Page 65 of Before We Were

"Then why did you just scrunch your nose?" he points out with a gentle tease.

I blink, taken aback. "My nose?"

"When you lie, you scrunch your nose." His tone softens, filled with an affectionate familiarity that aches. "You know how I know that?"

I remain silent, the atmosphere thickening around us. He watches me, his gaze intense, silently urging me to look at him. When our eyes meet, there's a gravity in his look that has always drawn me in.

"Because I know you," he whispers, the space between us charged with an unspoken understanding.

The words hit me harder than they should, slicing through the air with an accuracy that's almost cruel. I hate that he's right, and how he's always been able to see through me like I'm made of crystal.

And the worst part?

He knows it.

I feel my cheeks heating up, that familiar prickling of vulnerability spreading under my skin. He smirks, an infuriatingly triumphant expression painting his face as he leans in close enough that I can count his eyelashes in the passing streetlights.

"Your poker face sucks, Leni. It's what makes you such a terrible liar."

My heart skips at the way he says my nickname—it's soft, almost reverent, and it jerks me back to a time I thought I'd packed away in the dusty corners of my memory. Nobody has called me that since Dad was around. And he's used it more times in the space of three days than anyone else has in over a year. Hearing it now, from him, feels like a punch to the gut, like jumping into deep water, or falling without knowing where you'll land.

Does he even realize what that does to me?

Does he understand the weight that name carries, the flood of memories it unleashes?

I sneak a look at him, my eyes flickering up through my lashes, wondering how he sees me. Do I still look like that awkward eleven-year-old with braces and glasses, trailing behind him like a lost star in his orbit? Or does he see something more, something beyond just little Leni?

It's almost laughable this dance we do.

Here I am, trying to catch glimpses of him like stolen moments, desperately hoping he'll see me the way I see him. Yet, the moment our eyes meet, I have to look away, scared he might see too much, might read the story written in my eyes like pages from a diary I never meant to share.

It all feels too real, too raw, like a nerve exposed to open air. The truth is, to Nate, I might just be a chapter in his life—a brief story from his past, pages he's already turned.

But to me?

Nate Sullivan has always been the whole damn book.

CHAPTER19

COTTON CANDY AND DAISY BRACELETS

NATE

As Nora flicksthrough the CD tracks, her finger pauses on"Mr. Brightside"by The Killers, and the intro bursts through the speakers. The spark in her eyes—those carefree, exhilarating sparks I've missed—makes my chest tighten. She cranks the volume high, belting out lyrics slightly off-key but perfect in its imperfection. Eyes closed, head thrown back, wild hair catching streetlights like copper and gold, she's completely lost in the song.

It's pure, unfiltered Nora, raw and beautiful, and devastating in ways I can't let myself think about. I catch myself staring like a man dying of thirst, and she snaps her eyes open, suddenly self-conscious. She shifts to face me, knees up, her posture radiating a vulnerability that makes my hands itch to reach for her. When our eyes lock, something electric passes between us, heavy as thunder before a storm. She bites her lip, hesitating, and there's this honesty in her expression she rarely shows anymore, not since everything went to hell.

For a moment, I forget why I need to keep my distance, why I can't let myself have this—have her. Her voice fills the car, rough and perfect and painfully beautiful. I manage a laugh as she powers through the chorus, trying to shake off the intensity before I do something monumentally stupid like tell her the truth.

Just enjoy the moment, Nate, don't fuck this up.

The car stops at the carnival, and she's laughing that infectious laugh that makes my heart stumble. We step out into a wash of neon blues, pinks, and yellows, the air filled with games, shouts, and distant laughter—a perfect cover for the chaos in my head. I scan the crowd instinctively, searching for any sign of Farrah or anyone else who could shatter this fragile peace, who could remind Nora why she shouldn't trust me.

Nostalgia hits unexpectedly as we weave through the crowd. Suddenly I'm ten and she's seven, her tiny hand pulling me toward the carousel, her favorite. Her laughter was a clear bell back then, making everything else fade. Before I learned how to break things, before I became someone who could hurt her.

Now, as she tugs my arm toward a booth, the feeling surges back like a tide. The carousel looks smaller, more weather-beaten, but still blinks rhythmically with familiar lights. The air is thick with fried dough and cotton candy, sharpening the ache of nostalgia.

"Where to first?" Nora's voice pulls me back. Her face, lit by neon, looks so untroubled it makes my chest hurt.

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