Page 225 of Before We Were

"Nick, I??—"

"Nate," he cuts me off, mock sternness failing to hide the warmth in his voice. "Just open it."

I flip the latches with hands that suddenly feel clumsy, my heart drumming an irregular beat against my ribs. Inside, cradled in deep velvet like a sleeping dream, lies a guitar worth more than I’d like to think about.

"Nick, this is…" My voice catches as I trace the ornate detailing with my eyes. "A Martin D-45? Are you fucking kidding me?"

His grin spreads wider, pride radiating from him like heat. "Actually, it's an authentic aged 1936 Martin D-45. Only a handful exist, and now one of them is yours."

My fingers hover over the polished wood, almost afraid to touch it, like it might dissolve under my fingers like morning mist. The question burns in my throat: Why would he give me something like this? After everything this poor guy has had to do for me this summer, after every mess he's helped clean up…

"Why?" I finally manage, my throat tight as a fist. "Why all of it? This. The job. Bailing me out of jail…”

The blind faith in me when I'd given him every reason not to believe.

Nick's hand finds my shoulder, his gaze steady as a lighthouse beam. "Because maybe you don't see it in yourself yet, but I do. I see a guy with a good heart and a hell of a lot of raw talent. And I want to make sure you never forget that there will always be someone in your corner, rooting for you to win."

The lump in my throat threatens to choke me, and all I can manage is a quiet, "Thank you. For everything."

Nick's smirk cuts through the weight of the moment like a blade through butter. "I also did it because I wanted my guitar back. It was passed down to me by a special friend."

A laugh bursts from me, unexpected and genuine, my head falling back as I shake it in disbelief.

"You know you could of just asked for it back?" I say, grinning at the simple truth of it.

"Come on, let's hear something," the teasing edge in his voice making the moment lighter.

Nick smiles before turning to fiddle with the soundboard, his movements precise and practiced. The strings hum under my fingers as I tune, each familiar motion keeping me present to this moment.

"You know," Nick says, his tone casual but carrying weight like storm clouds heavy with rain, "I really do mean it when I say you've got real talent, Nate. Ever thought about making music more than just a side thing?"

I pause, glancing up at him, fingers stilling on the strings. "Never seemed like an option to be honest."

"Why not?" he asks, leaning against the table, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp as broken glass.

I shrug, avoiding his gaze. "I guess my dad always saying music's a hobby, not a real man's job, made me believe it." Sayingmy Dadleaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Nick's face hardens, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. "Your dad is a real piece of work."

I let out a laugh that's more scar tissue than sound.

"You have no idea."

"But do you believe him?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke, making me think harder than I want to.

"I don't know," I admit, running my thumb along the guitar's smooth neck. "I guess I never gave it enough thought. I mean, I've only just started playing and writing again."

"Gotta start somewhere." Nick straightens, crossing his arms as something shifts in his expression. "He came by a few weeks ago. I want to be honest with you. Scott tried to throw his weight around and offered to buy the place out because he thought a wine bar was a 'waste of real estate.'"

Familiar heat rises in my chest, anger burning like acid.

Of course he did. Typical Scott Sullivan thinking money is a skeleton key that can unlock any door, fix any problem, or better yet, control anyone who dares stand in his way.

"Sorry," I mutter, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

"Don't apologize for him, ever. Especially not to me. Guys like that? They'll never be happy. Always chasing something they'll never catch because nothing will ever be enough for them. Don't let that be you, Nate. You're not him. You never were."

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