11. You Should See The Other Guy
CHAPTER 11
YOU SHOULD SEE THE OTHER GUY
NATE
Watching Nora get into the car with Jake twists something deep in my gut. I can't take her home myself—not in my state—but knowing he's the one taking care of her drives a thorn deeper into my side. She hasn't been here a full day and she's already wreaking havoc in my head.
The party rages on around me, everyone too caught up in their own worlds to notice what just went down. Lines of white powder disappear up noses, couples lose themselves in dark corners, and I need a minute alone. In the bathroom, I lean over the sink, examining Connor's blood on my knuckles. At least that bastard got what he deserved.
The vanity's cold marble grounds me as I take a few steadying breaths. I pull out my phone and dial Jay's number. He picks up on the second ring.
"What's wrong?" Jay grunts, his voice rough with sleep.
"Who shit in your corn flakes?"
"Newsflash, asshole, you don't call unless something's wrong. Unless you've suddenly developed a taste for pleasant chitchat."
"Fuck off," I say, but there's no real heat behind it.
"You called me, remember."
"I need a ride. Can you come get me?"
"Where are you?"
That's one thing about Jay—he never asks too many questions. As much of a dick as I've been lately, he's one of the few who's had my back these past couple years. I know he'll answer whenever I call, even though I don't deserve that kind of loyalty.
I text him the address, and ten minutes later, the familiar roar of his black Camaro pulls up. I crush out my cigarette and head toward the car. Besides drugs, cars are our common ground. I helped him restore this piece of shit he bought, and somehow, we managed to turn it into something I'm actually proud to be seen in.
"Who the fuck lives here? Bill Gates?" Jay peers at the mansion, whistling low.
"Let's go."
"Where to?"
"You know where. I need to unwind."
His eyes catch on my poorly bandaged hand, swollen and likely broken, though whatever I took earlier is numbing the pain. "What happened to your hand?"
"Nothing. Just drive."
"Are you sure you don't wan??—"
"Drive, Jay."
I close my eyes and lean back, letting the seat cradle my throbbing head. Jay mutters something under his breath, but I'm too exhausted to care. I want to get as far from this party and these people as possible. There's only one place that lets me escape.
A couple winters back when everything at home went to hell—Mom and Scott's screaming matches that could wake the dead—I needed out. My late-night wanderings led me to South End, where I met Jay and others seeking the same escape. These people weren't friends but acquaintances who never probed too deep. That's how I found myself at the Quarters, a sort of halfway house for the lost.
The dim room greets us with its familiar mix of ragged couches and a coffee table scattered with baggies—white powder, pills, my old friends.
But tonight, something new catches my eye: capsules and vibrant blotter paper.
"It's like LSD," Jay says casually, watching my reaction.
The urge to grab it, to feel the tab dissolve on my tongue or snort the contents straight into my bloodstream is almost unbearable. Instead, I reach for an oxy. As it hits my tongue, my muscles start to unwind. I shut my eyes, picturing the pill's journey, imagining it dissolving into nothing, seeping into my veins, slowing the relentless pace of everything.
The bass pulses through me, owning my heartbeat, dragging lights into long, haunting streaks across my vision. The music cages me, wrapping around my bones like barbed wire.
"You're gonna be so fucked up," a girl laughs, her voice grating against my ears.
"Isn't that the point?" I snap back. "To fade into oblivion?" The words come out sharper than intended, but she just smirks—that calculating kind of smile I've seen too many times before.
"You're Nate Sullivan, right?" she asks, like she hasn't already figured me out.
I despise small talk; silence is rare currency here. "Depends who's asking."
Her smile sharpens, predatory—the universal look of someone who thinks they're about to get fucked. After everything that happened tonight with Nora, all I want is to be left alone.
Time warps around me as the high kicks in. The bathroom becomes my sanctuary when the room starts spinning too fast. A girl snorting lines off the bathtub scrambles past me as I stumble in. I slam the door, gulping down air that tastes like cheap perfume and desperation.
My reflection tells the story—bloodshot eyes, pupils blown wide. Heat builds inside my skull, my chest vibrating with each thundering bass note.
Maybe both.
But fuck, it feels good.
Too good.
Scarily good.
This feeling, right here, is the slippery slope everyone warns about.
I slide down against the cold tile wall, letting the chaos fade into white noise. Time stretches and I'm not sure if minutes or hours have passed. My pulse pounds against my temples, drowning out the music. The world outside this small sanctuary carries on, unaware or uncaring of the storm brewing inside me. Exhaustion claims me there on the grimy bathroom floor, and I drift into uneasy dreams of emerald eyes.
