each other’s souls under moody lighting?”

I press my palm to my forehead. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

I take a second, the smell of Jax’s food curling in my nose, grounding me. “Well… I like him. And most of the time, I’m pretty sure he likes me too. But there’s a chance I’m imagining it and it’s all just… wishful thinking.”

“Mhm,” she hums, and I know that tone, she’s already dissecting this like it’s a plot twist in one of her indie crime shows.

“And,” I add, because if there’s one person I can say this to without judgment, it’s her, “there’s a high chance he only wants to sleep with me.”

Without missing a beat, she asks, “And why would you assume that?”

“Because he’s told me so,” I say flatly. “Repeatedly.”

She scoffs. “Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? It would be very concerning if he didn't want to.”

I stare at the ceiling. “Are you actually listening to me?”

“Yes,” she says, in that breezy 'of course I am, darling' voice. “You said you’re pretty sure he feels the same.”

“Yeah,” I drag out, “but he’s definitely not looking for commitment.”

There’s a pause, the kind that makes me think she’s about to lob something ridiculous at me.

“And you want that? Commitment?”

The lie is right there. Easy. But for some reason, I don’t take it. “Yeah… I guess so. I’m not sure. I’ve never been in an actual relationship before. But if he were open to it, which he’s not, I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.”

Silence. Just long enough for me to think she’s going to actually be sensitive about it.

Until... “Then make him.”

I sit up. “What?”

“Make him open to it.” Her voice is maddeningly casual, like she’s telling me to water the plants. “You are a charming, attractive and hardworking young man. And I’m not just saying that because you’re my son. If you inherited more than just my good genes, seducing him and making him fall for you should come naturally.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Seriously mum—”

“I can give you pointers,” she continues, unbothered. “I’ve been very into sensual maritime elegy poetry lately, and there’s a lot to learn there.”

“I'm severely regretting this conversation…”

“What? I’m serious.”

And then, like the conversation isn’t already absurd enough, she says, “Don’t you agree, Alyssa?”

A new voice chimes in, warm and smug. “He’s definitely not getting any younger.”

My stomach drops. “Oh my God, Mum! Do you have me on speakerphone?”

“Relax,” she says, like I’m overreacting. “It’s just your sister. She finally brought the kids to visit overnight.”