5. Specks With Colossal Problems
CHAPTER 5
SPECKS WITH COLOSSAL PROBLEMS
NATE
"There's our boy!" Christian bellows as I stride into the party. The bass thrums through the floorboards, matching my racing pulse. This is the last fucking place I want to be, yet here I am, weaving through a crowd that's slapping my back like I'm some sort of hometown hero.
"About fucking time you showed.” An arm hooks around my neck, pulling me into a headlock that's more aggressive than friendly. "You got it, yeah?"
"Yeah," I mutter, handing over the small bags of weed and pills. The weight of them leaving my pocket doesn't lighten the burden I carry.
"Now it's a fucking party!" Christian shouts, igniting a chorus of cheers around us.
Drink. I desperately need a drink.
The anger and anxiety I've been carrying lately weigh me down like a brick. The panic attacks aren't new, but their frequency is becoming suffocating. The weed and pills are my crutch, dulling the chaos inside just enough so I can stand to be in places like this, surrounded by people who feel more like cardboard cutouts than actual humans.
Then there's Nora.
She's been haunting my thoughts more than I'm willing to admit, and it's not just because of our awkward encounter earlier. It's been over a year since we last spoke, but she's lived rent-free in my mind for years. Every thought of her is tangled with anxiety and guilt. I shouldn't care that she's here—I knew she would be. Yet within fifteen minutes of sharing the same air as her, my composure is completely shot to shit.
Her eyes carried a depth of pain that mirrored my own, an infinite cosmos of unspoken words. She used to burn with fire, and now she's cloaked in ice, but beneath it, the embers still smolder. Life has hardened her, a feeling I know all too well.
Everything feels different because it is.
We're different people now. Life has turned us into strangers wearing familiar faces. Part of me thinks it's better, safer, to keep my distance. But being close to her this morning stirred something I thought I'd buried. Four fucking minutes in her presence made me feel more than I have in the past year.
My sanity is hanging by a thread.
Navigating this house is second nature—I know exactly where Farrah's dad stashes the good scotch. Even on a normal day, this lake house feels suffocating, steeped in too many memories of a past that's long gone. Add a crowd into the mix, including one girl who can barely stand the sight of me, and it's like being caged while the air is thick with unresolved tension.
I lean over the bar, pouring four-hundred-dollar scotch into a plastic cup. There's something poetically tragic about that. I down it quickly, then pour another. The liquid burns, but it's not enough to cauterize the wounds I'm trying to ignore.
"Nate! What the fuck?" Farrah's slurred shout cuts through the music. She's drunk, eyes glassy, barely keeping herself upright. "Why haven't you been answering my calls?"
Despite her disheveled state, she looks immaculate—not a hair out of place.
Perfect.
Fake.
The touch I once craved now feels hollow, like touching a mannequin instead of skin.
"Been busy," I mutter, my patience wearing thin.
"Busy doing what?"
"Busy, Farrah," I snap back. She leans in for a kiss—it's rough and desperate, tasting of vodka and neediness.
"I missed you, baby. You seem on edge," she murmurs against my lips, her arms tightening around my neck. "Let me help you relax." Her eyes lock onto mine, fierce and trying too hard. She licks her lips, a clear play for seduction that feels more mechanical than passionate.
"Farrah—" I start, but she's already sliding her hands down my jeans. The frustration I feel isn't the kind that leads anywhere pleasurable.
I grab her hand firmly. "No."
She reels back, confusion and hurt flooding her eyes.
"No? What is going on with you? You don't reply to my texts, you ignore my calls, now you don't even want to fuck me?" Her voice rises, drawing stares like moths to a flame.
"You're right, I don't want to fuck you, so drop it," I growl, shrugging off her hand and taking another swig of scotch.
She scoffs. "Well, that wasn't a few days ago.”
My mind reels back to that dismal three-day bender—David's death anniversary and the last disastrous encounter with Scott, whom I can't bring myself to call Dad anymore. Farrah was the perfect distraction then. Farrah, booze, and pills: a destructive cycle I'm not proud of.
"I need some air," I mutter, snatching the scotch bottle from the bar and making for the pool area before anyone can follow me with their empty fucking small talk.
The night air slaps my face—a blessed relief from the suffocating heat of bodies packed inside. I collapse onto a deck chair, muscles aching with a fatigue that has nothing to do with physical exertion. Uncapping the bottle, I take a long pull, welcoming the burn as it scorches down my throat. Better to feel something, even if it's pain. My fingers work automatically, rolling a joint with practiced precision. The first hit fills my lungs, and I exhale slowly, watching the smoke twist and curl into the darkness above. There's poetry in that smoke—how it appears substantial then dissipates into nothing. Like everything else in this godforsaken life.