The hangover hits like a fucking freight train today. It’s currently 5 PM and I have this fucking headache hasn’t left me alone since I woke up.
I suppose I deserve it.
Every pothole in Jay's path is agony, each jolt a hammer to my skull. I should focus on keeping my stomach contents down, but my mind's stuck on replay—on last night.
Nora looked petrified. Of me.
That image of her backing away, eyes wide and trembling is seared into my brain. I became the villain in her story, the guy she never thought I'd be. She wasn't just scared of Connor sprawled on the ground, she was terrified of me, the monster I'd become.
I wanted to tell her, to scream that it wasn't really me, that I snapped seeing how that asshole handled her. But what's the use? She saw what she saw. There's no talking my way out of that.
Seeing myself through her eyes—through the lens of fear and profound disappointment—that's a special kind of hell. One I have no idea how to escape from.
The front door's creak echoes through the silent house, sounding almost accusatory. Inside, stillness grips me—the uneasy quiet that feels like walking into a scene you weren't meant to witness. Then the smell hits me—apple pie.
Kat's apple pie.
I find her in the kitchen, back turned, rolling out dough with practiced precision. The sight of her, so content and focused, nearly drives me to retreat but my feet won't move. She turns, probably sensing my presence, and her face lights up with that old, comforting smile.
"Nate, you're back." But as her eyes truly meet mine, her smile fades to concern when she sees I’m wearing the same clothes from last night. Only now, my t-shirt is painted red in places.
"Yeah," I mumble, hands diving into my pockets. "Where is everyone?"
She studies me, that maternal worry etched deep. "Your mom is at the country club for a volunteer meeting, Ollie went to the beach, and Jake and Nora spent the morning out."
Nora's name twists something inside me. I nod, feigning indifference and failing miserably. I wonder if Kat knows about what happened last night.
"Nate..." she starts, eyes fixed on my busted hand. "What happened?"
My fucking hand.
"Rough night," I say, which isn't entirely a lie.
Kat steps closer, commanding, "Sit," in a tone that brooks no argument. So, I do, feeling more like a kid than a twenty-year-old.
She tends to my cuts with gentle hands but sharp eyes that dare me to break.
Does she know how many times her daughter has done this for me when we were kids?
"Want to tell me what's really going on?"
I swallow hard. "It's nothing, Kat. Just boys being boys."
"Mhm." Her skepticism is thick. "I've known you your whole life. I know when you're bottling things up. And I'd bet it's more than just last night."
I wince, not from the antiseptic but because she's right. She's always been. "It's complicated," I admit, my voice barely a whisper.
Kat finishes with my cut but doesn't pull back. Instead, she takes my hand in hers, anchoring me to the moment. "Most things are. But you don't have to keep everything bottled up. I know I'm probably the last person you want to spill everything to, but just know that if you ever do, I'm here. Now take your shirt off so we can hide the evidence from your mom."
I look down at the blood-stained shirt that's also covered in dirt, probably from the dusty couch I slept on last night. Kat takes the shirt and when she does, I notice her staring at old scars across my body.
"Football," I lie. "It's a rough sport."
The lump in my throat swells, and I look away to hide the storm of emotions inside me.
"Kat, I know I haven't been around much. I'm sorry for that. I've just... been dealing with a lot and it shouldn't be an excuse but??—"
She stays quiet, her thumb softly caressing the back of my hand. It's a simple touch, but it makes me feel less adrift. "Stop. We've all got our demons, Nate," she murmurs. "But you've got people who love you that you can lean on."
I nod, unable to speak, and finally, she releases my hand. She turns back to her pie dough, giving me space to breathe. I think about walking out, escaping this gentle scrutiny, but I stay. Maybe it's her unpushy kindness, or maybe I can't stand the thought of being alone right now.
"How's Nora?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Kat pauses, then faces me again. There's a weight in her gaze that tightens my chest because I know what she’s about to tell me has nothing to do with what happened last night.
"Honestly, she's like you in a lot of ways. She's been struggling but won't talk about it," she admits. "After everything that happened with David... and there were issues at school."
"What issues?" My voice sharpens with concern.
Kat hesitates. "She kept it to herself mostly. I tried to get her to talk, to see someone. But in the end, I didn't push. She withdrew from her friends, stopped going out. Seems like she's trying to handle too much on her own."
