Page 179 of Captivated

It’s come to something when I feel relieved just to sit.

Nate wandered over to Sorrel’s stall. The horse regarded him, his head low, his tail flicking lazily. Nate didn’t go in, but leaned on the gate and studied Sorrel.

The horse twitched an ear toward him.

“He knows you’re all wound up,” Zeeb observed.

Nate inhaled deeply. “He’s right.” Then he shuddered out a breath. “I’m okay now. Well, I’m getting there.” He reached out to stroke Sorrel’s nose, and it wasn’t long before the horse took a step toward him.

Zeeb watched, his heart a little lighter. “There. That’s better.” He noticed the leather bracelet around Nate’s wrist. “You still wear that?”

Nate frowned for a second, then his brow smoothed out. “Of course. You made it for me.”

Zeeb could see he was calmer, but now there was something else, a restlessness that told him Nate’s mind was working on a problem or trying to solve a dilemma. Zeeb knew the signs by now.

Nate said nothing for a minute or two, his attention focused on Sorrel. “You remember that piece you wrote? The one you emailed me?”

“About Mirror Lake. Sure.” Zeeb smiled. “You said it was beautiful.”

“What kind of things did you write when you were a little boy?”

“Fantasy stuff mostly. Made-up worlds. Places where people couldn’t hurt each other for being different. Then the world taught me a lesson, that I wasn’t good enough to tell stories, so I stopped trying.”

“No—yourdad told you that. I think he was wrong. No, Iknowhe was.” Nate was silent for a beat, then turned toward Zeeb, his expression thoughtful. “I also think you should start again. And I have an idea what you can work on first.”

Zeeb blinked. “What?”

“Write my story.” His voice came out firm, the words spoken with a determination Zeeb had heard before.

Usually before Nate took a giant step forward.

Then his suggestion sank like a stone dropped in a quiet lake. Zeeb looked at him, stunned. “Your story?”

“My whole story.” Nate’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel to it. “The truth. All of it. My childhood. The camp. The years afterward. All the shit I never said out loud.” He held Zeeb’s gaze. “Youwrite it.”

Zeeb gave a short laugh, caught off guard. “Nate, I haven’t written anything since middle school. You need arealwriter. What about that guy in the bunkhouse? The political journalist? He wants to interview you. Maybe he could write it.”

Nate shook his head. “I need someone I trust. Someone who won’t try to clean it up or turn it into something it’s not. You saw me at my worst. You believed me.That’sthe kind of person I want telling it.”

Zeeb stretched his legs out in front of him and stared up at the vaulted ceiling, the windows set below the rafters, light streaming in, catching the dust and making it sparkle. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. What if I get it wrong? What if I can’t handle it?”

“You won’t get it wrong,” Nate said in a firm voice. “Because you’ll ask. You’ll listen.” He shrugged. “If it takes years, then fine, it takes years. I’m not going anywhere.”

Zeeb frowned. “You really think the world wants to hear it?”

Nate blinked. “Hey, didn’t you just say in there the world needs to hear my story?”

“Sure, but I didn’t think I’d be the one writing it.”

“And okay, the world might not need it butIdo.” Nate gazed at him. “And maybe some kid out there needs it too. Maybe they need to know they’re not the only one.”

His voice cracked slightly at that last part, and Zeeb felt the weight of it settle on him. He studied Nate’s face,reallystudied it, and something shifted in him. A memory surfaced: the joy he used to feel putting words together.

I thought I’d lost that forever.

Maybe he hadn’t after all.

“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll try.”

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