Page 53 of Before We Were

Sitting here in this moment, surrounded by the evidence of tonight's violence, held by the woman who loved me first, my future crystallizes with stunning clarity.

I realize, in this moment, I no longer have a father.

CHAPTER16

LOST STORIES, FOUND WORDS

NORA

The days blur together,each one indistinguishable from the last. Nate's mood swings are giving me whiplash—one minute he's vulnerable and the next he's acting like I'm invisible.

As much as I try to block him out, it's become nearly impossible because we're living in the same house. My traitorous mind keeps circling back to that night. Nate in the pool, looking like some brooding, gothic prince under the moonlight. His dark hair slicked back, muscles tensed, voice low as he admitted his discomfort with Connor's touch. Then there was the way he'd thanked me for keeping his secret, like I'd given him something precious. It was unfair how good he looked, even when he was driving me crazy. But his hot-and-cold routine is exhausting. I suppose two can play at that game.

He wants space? Fine.

He can have all the space in the world.

I push back from my makeshift desk on the porch, my sanctuary away from Ollie and Jake's gaming wars and the lingering breakfast smells from the kitchen. The afternoon heat presses against my skin as I stare at my laptop's blank screen. The house is quiet with the boys out surfing and Mom at the market—perfect conditions for writing, yet the words won't come. My anger at Nate's silent treatment mingles with something deeper, something that makes my chest tight when I think about him.

"Ugh, screw you, Nate," I whisper, the words hissing between my teeth. I hate how much space he takes up in my head, and how much I miss him even though he's right here, always just out of reach.

The front door's creak breaks my reverie as Lydia steps in, arms laden with shopping bags. Her smile is warm, but concern shadows her eyes. "Hi, honey. How's your day going?"

I shrug, aiming for casualness. "It's going."

She chuckles, the sound knowing and gentle. "That good, huh?" Her eyes drift to the wine rack, lips quirking. "It's five o'clock somewhere, right?"

It's barely noon, but I won't comment. "Wait, where's Mom?"

"Your mother can't help herself when it comes to saving people. An elderly woman fell at the farmer's market. So, your mom wanted to make sure she got the right scans and tests at the hospital."

That's Mom for you—always the hero. It's one of the things I love most about her.

"So, since it's just the two of us, spill. What's up with my favorite girl?"

I shift in my chair, the words sticking in my throat. "I'm trying to write, but my brain's just... stuck."

Lydia's expression softens. “You’re writing again! Oh Nora, your dad would've been thrilled.”

The mention of Dad sends a familiar ache through my chest. Writing was our thing—he'd encouraged me to pursue it even more when Ms. Ryan pushed for that UK writing scholarship. After he died, the words dried up, along with so many other things.

"Everything's been tough since Dad died. Writing, staying here, just... everything,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lydia moves to sit opposite me, her presence steady and warm. Her hand reaches across the table to squeeze mine. "I can't imagine what you're going through, sweetheart. I'm here for you, always. Anything you need, or if you just need to talk, it stays between us. Promise."

The weight on my shoulders lightens a fraction, but the words remain trapped. How do I tell her about last summer? About the nightmares that have returned full force? Some days it feels like I'm playing a part—the Nora everyone remembers versus who I've become. The nightmares, the cold sweats, the constant fear of him appearing around any corner, ready to take more of what was never his to claim.

"Whatever it is, Nora, you can tell me. Your mom won't hear it from me."

I deflect, gesturing toward her wine glass. "What about you? Why the early start?"

Her smile shifts, accepting my evasion. "The fundraiser gala's coming up. Planning, organizing, making sure everything's perfect. Hence, a little morning wine to smooth the edges." She takes a sip. "Actually, I could use a hand if you're up for it."

The prospect of diving into something—anything—that isn't my own thoughts or Nate feels like a lifeline. "Sure, I'd love to help."

Her face brightens. "Fantastic! We're going to make this event unforgettable." She pauses, studying me. "And who knows? Maybe it'll spark some inspiration for your writing."

I laugh, the sound hollow. "Maybe."

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