A storm of anger and guilt churns inside me—anger at whoever hurt her, and guilt for being so caught up in my own mess that I missed her suffering.
"You've always been there for her," Kat says softly. "Just be there for her now."
Not enough.
I stare at the table. "I should've been there more. Especially after..." The words fade, choked by grief—after her dad died, after everything crumbled.
"You're fighting your own battles, Nate. You can't be everything for everyone all the time." Her voice is gentle but firm. "But I've seen how you care for her. The only other person who loved her as much as her dad was you."
The mention of David hits me hard, dragging me back to the last time I saw him. He'd joked about welcoming me as his son-in-law, and those words had made me feel like maybe I could be someone worthy.
The screech of the front door cuts through our moment. Mom's voice carries from the entryway—sharp and tinged with that familiar edge of concern. She's chirping while talking to Jake; she always is. I steel myself as they enter the kitchen.
The shift happens instantly when her eyes land on me. "Nate," she snaps, zeroing in on my battered face. "Where the hell were you last night? Do you have any idea how worried we were?"
I open my mouth, but Kat steps in before I can stammer out a lie. "Lydia," she interjects, her tone firm yet soothing. "He's back now, that's what matters."
Mom's gaze flicks between us. I watch her wrestle with her anger before she finally sighs. "Fine," she says, though it's clearly not. "Can you at least tell me where you were?"
"Crashed at a friend's," I mumble, the lie bitter on my tongue.
"Jake said you were staying at Farrah's?"
Fuck.
"Farrah's a friend, Mom."
Her frown deepens, probing for more, but she lets it drop—for now. "And why aren't you wearing a shirt?"
"He was helping me with the pie, got flour all over himself," Kat covers smoothly, shielding my stained shirt from view as I try to hide my fucked-up hand.
Mom's skepticism fills the air, but she shakes her head and mutters something about boys and their secrets as she exits. Once she and Kat start discussing their day, Jake, who quietly snuck in while Mom went off at me, nods toward the backyard.
"You should see something," he says, voice grave. He leads the way outside, closing the door with a soft click that seals off any chance of being overheard. Pulling out his phone, his expression grim, he adds, "Someone caught your freak-out on camera last night."
My stomach drops.
Jake presses play, and there it is in stark clarity—my fists flying, uncontrolled and brutal. But it's Nora's face that guts me—her eyes wide with fear, body recoiling from the monster I'd become.
"Turn it off," I choke out.
Jake stops the video but keeps his phone raised, gaze heavy with unspoken questions.
What can I say?
That I lost my mind seeing another guy touch her? That I've become everything I promised myself I'd never be?
The silence stretches between us like a widening gulf, filled with the echoes of what I've done. I shake my head, nausea crawling up my throat. Jake lets me escape without argument, and I'm silently grateful for that small mercy.
Back in my room, I slam the door, the silence of the house weighing down on me like a physical force. Nora's terrified face haunts me, her voice echoing in my head on a relentless loop. There's no escape from it.
I sink into my bed, letting the familiar chords of "With Arms Wide Open" fill my ears. It's not just the lyrics that speak to me, but the way each note seems to stretch and bend, echoing the tumult inside. Scott Stapp's voice cuts through the chaos of my thoughts, raw and gritty. Every line about change and redemption hits too close to home.
As the guitar riffs swell, I feel a momentary reprieve from the relentless replay of last night's events. The chords climb and fall like my chest as I try to breathe through the tightness gripping me. It's a small escape, a moment where the weight seems just a bit lighter. The forgotten vodka bottle on the floor beside my bed tempts me. It's been there for ages, untouched, but today it feels like the only answer. I grab it and take a swig, the liquid burning down my throat—a welcome pain compared to the turmoil in my head. Yesterday's hangover still lingers, and as much as I want to numb this overwhelming guilt until I can't feel the edges so sharply, I set the bottle down.
This is fucking pathetic.
A soft knock cuts through the music, yanking me back to reality. Her voice filters through the door, tentative but sure.
"Nate? Can I come in?"
Shit.
My whole body tenses up like I've been hit with a live wire. Just her voice and I'm already a goddamn mess. I shove the bottle under my bed and sit on the edge, gripping the sheets till they might tear. Like that's gonna stop me from doing something stupid the second she walks in.
"Yeah." It comes out rougher than I meant.
She steps almost hesitantly inside, and her attempt at a casual smile doesn't reach her eyes.
