Page 125 of Before We Were

And mine?

Mine has always been Nate Sullivan.

As constant as the bass line in our favorite songs, as inevitable as time itself. I've been orbiting him my entire life, and I'm beginning to understand I might never stop.

Because when all the pretending falls away, when all the anger and hurt dissolve, one truth remains, simple and devastating: it has always been, and will always be, Nate.

CHAPTER37

RECKONINGS

NATE

When I pullup to Farrah's house, the porch light casts shadows that dance across the weathered steps like warning signs I should leave. It's late—too late for this conversation. But I can't keep living this lie, can't keep pretending what Farrah and I have is anything but poison dressed up as a relationship. My hands tremble on the steering wheel, and I force them still.

The engine dies with a soft whimper, leaving me in silence, broken only by my thundering heartbeat. Each breath feels like borrowed time as I stare at that front door, knowing what waits behind it—the beginning of an end I should've initiated months ago. The walk up the steps feel like crossing a minefield. When Shay answers the door, her eyes narrow with the kind of judgment that comes from watching someone make the same mistakes on repeat. The air around her crackles with unspoken accusations.

"Is Farrah here? I need to talk to her." My voice comes out steadier than I feel, a small victory.

She shrugs, but there's tension in her shoulders as she calls out, "Farrah! It's Nate." The words echo through the house like a death knell.

The rhythmic click of heels against hardwood announces Farrah's descent. She appears at the top of the stairs in one of her signature dresses, the fabric clinging like a second skin. But where I once saw allure, I now see armor—protection against a world she's determined to conquer, no matter the cost.

"Well, look who decided to show up." Her smirk is razor-sharp, cutting through the space between us. "Didn't think I was gonna hear from you tonight. No text, no call."

She moves down the stairs with practiced grace, each step a performance. When she leans in to kiss me, I step back, my hand rising between us like a shield. The gesture feels both defensive and definitive.

"Can we talk? In private?"

Her eyes flash—a predator sensing prey slipping away. "That sounds serious." The mockery in her tone can't quite mask the venom underneath.

My silence answers for me, and I watch as playful contempt morphs into pure fury.

"You think you're breaking up with me?" Her laugh is winter frost creeping across glass—cold, spreading, destructive.

I draw in a breath that tastes like courage.

"I'm not thinking about it. It's official, we're done. Whatever this fucked-up thing between us is needs to stop."

"No." The word drops between us like a gauntlet.

"What do you mean, no?"

Her arms cross, a barrier between us that feels more symbolic than physical. "I mean, no. We're not breaking up, Nate. You don't get to walk away from me. We both decide when this ends, and guess what? It's not over."

My fingers rake through my hair, frustration building like steam in a pressure cooker. "Farrah, this isn't working. We're not good for each other. You've known that for a long time."

She steps closer, and there's something dark swimming in those eyes—something that's always been there, but I've chosen to ignore. "Don't pull that 'we're not good for each other' bullshit. You're always the one that comes crawling back."

"It's not happening," I say, my voice rising with the tide of emotions I've kept bottled up. "I'm done. I don't want this, and I don't want you calling or texting me anymore. It's over."

Her face twists into something cruel, a mask finally slipping to reveal what's always lurked beneath. "You're seriously breaking up with me for that little whore?"

The word ignites something primal inside me. My vision narrows to a tunnel of red, and before I can process the movement, I'm in her space, finger jabbing toward her face like a weapon.

"Don't," I snarl, rage making my voice unrecognizable. "Don't let her name cross your mind or leave your mouth again, do you hear me?"

Farrah doesn't flinch—she never has. Instead, her lips curl into a familiar twisted smile, the one that's always preceded pain. Her head tilts, calculating, like a snake preparing to strike. "You think you can protect her? Or worse, save her? You can't even save yourself. A junkie like you always comes back for another hit. Stop lying to yourself. It's pathetic."

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