Page 221 of Before We Were

I nod, pausing beside her. "Thank you. For calling me."

"She wanted me to," Camilla says simply, the words settling like a balm over my frayed nerves.

CHAPTER64

A WRINKLE IN TIME

NORA

The daythat's turned into night feels both endless and too short, hours spent in Nate's Mustang watching streetlights blur past. He knew exactly what I needed after the disaster at the polo event—no words, just miles of road and a carefully curated playlist that spoke volumes about how well he knows me.

We drove until the sun disappeared, Radiohead’s“High and Dry"bleeding into Fuel's"Bad Day",then Feeder’s“Feel A Moment"—each song a thread stitching my frayed edges back together. Nate's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his presence steady and sure beside me. He didn't push me to talk, didn't try to fix what was broken. He just let the music fill the space between us until the shadows started feeling less heavy.

The opening synthesizer notes of"Bette Davis Eyes"drift through the speakers, that haunting melody filling the confined space. Kim Carnes' raspy voice follows. Nate's been trying to lift my mood all night, and when I catch him glancing at me with that gentle half-smile of his, I can tell he's not done trying.

He starts singing along, purposefully off-key and dramatic, his head bobbing with exaggerated enthusiasm. The usually composed Nate Sullivan is full-on performing now to Kim Carnes. There's something so carelessly happy about him in this moment—one hand draped over the steering wheel, polo drama forgotten in favor of making me laugh.

It's working.

Watching him like this, sometimes it hits me all at once—how much of himself he keeps hidden from the world, and how easily he lets those walls down for me. Even on my worst days, even when I'm pulling away from everyone else, he knows exactly how to slip past my defenses without making it feel like an invasion.

"Did you know this is my favorite song?" he asks, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat.

I turn to look at him, surprised. "'Bette Davis Eyes'? Why?"

His smile grows wider, streetlights catching the warmth in his eyes.

"Because thirty seconds ago, I started singing it completely off-key, and you finally smiled." He shrugs, but I can hear the tenderness beneath his casual tone. “It made it my new favorite song."

The simple honesty of it catches me off guard, making my heart beat hard and fast despite everything. He turns up the volume, and we both start singing along—me, tragically off-key, and him in perfect pitch. I tend to forget how beautiful his singing voice is until moments like this when he lets his guard down completely. Watching him now, head tilted back slightly as he hits the high notes, I feel like I'm witnessing something sacred. The way music flows through him isn't just talent or practice, it's like watching someone's soul take flight. In these rare, unguarded moments, when his voice wraps around each note like a confession, I understand why music is more than his passion. It's the language his heart speaks when words aren't enough.

It's these little things about Nate people don't see—the way he uses music to say the things he can't put into words, how he remembers every song that's ever made me smile, and the quiet way he carries my heart in his hands without making a show of it. These are the moments that remind me why he's had my heart since we were kids, why he still does. I'm glad he's finally letting himself explore music more. His whole face lights up when he sings, like he's finally letting himself be seen.

When we're finally home, my mind is a tangled mess. The emotions swirl, bleeding into one another until I can't tell where one ends and another begins.

I feel Nate's hesitation as we reach the porch, see the worry etched across his features as he glances toward the kitchen window. I know what he's thinking without him having to say a word. The way his shoulders tense, how his eyes dart between me and the house—his silent battle is written in every line of his body.

"Go check on her," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel.

I watch the conflict play across his face, the responsibility he carries like a physical weight. I step closer, raising my hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my thumb.

"It's okay," I whisper before pressing my lips to his. I pour everything I can't say into that kiss—reassurance, understanding, a promise. When I pull back, his eyes search mine, and I see gratitude mingled with reluctance.

"I'll be fine," I tell him softly. "She needs you."

He nods, and I slip through the door alone, feeling his gaze on my back until I'm inside.

The wooden stairs creak beneath my bare feet, each cool step both soothing and accusatory. I stop when I see a warm glow spilling from Mom's bedroom door, left slightly ajar like an invitation. Part of me wants to retreat to my room, to let the darkness swallow my thoughts whole. But that light pulls at something deep inside me, like a thread connecting me to every time she's ever made things okay.

I push the door open, and there she is, a snapshot of comfort in human form. Her legs are tucked beneath her in that impossible way she's always managed, making the king-sized bed look like a cozy reading nook. Her worn copy ofWuthering Heightsrests in her hands like an old friend, its spine bearing the battle scars of countless readings. For a moment, I see myself twenty years from now, hoping I've inherited even half of her grace.

"Nora," she says, marking her place with practiced care. Her eyes find mine and I can already tell she knows something is off.

The weight of my heels suddenly feel unbearable. I set them down by her bed, the clunk against the floor oddly final, before crawling into the space beside her. She opens her arms without hesitation, and I fold into them like I'm still small enough to believe a mother's hug can fix anything.

The familiar scent of her cardigan—vanilla and sandalwood, the perfume she's worn since before I can remember—wraps around me like a security blanket. It's amazing how some things never change. How the smallest of things can make the biggest impact when it feels like the world is burning around you.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Her fingers weave through my hair, each stroke untangling more than just the physical knots.

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