Page 119 of Before We Were

"You're whisking a girl you’ve known your whole life, who you clearly have feelings for away on a boat during sunset. Call me old-fashioned, but I'd say that's a date."

I don't fuel the fire with a response, instead offering a grin and thank you before walking out the door.

The driveback to the house does my head no good. I can feel the nerves building again, curling tight in my gut. And then, when I finally see her standing on the front porch waiting for me, everything goes quiet and still in my mind. She opens the door, and the sweet smell of her perfume fills the car. It's like the world just pauses, and all I can see is her.

Fuck me.

She's beautiful, and it's effortless. Her presence alone makes my chest tight with a feeling I can't—won't—name.

I am so fucked. So fucking fucked.

The drive to the marina passes in comfortable silence, broken only by occasional questions and soft small talk. Her presence fills the space between us with an electric charge that makes my skin hum. Why does this girl have such a tight grip on my every emotion? How does she make me so fucking nervous with just a glance?

I help her onto Scott's boat—the one he impulsively bought Mom as an"I'm sorry for being such a piece of shit husband"gift, masquerading as an anniversary present months after their actual anniversary.

As I steer us out toward the ocean, the further we get from dry land, the more the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. The water has always been my sanctuary.

She's wearing loose linen shorts that show off her long, already—tanned legs, and a tank top that clings to her curves in ways that make it hard to focus on anything else. Her hair's pulled back, but the salt breeze is already working its magic with the loose strands framing her face. And fuck, her smile. If I ever wanted to bottle up the feeling of sunshine, I'd just have to see that smile.

I catch myself staring, and it's only when she says my name that I snap out of it.

"Nate?"

"Huh?"

Smooth dickhead.

Real smooth.

I clear my throat, gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. She laughs softly, the sound carrying on the wind.

"I was trying to say thank you."

"For what?"

"For what you did with the sunroom. You really didn't have to."

I shrug, aiming for casual even as my heart races. Her eyes soften, and for a second, I see something in them I can't quite place—something that makes my breath catch.

"It was really thoughtful and meant a lot."

I shake my head, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.

"I'm happy you like it. And you're welcome." It was a small gesture, but more than anything, I wanted her to know that I'd always be in her corner, making sure she followed through with her dream. Even after everything, the guy she once knew was still here for her.

We fall into a comfortable silence as we sail toward the open sea. The sun hangs lower now, painting the water in shades of gold and amber.

Eventually, Nora speaks again, her voice quieter this time.

"The last time I was out on the water was with Dad... all of us, together." Her voice wavers as she looks down at the bracelet that's been on her wrist ever since the carnival. She runs her thumb over it, a ritual I've seen her perform countless times. "I can't believe it's already been a year."

Her eyes are sad and it physically causes me pain seeing so much hurt in them. One year since they laid David to rest, and I wasn't there. I wasn't standing beside her in that cemetery. I wasn't there to hold her hand or offer my shoulder when she needed it most. The guilt of that absence has been the wall between us that I've never known how to tear down.

It wasn't lost on me, the significance of today. How could it be? The date has been etched into my conscience like a scar. It was one of the reasons I wanted to get her out on the water—away from everything that would remind her of that day, the day I failed her in the worst possible way. Maybe somewhere deep down, I thought bringing her here, to a place that held good memories of her father, might begin to make up for my absence when it mattered most. But nothing could erase that failure, the first of many ways I've kept her at arm's length because I don't deserve to be any closer.

I glance at her, my heart squeezing. Her voice cracks just a little, the weight of the memory pressing down on her. But she doesn't cry. Nora's strong like that. She carries her grief differently—quiet, private. I want to reach over and hold her, tell her I'm sorry again, but the words stick in my throat like sand.

The smell of salt and sea air wraps around us, and I breathe in deep, hoping it'll steady me. The sky bleeds into the horizon in endless shades of blue, and the setting sun casts everything in a golden glow that makes the world feel bigger than we'll ever understand.

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