Fuck me.
The way she smells hits me like a sucker punch—lavender and something that's just... her. My mouth goes dry and my brain short-circuits.
God, I need to get a grip.
"I wanted to check on you after—" Her gaze drops to my bandaged hand.
"You shouldn't have been at that party," I growl, hating myself even as the words come out. But I need the wall. Need something between us before I do something we'll both regret.
Her smile vanishes and she takes a step closer, crossing her arms across her chest. "Seriously? We're doing this again?"
I don’t move, my skin's too tight and it feels like I might explode if I get near her. "That party wasn't for you."
"Why are you acting like this?"
"Because you saw what happens at parties like that. Guys like Connor—they're fuckboys. They don't care about girls like you." My chest tightens with every word, this mess of anger and fear and this other thing I refuse to name churning inside me. "He cares about one thing, and he almost got it last night."
Her posture stiffens, chin lifting in that way that drives me crazy, that makes me want to—fuck. Don't go there.
"I didn’t need your help."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" The words tear out of me, raw and desperate. My hands ache to grab her shoulders, to make her get it. "What would you have done if I hadn't stepped in?"
Her eyes flash, and Christ, she's beautiful when she's pissed.
"I can handle myself, Nate. I'm not a fragile thing that needs protecting."
"That's not what I'm??—"
"Then what are you trying to say? Because all you have been is a total asshole for no reason since the moment I got here."
She's furious, and some sick part of me loves it. The way her cheeks flush, the way her chest rises and falls faster. It's proof she still feels something around me. At least anger's better than nothing.
My silence is enough for her to turn around and head for the door. No way in hell am I letting her walk out like this.
Before I can think better of it, I'm up, slamming the door shut, trapping us in this too-small room. Her perfume's everywhere now, making my head spin. She gasps, this tiny sound that shoots straight through me, making my heart hammer against my ribs. I'm too close.
Way too fucking close.
Close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, close enough that if I shifted even an inch, we'd be??—
"Maybe," I say, my voice dropping low, every muscle in my body straining with the effort not to touch her, "I am an asshole. But I'd never touch you without your permission."
The words hang between us, loaded with everything I'm not saying. My eyes drop to her lips, and holy shit, I have to ball my hands into fists to keep from doing something monumentally stupid.
She shifts, her back against the door, her body so close I swear I can feel her heartbeat matching mine. "I need to get ready."
"For what?" It comes out like gravel.
"The bonfire tonight."
"Why the hell are you going to a bonfire after what happened last night?" Jealousy rips through me, ugly and hot. The thought of her around those guys again makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
She laughs, but it's hollow. "Why are you asking questions you don't want answers to?"
I move closer, my body no longer taking orders from my brain. I can feel the heat coming off her skin, and it's making me lose my mind. "Because I like to know things."
Her head leans back against the door, her throat exposed, and Jesus Christ, the things I want to do. My hands twitch at my sides, itching to slide up her arms, to tangle in her hair.
"I want to try and enjoy myself this summer, Nate. Can I do that, or do I need to start getting permission slips signed off for everything?"
Her defiance hits me like a kick to the chest. "You think being with strangers will make you feel normal?"
"Would you prefer me miserable and locked up all summer?" Her voice softens, something vulnerable breaking through, and it wrecks me.
We're breathing the same air now.
"Why can't we just talk, like we used to?"
The question tears me open. My hand moves before I can stop it, hovering near her, not touching her, but fuck, I want to.
"Because things aren't like they used to be."
Because you exist in a world where I can’t have you.
Because every time you look at me like that, I'm one second away from completely losing it.
She looks at me like I've slapped her, and it kills me. "So you're just going to keep shutting me out?"
A knock on the doorframe interrupts us, and I step back like I've been burned, my heart still trying to pound its way out of my chest.
"We're heading out," Mom announces. "Are you two all good?"
"Yeah," Nora forces a smile, but her eyes stay locked with mine, this electric current still running between us. "We're fine."
They leave, and Nora's eyes meet mine one last time.
That look—hurt, confusion, and something else that mirrors the ache in my gut—nearly breaks my resolve. I don't stop her as she walks out, though every muscle in my body screams to follow her, to pull her back.
I just stand there, like a coward, listening to her footsteps fade, breathing in what's left of her. The room feels too empty now. The silence she leaves behind echoes with all the shit I couldn't say, with all the ways I wanted to reach for her but didn't.