Page 169 of Fault Lines
There was a pause. I could hear the sound of traffic, or maybe just the wind through a half-open window, and then a voice, shaky but clear.
“Livi?”
It had been weeks since I’d heard Nate’s voice, but my body remembered instantly: the coil of tension in my stomach, the rush of anger and worry and something sour I’d never learned to name.
I almost hung up. Almost. But I didn’t.
“Nate.”
He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he dialed. “Please don’t hang up,” he said. “I just— I needed to say something. Can I do that?”
My mouth was dry. I poured the coffee, just to have something to do with my hands. “I’m listening.”
He took another breath, steadier this time. “I’m sorry. For everything. What I did to you, the things I said after. And before. I— I don’t have any excuse, and I’m not calling to ask for forgiveness. But I need you to know I’m sorry. I really am.”
I leaned against the counter, staring at the snow slowly melting outside the window. “Thank you,” I said, and meant it.The wound on my head had healed, mostly, but the scar would probably stay. I ran my fingers over it, not sure what else to say.
“I wasn’t at the funeral,” Nate continued, and I could hear him trying to hold it together. “I wanted to be. I just… I was in rehab. Still am, I guess. Outpatient though.”
The words settled, heavy and strange. For so long, I’d wanted Nate to get help, but I’d stopped believing he ever would.
“I’m glad,” I said, and felt the surprise of it in my own voice. “That you’re… working on it.”
He laughed, a sound edged with shame. “Yeah, well. Better late than never, right?”
There was a pause, the silence filled with everything we’d never said out loud. Then, softer: “They make us talk about stuff. Our families. How we fuck up our lives and blame everyone else. It’s hard. Sometimes I want to run away, but… I guess that’s the point.”
I wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone, that everyone wanted to run sometimes, but it didn’t seem right. Instead, I let him talk.
“I know you’re with Cam,” he said, almost a question. “Or at least, you’re not with me.”
It hurt, but not the way I expected. “I’m not sure what I am,” I said. “But I’m here. I’m okay.”
“Cam’s a good guy,” Nate said, surprising me. “I used to think he was an asshole, but… anyone who would do what he did for you? I get it now. I get why you went back. Even after everything.”
I felt a pang, the old loyalty and resentment locked in an endless loop. “He’s changed,” I said. “Or maybe I have.”
Nate went quiet, then: “I’m not going to call again. I just wanted you to know that I’m letting go. I need to work on myself, and I can’t do that if I’m chasing ghosts.”
I thought about how many times I’d tried to “fix” people, to fix Nate, and how much easier it was to hear him say this than to keep fighting.
“I wish you well,” I said, and I meant that, too. “I don’t regret meeting you, Nate. I can’t. You got me through the darkest time in my life. I know it all went wrong but…I think I needed you. And I’m grateful.”
He didn’t reply right away, but I heard him take another deep, shaking breath. “Take care, Livi. You deserve better. You always did.”
The line went dead.
I stood at the counter for a long time, the phone still warm in my hand, the coffee going cold. I felt lighter than I had in months, like something I’d been carrying around had finally slipped free. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was just the relief of not being responsible for anyone but myself.
When Cam came in, hair wet from the shower, he looked at me with a kind of cautious optimism. “Everything okay?”
I smiled, a real smile, and set the phone down. “Yeah,” I said. “For once, I think it actually is.”
∞∞∞
The next few days felt almost… normal. There was a spring to Cam’s step that I hadn’t seen since before the word “fertility” became a permanent fixture in our vocabulary. He started leaving little notes for me, just like he used to: “Don’t drink the last of the milk,” or “Leftovers in the second fridge drawer, you animal,” and once, “Can I interest you in a night of Netflix and existential dread?” I wrote back: “Only if you let me pick the movie.”
He grinned when he read it, and the lines at the corners of his eyes went soft instead of sad.
