Page 50 of Before We Were

"You're welcome." I laugh again, the sound genuine, echoing around us.

She shakes her head, moving to get up from the pool edge. "Goodnight, Nate."

She's retreating to the house, every instinct screaming at me to shut up, but I don't. "I didn't like the way he touched you.” The words tumble out, harsh and raw.

She pauses, turning, shock flitting across her face.

"I'm not sorry I beat the shit out of him," I cut in before she can speak, my voice laden with a gravity I seldom let show. "But I am sorry he touched you. I don't want you to think... I didn't want you to see me like that."

She stares at me blankly.

"And thanks for not ratting me out about the weed," I add after a heavy silence, my voice dropping to a murmur. It feels dumb, trivial even, but it's all I can voice.

She gives me a faint smile. "Guess we're even."

"Goodnight, Leni.” The nickname slips out, a ghost of past closeness.

Her eyes widen, a flash of something vulnerable.

"Night, Nate." She glances back, a lingering look, then disappears inside.

I watch her go, a gnawing loss settling in. Maybe she's just another loss—another ghost in a long line of things I can't hold onto.

The clock hits midnight,and I'm back to being twelve years old, sitting on these same stairs, listening for Mom's key in the lock. Jake would be asleep upstairs, trusting his big brother to keep watch. Some habits are carved too deep to break, like making sure there's aspirin by her bed before she gets home or knowing exactly how to guide her up the stairs without waking the whole house.

Eventually, the front door creaks open. Kat's laughter filters through the hall, along with Mom's slurred words.

"Shh, the kids are asleep." Kat's whisper carries down the hallway.

They stumble past the lounge room, supporting each other in their drunken state.

"Oh, Nate, are you still up?" Kat whispers, half-laughing.

"Natey is always up. He never sleeps, right, honey?" Mom's laugh has that brittle edge I know too well—the one that means she's trying to joke away the guilt.

I get up from the couch, moving on autopilot to support her weight. Jake used to ask why I always waited up, but he stopped questioning it around the same time he stopped waiting with me.

"I'll take it from here," I tell Kat, taking Mom's arm.

Kat nods, relief clear in her eyes. "Thanks, Nate. She's... had a bit too much tonight."

"It's fine," I mutter, leading Mom toward the stairs.

It's not the first time and it won't be the last. She drinks to drown out the pain. I get it, better than anyone.

Every step up the stairs is a familiar dance—me steering, her leaning, both of us pretending this isn't a scene we've played out hundreds of times. I catch our reflection in the hallway mirror: her small frame against my shoulder, my hand steady at her back. We look like what we are—a son trying to hold his mother together, a mother trying to hold onto her pride.

In her room, I help her onto the bed, slipping off her shoes and tucking her in. She mumbles a slurred mess of regrets and apologies.

"Here, Mom," I offer, holding out a glass of water and some aspirin. "Drink this."

She takes a sip, her hand shaking. "Nate... I'm sorry," she slurs, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I wish... I could've been better. Done better for you."

"Don't," I cut her off, my voice firm but tired. "Don't apologize. It's done."

"I'll do better," she promises again, a familiar refrain that doesn't sting as much as it used to.

Her hand reaches out, brushing the bruises on my face gently. "You're nothing like him." Her voice breaks, filled with a mix of pain and something like pride. "You always protect what you love. You're a good boy, Natey," she mumbles, already half-asleep. "Always taking care of everyone."

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