Page 134 of Fault Lines
Jackson strode in, sweatpants loose, carrying a mug with a cartoon squirrel that announced “World’s Best Nut.” He handed it to me, careful, like he wasn’t sure whether I’d accept or break down. I knew he was trying to be supportive without making things awkward.
Rachel came back too, dropping beside me and slapping two aspirin into my palm. “Want to talk?”
“Not really,” I said automatically. But then it came out anyway: “I don’t get it. Why does Nate have to lose it anytime Cam comes up? He says he’s fine, but the second Cam shows up, it’s like he thinks I’m just going to ditch him.”
Rachel snorted. “That’s because Nate’s never been anyone’s number one. Daddy issues and probably last-pick-in-gym-class trauma.”
Jackson, pretending not to watch our drama unfold, said, “He does love you, though. That’s the problem.”
“Love isn’t supposed to make you feel like this,” I said. I gestured at myself—a disaster in leggings and a borrowed tank, both my heart and my dignity in shreds.
Rachel took my hand. “You know what needs to happen, don’t you?”
“Call him back,” I said, even though I didn’t want to.
“Or don’t,” Rachel said, voice soft. “But you can’t leave yourself stuck in the middle. Either forgive him, or let go. You deserve better than limbo.”
The coffee was black and harsh but I drank it down, letting the warmth put some bones back into me. When the shakes faded, I picked up my phone, read Nate’s last message one more time, and pressed “Call.”
He answered before the first ring died.
“Livi?” His voice was rough, almost broken.
I didn’t speak right away. I listened to his breathing. Then I said, “Are you sober?”
“Yeah. I am now.”
“Good.”
He waited, and that was something.
“We can talk,” I said, “but not if you’re going to blow up and turn this into another fight about Cam.”
“I know,” he said. “I swear, I’m sorry. I went way overboard. I don’t know why I get like that. Actually, I do, but still—that’s not on you.”
“It is if I’m with you.” I glanced at Rachel. She gave me a little thumbs-up, then took Jackson out of the room to give me space.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, voice dropping. “I get why you’re anxious about Cam. But I am not ever going back to him, and I wish you’d believe me. What else do I have to do?”
Nate breathed out, slow. “I know. I do. But sometimes, when I see you with him, I think, ‘She still loves him. I’m never going to measure up.’ And then I just… panic, I guess. It makes me act like an idiot.”
I let the silence stretch between us, then said, “You don’t need to be Cam. I chose you because you’re you. Not because you remind me of him.”
He went quiet, like he was holding his breath. Then, almost shy: “You did pick me?”
It felt like turning myself inside-out, but I said it. “Yeah. I did. Don’t try to win a contest that’s over. Just be you.”
He gave this shaky half-laugh. “I can do that.”
“And maybe don’t hit the whiskey every time you’re upset?”
He groaned. “Bad idea. I know. I’ll work on it, promise.”
“I believe you,” I said. It was only partly a lie—I believed he wanted to try. And maybe that was enough for now.
We both grew quiet again.
He said, “Could I see you today? Or…?”