Years of constructing elaborate fictions. Years of lying, distracting, deflecting. It's fucking exhausting, but I've grown accustomed to the weight of the lies I carry. They've become part of my skeletal structure—remove them and I might collapse entirely.
All I want—all I've ever wanted—is to feel weightless.
Free.
But self-pity is a luxury I abandoned years ago, leaving nothing but hollow echoes where emotions used to live. Sometimes I wonder if I even remember how to feel anything real anymore.
The moon hangs overhead like a silent witness to everything we are and aren't. Funny how we're just these insignificant specks with our colossal problems while that rock has watched empires rise and fall. There's a strange comfort in that cosmic perspective—knowing we're all just trying to navigate this chaotic existence, brief flashes in an endless narrative that everyone forgets. Everyone except that cold, dead rock floating above us all.
Images of Nora infiltrate my thoughts like persistent ghosts.
Why now? Why tonight?
She's always had this hold over me, even when we were kids. It's as if part of me is perpetually searching for her in my darkest moments—her eyes, her voice, the way she moves through space like she was born to command it. But I forfeited any right to her, even in my thoughts, when I din’t show up for her, for Ollie. The hurt and suspicion that clouded her face earlier today cut deeper than I expected.
Deeper than I deserve to feel.
I scan the sea of strangers around the pool, all too wasted to remember their own names, let alone mine.
Thank fucking god.
I stub out the joint and light a cigarette instead, drifting toward the pool's edge where the water fractures the party lights into disjointed patterns. The conversations washing over me are shallow, slurred echoes of the same pretentious bullshit I've navigated my entire life—people chasing money, status, or some illusion they'll never catch no matter how fast they run.
My moment of solitude doesn't last.
Of course it doesn't.
Nothing good ever does.
Farrah appears flanked by Shay and Harlow like some discount version of a royal entourage. Before I can escape, she situates herself onto my lap without invitation, her perfume invading my senses—too sweet, too manufactured, nothing like the natural scent of?—
No. Not going there.
It figures why they're all friends—cut from the same designer cloth, sharing the same cultivated tastes and remarkable tolerance for Farrah's casual cruelty. The weight of her on my lap feels wrong. Everything about this night feels wrong.
"Baby, you look so tired. Are you sure you don't want me to help you relax a little?" Her hands wander across my chest, her touch lingering longer than I want. When her fingers edge lower, I snap, grabbing her wrists. The motion is gentle but firm—a warning.
"I'm good right here," I say, my voice sharp enough to slice through steel.
Instead of taking the hint, she drapes herself over my body, claiming me in a possessive display that makes my skin crawl.
“We heard you nearly got shot by your dealer today," Shay drones on, her voice as dull as her personality. She and her twin sister have morphed into robotic clones, perfectly crafted by Farrah to follow her every whim.
"You need to find a new hobby,” I growl, irritation boiling over. I'm on the verge of exploding, surrounded by whispers and accusations I don't need.
My attention snaps to a nearby conversation, where Christian and his crew are eyeing someone new.
"Who's the new girl hanging off Jake's arm?" Christian leers, his voice carrying over the music. Farrah blocks my view, but I strain to see past her.
"Must be a new out-of-towner. Fuck, she's nice to look at," another voice chimes in. "He's one lucky son of a bitch."
A sickening feeling coils in my gut before I even see her—Nora. I feel her presence like a shift in the atmosphere, a gravitational pull that's impossible to resist.
"I'd like to get between tho??—"
"You won't finish that sentence if you know what's good for you," I snap, my voice low and deadly.
I turn, and there she is.
Nora moves through the crowd with an effortless grace that draws every eye in the room. Her skirt clings to her curves, Chuck Taylors stark against the white hemline, crop top revealing a strip of golden skin that makes my fingers itch to touch. Her hair flows over her shoulders in waves I remember running my hands through in dreams. Despite her casual confidence, her eyes remain distant, guarded like she's wearing invisible armor.
I've watched her draw attention effortlessly all her life, a force of nature that can't be contained. But the truth hits hard—I'm not the guy she once knew. I'm damaged goods, fractured by life's harsh trials, while she remains untouched by the darkness that consumes me.
"Who is she?" Farrah presses, her curiosity laced with venom.
"No one," I lie.
"If she's no one, why are you getting so defensive over her?"
"I'm not in the mood for interrogations tonight, Farrah."
"It's a fucking question, Nate."
"And I'm done answering questions," I growl, shoving her hands away. A surge of claustrophobia washes over me. Nora shouldn't be here. Jake should never have brought her. I can't be near her, yet I can't leave now that she's here.
