Page 113 of Before We Were

She frowns, not convinced. "Is that why you were using?"

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a second, I want to run. But I don't. I give her the truth. “Yes.”

The way her face falters—it's like I've given her something she wasn't expecting.

“I wasn't lying when I told you I haven't touched anything since... since that night at the beach. When shit went down with Connor."

The confession sits heavy between us, like something too big to say aloud, but then she breaks the tension with a soft smile that warms me from the inside out. "That's good."

I want to tell her why I stopped. That it was because of her. That I couldn't stand the thought of her seeing me like that again, seeing me as someone to be afraid of. But the words don't come.

"I, uh, I'm gonna go take a shower and then start writing."

Her face lights up, and for a second, I'm free of everything weighing me down. She's always been happiest when she's talking about her writing. She's been doing it since we were kids, but she still doesn't know how good she is.

"How's it going?"

"I feel like I'm getting somewhere now," she says with a small grin that makes my heart skip. "I just need to sit down, no distractions, no noise—just write."

I watch her, captivated.

"What?" She looks self-conscious, like she's said too much, given away too many secrets.

"Nothing. It's just," I lean against the kitchen counter, not sure why I'm telling her this, "every memory I have of you involves books."

Her cheeks flush the perfect soft pink I love.

There's a smile she can't hide. "Just like every memory of you involves music."

"Why do you love it?" I ask, wanting to hear more, even though I’m running so fucking late right now. I want to keep her talking just to hear her voice and see her face light up when she talks about the things she loves.

"Writing?"

I nod.

"Escapism, I guess. Anything's possible in the stories you write. There's this kind of magic in believing in possibility, whether it's on paper or in real life." She flips the question back on me. "Why do you love music?"

"Same reason," I say, feeling the truth of it in my bones. "It takes you somewhere else. Or it brings back a thousand memories at once."

"Guess there's something we can finally agree on." She lets out a soft laugh, and it hits me all over again—I'm hooked on finding each new laugh she has, each one different, each one just as addictive as the last.

"Shit, I better get going or Nick will be pissed.”

"I guess I'll see you later then?"

"You will."

I'm halfway out the door when Mom walks in, surprise flickering across her face like sunlight through leaves.

"Nate, where are you off to this early?"

"To Sonder, that new bar in town," I reply, already anticipating the worry that will cloud her eyes. "To help, not to??—"

"I know,” she cuts me off, her eyes soft as morning light. "I heard you volunteered. I'm proud of you."

I manage a smile, but inside, guilt gnaws at me like a hungry beast. Over the past year, she's seen me walk out this door too many times, always left wondering where I was going, what I was doing, or if I'd even come back. She's been a saint, enduring the shit I've added to her life on top of everything else.

"Hey, Mom, what's Jake helping you with today?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual as I pull the door open.

---