Page 76 of Before We Were

Things between Noraand me are complicated. Not the bullshit"it's complicated"Facebook status kind of complicated.

This is deeper.Rawer.

The tension's shifted—not gone, just...transformed. Like some fucked-up alchemy that turns sharp edges into something that burns slower, more dangerous. I'm still trying to keep her at arm's length, but my arms keep getting shorter.

I see it in her too—those quick glances, the way she pivots conversations like she's dodging landmines. We're both walking this razor-thin line between what we want and what we think we should do. Protecting each other by staying away, which is basically the most fucked-up version of love I can imagine.

I want to dive deep with her.

Not just scratch the surface, but after everything—all the shit I've put her through—do I even have the right to want that? To hope we might find our way back to something real? The universe has a sick sense of humor, and Nora? She's the punchline I can't stop thinking about.

The house is unusually quiet when I wake earlier than normal. Throwing on a Metallica t-shirt, I head downstairs, drawn by the rich aroma of coffee. Mom's there, newspaper spread before her, surprise flickering across her face as she looks up.

"Well, this is a rare sight," she teases, her smile gentle. "Up before noon."

"Yeah, don't get used to it." I keep my tone light while pouring coffee, letting the mug's warmth distract from the familiar nausea that's plagued me these past weeks. The bitter scent both comforts and turns my stomach—a reminder of countless mornings spent hunched over the toilet, of Ollie silently leaving water and aspirin without questions.

Mom folds her newspaper with deliberate care, studying me. "You've been smiling more lately. It's good to see you happy."

Happy.

The word sits wrong, like ill-fitting clothes. If she knew about the hell of detoxing, of hiding the worst of it... "I guess I've had things to smile about," I manage, masking my struggle with a shrug.

Her eyes soften with that maternal insight that always sees too much, but she doesn't push. We're alike that way—knowing when to give space.

"So, what are you up to today?"

"Got an errand to run," I say, depositing my mug in the sink.

The smellof dusty pages and worn leather washes over me the second I push through the door at Gracie’s bookstore. Alfie glances up from some stack he's arranging, those ancient glasses sliding down his nose when he spots me. Something about the way the old man looks at me—like he's actually glad to see me walk in—makes my chest tight.

"Nathaniel? What a pleasant surprise to see you here."

Alfie's voice cuts through the silence, smooth as aged whiskey.

"Morning, Alfie."

His eyes—kind, knowing—study me. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Uhh, yeah, actually." I run a hand through my hair. "Do you haveThe Secret Garden?"

A smile spreads across his face. "An ageless classic. We've got a few special editions just in."

He pulls out a beautifully bound copy, his fingers tracing the cover.

“It's fascinating how this book is really about healing hidden spaces. Like something locked away, forgotten—but not dead. Just waiting for the right kind of care."

I feel something shift. The book isn't just a book anymore.

"You know, Grace believed all great love stories shared one thing—they beat the odds. Just like Mary in the garden, some connections need patience. You have to believe in what you can't immediately see. Restore what others might consider beyond saving."

They beat the odds.

The words hang between us. I'm thinking about Nora—about us. A connection locked away, wounded. Needing careful tending. Potential hidden beneath layers of hurt and misunderstanding.

"And if the odds are constantly stacked against you?" I ask softly.

"Sometimes, love is about fighting the odds together." He pauses, eyes meeting mine.

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