Page 259 of Before We Were

Stella's hand finds my shoulder. "The doctor will be in shortly. You're lucky your boyfriend found you when he did. He saved your life."

"My… boyfriend?" The words feel wrong, like trying to speak a forgotten language.

"Tall, dark, tortured but handsome."

Nate.

"How is he?"

"He was pretty inconsolable when he brought you in. I haven't seen much of him lately though.” Her pen gestures toward Jake, rooted to the chair like an ancient tree.

"But this one? Hasn't left except for coffee. We're limiting visitors for now. Last time you woke, you were so agitated we had to sedate you. Your body's been through a lot of trauma—we need to be careful."

I nod mechanically, but two phrases echo in my mind:Three weeks. He saved your life.

Tears burn trails down my cheeks as tremors take hold. "M-my mom… is she here?"

"In the waiting room with your brother. They've been here every day." She pauses carefully.

My heart races against broken ribs. If Nate pulled me from death's door, why isn't he here?

The monitors pick up my panic, their rhythm sharp and urgent.

"Hey, hey, deep breaths," Stella soothes. "I know this is overwhelming. But you're okay, Lenora. You're okay."

"Nora," I whisper. "Please, just Nora."

Her smile softens. "Nora, the doctor will explain everything when you wake. For now, rest."

Before darkness claims me again, my eyes catch the bedside table—a shrine of love: defiant flowers, hopeful cards, and there—my 'fearless' bracelet, the one Nate won at the carnival.

"I got you,"his voice echoes between memory and dream. I reach for him, and he smiles—that real smile, with crinkled eyes and dimples that make the world feel right.

"Nate," I whisper as consciousness slips away like sand through fingers.

The darkness is warmer now, filled with echoes of carnival lights and guitar strings and a boy who tasted like summer nights and kept all his promises he said he would.

Except one.

To stay.

CHAPTER75

DANCING WITH THE DEVIL

NATE

Consciousness meltslike ice under a blowtorch. My brain’s a warzone of fractured thoughts. The needle burns cold fire in my arm, but I’m gone—floating somewhere between the ceiling and space, between pain and peace.

Through the haze, “Angel”by Aerosmith bleeds through crackling speakers. The sound’s warped and distant, like a memory trying to resurface from the bottom of a lake.

It’s her favorite song.

The one that played the night we chased the sunrise in the Mustang—windows down, her bare feet on the dash, wind tangling in her hair.

Steven Tyler wails about salvation, all grit and desperation, and it slices straight through the fog in my head.

For the first time, I finally get it.

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