Page 98 of Before We Were

"How you flinch when someone touches you. The other day, when you were crying—was it because of him? You saw him that day, didn't you?"

Anger flashes in her eyes. "Stop, Nate. Just drop it."

"Nora—"

"I said stop!" She backs away, voice raw. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk to you. I just... I just need to be alone."

The words hit like a slap. And I've copped a few of those in my lifetime, but this one stung a little more than I expected it to. I watch her retreat inside, the cool breeze doing nothing to calm the noise in my head. Evan did something to her. I feel it in my bones. But I can't help her if she keeps pushing me away.

Hours pass before I decide to leave my room and head downstairs. There’s only so much overthinking a person can do before they drive themselves to the point of insanity. The TV casts soft shadows across the living room as I find Mom in her usual spot—half-conscious on the couch, wine glass teetering on the coffee table's edge. For a moment, I just watch her, aching for the woman she used to be, the one who lit up rooms with her presence. But that person's long gone, buried under years of disappointment and carefully hidden addiction.

I move the glass to safety and drape a blanket over her. She stirs, blinking up at me with unfocused eyes.

"Nate?" Her voice is thick with sleep and wine. I sink down beside her, chest tight at the sight of her pale face. "You didn't have to??—"

"I got it, Mom," I cut her off gently, knowing this well-worn path.

She shifts, gripping my hand with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispers, breaking. "I know I haven't been... I haven't been what you deserved."

I close my eyes against the familiar ache. It's the same guilt, same apology, same regret. But it's too late.

"It's okay," I lie, like always.

"No, it's not." She squeezes my hand, breath uneven. "You've done so much. Looked after Jake, taken care of me. You've been more of a parent than I ever was. I'm so sorry, honey. You deserved better."

The words shake something in me, unearthing memories I've tried to bury. Nights spent waiting up, only to find her stumbling through the door reeking of alcohol. Covering her with blankets when she couldn't make it upstairs. Holding my breath, praying Jake wouldn't wake to see her like this. I was just a kid, but I had to be more. I had to be the one holding everything together.

My mind drifts to that night when I was sixteen, cramming for calculus and found her in the bathroom. She'd emptied a bottle of gin, then moved on to wine. I spent hours beside her, holding her hair back, listening to slurred apologies and bitter truths.

"You're so much more than I ever could have wished for," she'd said between retches. "You're too good for this world, my sweet boy."

The story spilled out that night—her alcoholic father, her mother's parade of boyfriends.

She never stood a chance, really.

She was broken long before I was born.

She met Scott at a college party, back when she still had light in her eyes. Scott Sullivan, with his polished name and family reputation, fell hard for her. His parents hated her—she wasn't good enough for their world of wealth and status. But they married anyway, and for a while, things were good. She loved him completely, but he chipped away at her until that light went out.

She thought I didn't know about the cheating, the endless string of women, the drugs I found evidence of—empty bottles, bags of white powder. When I confronted him, I wasn't expecting an apology, but I wasn't ready for the fury either. He threw me into a wall so hard I blacked out. Woke up with a concussion that cost me two weeks of football. Our relationship died that day.

I've been stuck here since, caught between the love I wanted to feel and the hate that's consumed me. Through it all, I had to shield Jake and protect him from seeing the ugliness of our family. I became the parent, the one who carried the weight of our dysfunction.

"I should have done more. Should have protected you better," Mom says softly, breaking. "I'm so sorry, Nate. For everything."

I nod, but the words won't come. I can't tell her it's okay, that I've forgiven her for staying, because I'm not sure I ever will. But I do what I've always done—I take care of her. Pull the blanket higher, sit with her until she sleeps.

And then, like every night before, I carry the weight in silence.

CHAPTER30

WANNA FLY?

NATE

February 2005

18 years old

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