"Are you fucking her?" Farrah's voice slices through the tension.
"What?" I snap, incredulous.
"You heard me. Are you??—"
"No. She's not—it's not like—" I cut myself off, realizing this isn't a conversation I want to have with anyone, especially not Farrah.
"Well, she looks like a sl??—"
I'm in her face before she can finish, my finger pointed sharply. "Choose your words wisely, Farrah. Very fucking wisely."
She leans in, her face inches from mine, her breath hitching as if she might kiss me.
Instead, she whispers, "Looks like your little damsel just made a new friend."
I follow her gaze, and my stomach drops. Nora's no longer with Jake; she's laughing with Connor fucking James. Of all the people at this fucking party, it had to be him. I loathe him on a good day, but seeing him with Nora—watching her smile at him—that's enough to make me want to tear every limb from his body. Or maybe it's just the sting of seeing him hold her attention—attention I desperately want, that's driving me insane.
"I need a drink." I don't glance back at Farrah as I head straight for Ollie, who's sprawled on a sofa looking far too comfortable with a girl clinging to his side.
"Natey boy!" Ollie slurs his greeting, words swimming in alcohol. He's plastered, but I'm not one to judge.
"Your sister's here," I snap, cutting through his drunken haze.
"I know. Jake said he was going back to get her." Concern flickers across Ollie's face as he sits up. "Where is she? Is she all right?"
Yeah, well, he's done a pretty shitty job of that .
"Have you seen him?"
"Nah man, sorry. Oh, this is Vanessa, by the way." He gestures to the brunette beside him.
“Ol, Nora shouldn't be here." My reply is terse, focus already shifting.
"It's good that she's finally out. Let her have tonight, okay?"
No. Not okay.
"If you see Jake, tell him I'm looking for him."
"I think he's over there with Kelsie Timmins," Vanessa chimes in, pointing toward my brother who's propped against the kitchen island, chatting up a blonde who seems utterly enamored.
I storm toward the kitchen, and Jake catches my glare, quickly dismissing his company. He straightens, preparing for the confrontation he knows is coming.
"What did I do now?" he asks, tone-deaf.
"You brought her here?"
"If by 'her' you're referring to Nora, then yes."
"Why?" My voice is a mix of disbelief and anger.
Jake scoffs. "Why not, Nate? Jesus. Why should she be cooped up at home with our moms?"
His casual dismissal of my concerns grates on me. These people are toxic and she doesn't need to be dragged into this.
Or maybe it's me—I'm the toxic one, and I don't want her caught up in my mess.
"Take her home."
“What's your problem?"
"Are you being serious right now? You brought her here. Then you left her, and now she's over there with that fucking dropkick."
"Okay? So she's talking to Connor. Big deal, they're not??—"
I cut him off. "Take her home."
"If she wants to leave, I'll take her home. Until then, why don't you go smoke another joint and relax while the rest of us enjoy ourselves?" His smug tone is like a slap in the face. To add insult to injury, he brushes past me, patting my shoulder condescendingly.
Little fucker.
I scan the chaotic mess of a party again, searching for Nora through the haze of smoke and bodies. The room spins slightly with each pulse of music, reminding me how fucked up everything has gotten since she walked back into my life.
"Nate, you gotta try this, man!" A guy named Tyler thrusts a baggie at me, his smile too wide, pupils blown. "It's primo stuff, man, just like acid."
I stare down at the tiny, potent promise of escape in his hand. The urge to snatch it, to let the chemical bliss wash away everything—her face, her laugh, her everything—is almost overwhelming. But then I remember her eyes, wide and clear, looking right through me earlier today.
"I'm good." My voice barely cuts through the bass as I back away, hands shoved deep in my pockets to keep them from betraying me. Tyler shrugs and turns back to his eager audience.
Every step through the crowd is fueled by a mix of dread and anticipation. I should walk away, let her enjoy her night without me looming over her like some dark cloud. But I can't. Every instinct screams at me to find her, to make sure she's okay.
And then I see her, across the room, smiling up at Connor. The sight of his hand casually touching her arm, ignites a wildfire in my chest. I want to tear him away from her, to shout that she's off limits. But she's not mine to claim, and that realization is a cold knife twisting in my gut.
Why am I even here?
I'm just the fucked-up guy with too many demons, watching from the sidelines while she lights up the room. But even as I debate turning around and leaving, my feet carry me closer to her, each step heavier than the last.
She's the kind of beautiful that stops you in your tracks. And I'm the kind of disaster that should keep walking. But here I am, standing at the edge of the precipice, looking down at the one person who's ever made me want to jump.
I just hope to hell I don't drag her down with me.