Page 147 of Fault Lines
We bought it, along with three other cookbooks that Nate insisted he’d use but never would. At the next table, I found a paperback of a book I’d loved as a kid—one of those dog-eared, well-loved copies with someone’s name scribbled on the inside cover. “To Danny, Summer 1997—Don’t forget to use your imagination!” I bought it on impulse and refused to let Nate make fun of me for it.
We took a break for coffee at a food truck, sitting on the curb with paper cups so hot they steamed in the cool air. The conversation drifted: work, the bookstore, whether or not Jackson was actually proposing to Rachel (I bet on “no,” Nate on “maybe, if there’s enough tequila involved”).
Then, out of nowhere, Nate said, “You know, I really missed this.”
I glanced at him, wary. “Book fairs?”
“No. You. Us. When it wasn’t always heavy.” He sipped his coffee; eyes fixed on the swirl of cream inside the cup. “I’m not good at the serious stuff, Livi. But I can do this. I like this.”
It was so honest, so unadorned, that I didn’t know how to respond. I just nodded, tracing the rim of my cup with a thumbnail.
“I like this too,” I said, finally.
We finished our coffee, then circled back to the fair for another hour, picking through boxes of poetry and art books and old zines, some of which looked like they’d been hand-collated by anarchists with too much time on their hands. Nate founda volume of Bukowski and read the filthiest poem aloud to me under his breath, and I nearly spit my coffee. It felt like the kind of day people wrote about in memoirs—slow, a little aimless, but bright around the edges with the possibility of something more.
By early afternoon, we’d both bought more books than either of us could carry. Nate loaded them into a reusable grocery bag that sagged dangerously with the weight. We walked back to his place, the bag swinging between us, and when we passed a bakery he ducked inside to buy two chocolate croissants.
We ate them sitting on the stoop of his building. My fingers got sticky with the melted chocolate, and Nate wiped some off my cheek with a corner of napkin. It was such a gentle, unconscious gesture that I almost lost my breath.
He looked at me, really looked at me, and there was nothing in his eyes but warmth. “You okay?” he asked, a question he used to mean in a dozen different ways, some of them barbed. But not now.
“I think so,” I said, and realized it was true. “I think I’m better than okay.”
He smiled, and there was a little relief in it, as if he’d been holding his own breath all day, waiting to see if I’d break. But I didn’t.
We sat for a long time, just existing. No pressure, no demands, no fear of the ground vanishing under my feet. For the first time in months, I felt the faint, stubborn outline of hope—a tiny voice that said maybe, just maybe, things weren’t going to collapse again.
The sun was still out. The world was still turning. And for the first time in a while, I wanted to be here to see where it went.
∞∞∞
By the time we made it up the three flights to Nate’s apartment, my arms ached from hauling bags of books and half-eaten bakery boxes. He unlocked the door, then shouldered it open with a little grunt, letting the bags drop with a gentle thunk onto the faded runner in his entryway.
The inside was still a mess, but it was a different kind of mess than when I’d found him last month. Now, the clutter was books and coffee mugs and a handful of folded laundry on the back of the couch, not empty bottles and neglect. There was the faintest undertone of lemon from a half-hearted cleaning attempt, and the air was warm, touched with the scent of coffee grounds and the top note of wood polish. There were still days, I knew, when he didn’t make it out of bed. But today wasn’t one of them. I’d never noticed it in the beginning of knowing him, but I did now. How his past trauma was still there, flickering in and out of his consciousness sometimes. How it stopped him up short and I’d hear a sharp intake of breath as a memory was triggered. He’d never say anything about it… but silence is loud.
I set my haul on the dining table—a battered thing that might have started life as an office desk—and then stretched my back, hands above my head until the vertebrae popped.
“Jesus, you’re going to throw out your shoulder if you keep buying books at this rate,” Nate said, already stacking his own loot on the end table, sorting them by genre. “At least tell me you’ll donate the duds.”
I arched a brow. “That’s rich, coming from the man with a first edition ‘Sex After Sixty’ on his coffee table.”
Nate grinned, unabashed. “A gift from a former boss. You never know when you’ll need to diversify your reading list.” He set down the last of his books, then turned to face me, hands in his back pockets—a classic Nate posture, half-casual, half-bracing-for-impact.
I watched him for a beat, waiting for the punchline, but he just stood there, silent, shifting from foot to foot. The effect was oddly endearing. When he finally spoke, he sounded almost nervous.
“Hey,” he said. “Can I ask you something? And before you answer, just promise you won’t laugh.”
“Depends,” I said. “Is it about ‘Sex After Sixty?’ Because I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
He gave a tight, crooked smile, then shook his head. “No. I mean—well, maybe in thirty years, but…” He trailed off, then took a breath. “Would you want to move in?”
The words hung there, impossibly heavy and light at the same time.
I blinked. “Move in… here?”
Nate nodded, the flush climbing his neck. “Yeah. With me. Here. Officially. I know it’s not perfect, and I know it’s probably too soon, and I get if you want to keep your space—especially after everything... But—” he hesitated, searching for the rest, “—I like waking up with you. I like coming home and knowing you’ll be here. Even if you leave hair all over the bathroom and fill my sink with weird coffee filters.”
I almost laughed at that, but there was a tremor in his voice, a realness that stopped me cold.
