CHAPTER 213: THE WALK OF SHAME

The moment Madison and I stepped out of my bedroom, I knew we were catastrophically, irreparably fucked. And not in the fun, hour-long Olympic event we’d just wrapped up. No— this was the kind of fucked that comes with family witnesses and emotional trauma.

Madison was limping. Limping. Every step she took was basically a public service announcement for what we’d been doing.

Her hair looked like it had survived a hurricane and a car wash at the same time, mascara running down her face like she’d been front-row at a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. She was glowing, smirking, radiating "yeah, I got wrecked" energy like it was her new perfume.

And of course, the audience: Mom, Sarah, and Emma. Standing there. Watching. Judging. Breathing my oxygen.

Emma was frozen on the couch where I’d left her, face redder than a TikTok kid after an energy drink overdose. Her eyes flicked from Madison’s limp... to my jeans, which were currently failing spectacularly at hiding my post-game problem.

Sarah was by the shopping bags, mouth hanging open like Windows 98 after too many tabs. She clocked Madison’s limp, then my crotch, then spun away so fast I thought she’d snapped her neck.

And Mom? Mom was giving the ceiling the most intense architectural review of her life. As if staring at crown molding hard enough could erase the audio trauma of Madison screaming my name on loop like a Spotify top hit but I caught her eyes flicking down and then immediately back up to the ceiling like she was studying the architecture.

"Hey, Mrs. Carter," Madison chirped, cheery as if she hadn’t just been auditioning for Fifty Shades of Peter upstairs. "Love what you’ve done with the kitchen upgrades. Those new pots? Gorgeous."

The deflection was Olympic-level. Gold medal. Also: nuclear.

Sarah made a strangled squeak, halfway between a dolphin call and a panic attack. Emma buried her entire face in a throw pillow like she was trying to suffocate herself before reality did it for her.

"Madison," Mom said, voice tight enough to crack glass. "How... how lovely to see you."

Translation: I would rather step on Legos barefoot for eternity than acknowledge what I just heard.

Sarah gestured weakly at the Williams Sonoma bags. "We got... we bought... kitchen things..." Her hands were shaking like she was about to testify in court. Then her eyes betrayed her — dropping down to my jeans again before she spun so hard to face the wall that I’m shocked drywall didn’t crumble.

"Cost more than our old whole month kitchen spending," Mom added weakly, clearly grasping for any topic that didn’t involve the fact that her sixteen-year-old son had just... thoroughly claimed his territory, still refusing to look directly at me, as if eye contact would summon demons.

Spoiler: I am the demon.

Meanwhile, Madison just sauntered—okay, limped, but with attitude—over to the shopping bags like she was the host of a cooking channel nobody asked for. Emma tracked her progress with the horrified fascination of a driver watching a car crash in slow motion.

"Oh my God, you got the KitchenAid Professional?" Madison gasped, legit delighted. "That’s the one we have at home. Peter’s going to love cooking with that."

"I’m sure he will," Emma croaked, then immediately buried her face deeper in the pillow, probably trying to suffocate herself to death. Respect.

And Sarah? Sarah was still staring dead at the wall, shoulders shaking. Could’ve been laughter. Could’ve been a full-blown nervous breakdown. Honestly? Same.

"Madison," I muttered, trying to discreetly adjust my jeans before I ended up banned from family housing codes forever, "maybe we should—"

"Oh, I should definitely stay for dinner," she cut in smoothly, like the devil herself RSVP’ing. All three women flinched at the word "stay" like it was a gunshot. "I want to hear all about the shopping trip."

Sarah whimpered audibly. Actual whimper. Like a puppy watching its owner commit tax fraud.

"Maybe," Mom said carefully, every syllable dipped in desperation, "you could... freshen up first? Both of you?"

Translation: You two look like you’ve been filming an NC-17 remake of HGTV.

Madison grinned like she’d just won Survivor. "Good idea." Then she leaned against me, putting all her weight in exactly the wrong place. "Peter worked up quite a sweat."

Emma made a noise like a dying whale beaching itself and buried her entire head under the throw pillow.

Sarah spun, looked at us, spun back, and started making frantic prayer gestures like she was trying to summon the Pope on speed dial.

"Oh, for the love of—" Mom choked, then pivoted. "I’m going to... organize the kitchen. For a very long time. With very loud Taylor Swift music."

She grabbed her bags and fled like she’d just witnessed a murder. Which, in a way, she had — her peace of mind.

"Sarah," Emma’s muffled voice squeaked from under the pillow, "please tell me this is a nightmare."

"If it is," Sarah said flatly, still wall-facing, "we’re all stuck in it together."

Madison, meanwhile, looked like a cat who’d knocked over a priceless vase. "Your family is adorable, Peter. So... innocent."

"They’re traumatized," I corrected.

"They’ll adjust," she said breezily, then winced as she shifted. "Might want to ice this later, though."

Emma shot upright, face blazing. "I DIDN’T NEED TO KNOW THAT!"

"Know what?" Madison asked, the picture of innocence.

"ANY OF IT!" Sarah wailed to the drywall. "WE DIDN’T NEED TO KNOW ANY OF IT!"

From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of Mom blasting death metal while aggressively alphabetizing pots and pans. Kitchen therapy, Level 9000.

"Well," Madison said, settling onto the couch like she owned it, "that went better than expected."

I stared at her. "Better than expected? Madison, you’ve traumatized two virgins and forced my mother into Slipknot-fueled cabinet therapy."

"Peter Carter," she said, patting my thigh in a way that made me nearly black out, "you’re finally learning what it means to claim your territory. Everyone needs to understand the hierarchy."

Emma peeked over the back of the couch, face so red she could double as a stop sign. "Are you... are you still...?" She gestured vaguely at my jeans.

"Od, dear, that’s not going away anytime soon," Madison said cheerfully.