14. Late Night Swims
CHAPTER 14
LATE NIGHT SWIMS
NATE
Opting out of the bonfire tonight was probably one of the few good decisions I've made lately. The thought of pretending everything is fine feels like a sick joke. Instead, I play chauffeur, driving Mom and Kat to a bar before peeling off with some bullshit excuse about other plans. Mom doesn't push it. Guess that's what happens when you start to ghost your own life—people stop asking questions, either scared of the answers or just done giving a fuck altogether.
At least she's got one son who has his act together.
When I get back home, the silence slams into me harder than expected. The place is empty, the kind of quiet that amplifies every thought bouncing around in my skull.
Being left alone with my thoughts?
Dangerous territory.
I feel that old, familiar itch start to creep up, the one that screams for a hit to numb it all, or maybe something stronger. I head straight for the kitchen, reaching for the whiskey on the top shelf—the one Mom thinks she's hidden.
Tonight, it's a booze over anything harder. The crystal bottle catches the kitchen light as I pull it down, and my reflection fragments across its surface—distorted, broken, fitting. Drinking solo has turned into one of my pathetic hobbies lately. No need to let anyone see how deep I've really sunk.
I'm about to pour when I spot the mess the boys left behind. Cans, bottles, wrappers—like they think a maid's going to materialize and clean up after them. I set the bottle down with a sigh that echoes in the empty kitchen.
"Fucking kids," I mutter to the silence.
Mom has got enough shit to deal with without coming home to this mess. I grab a trash bag and start cleaning up, my movements automatic yet cautious, thanks to my fractured hand. If I keep busy, maybe I won't have to think about all the other shit that's gone down recently.
Something catches my eye as I pass the living room.
Nora's makeshift workstation is a disaster, papers and notebooks everywhere, just like she always leaves it when she's lost in her writing. A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips—same old Nora. I'm not trying to snoop, but as I move past, my hip catches the table, sending everything flying.
"Shit," I curse, dropping to my knees to gather up the mess. That's when I see it—a thick application form lying on the floor.
In bold letters: McMillion and Sons UK - Writing Scholarship.
So she is writing again. The realization does something weird to my chest. I start reading before I realize what I'm doing. Seeing that application twists something inside me. Pride, because she's getting back to what she loves, what she's brilliant at. But then it hits me like a sucker punch—she's actually doing something with her talent, while I'm just here, wasting away.
I toss the papers back on the table when my phone buzzes—missed calls from Farrah, texts from the boys about the bonfire, a couple from Jay. I ignore them all. Tonight I just need the quiet, even if it's the last thing I want.
The cleaning distraction lasts all of twenty minutes. My fractured hand throbs—a steady reminder of recent mistakes. I need something more to clear my head, something other than booze or pills.
Lately, the only thing that's been helping is the late-night swims. As soon as I step outside, the cool air brushes against my skin—a stark contrast to the day's heat and my own inner turmoil. The pool water gleams under the moonlight, still and inviting, as if ready to absorb all the shit weighing me down.
I slip into the water, and the immediate chill jolts through me, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. Each stroke is deliberate, each kick pushing away the noise in my head. The water cradles me, almost forgiving, offering a brief escape. With every lap, the tightness in my chest loosens, the simmering anger dissipates. Time becomes fluid until I'm floating on my back, gazing up at the stars.
I let myself sink until the water muffles everything but my heartbeat. When my lungs start to burn, I push up, breaking the surface with a gasp. That's when I see her—a silhouette in the doorway I'd know anywhere.
The sight of her hits harder than the need for air.
I’m suddenly hyper aware of every inch between us. The music drifts through the speakers—Oasis, one of her favorites—and for a second, I'm thrown back to summers ago when this pool was our sanctuary, not some kind of battleground.
My chest tightens, the burn not from the swim but from the piercing intensity of her eyes on me. How can she look at me like that—like I still mean something to her—after all my fuck-ups?
Her eyes hold a mix of concern and something unspoken—a depth that scares the shit out of me because I don't know if I deserve it. The guilt gnaws at me, sharp and heavy, because if anyone knows the worst parts of me, it's Nora. Yet here she is, her presence a silent question I'm not sure I have the right to answer. I watch her swallow hard, like she's been caught in the act.
"I didn't know anyone was home," she murmurs, voice barely carrying over the gentle splash of water.
"Everyone's still out."
She nods, a hint of relief in her expression. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"It's your house too now," I say, trying to ignore how the moonlight catches in her hair. "You're back early."
"Wasn't feeling it tonight," she admits, her eyes shadowed with something that looks a lot like sadness.
"Why not?"
"Why do you care?" she fires back, her tone sharper than expected.
I can't help but smirk as she tries to pretend like she's not affected by me just as much as I am by her. "I told you I like to know things."
"I told you not to waste your time."
She steps closer to the pool, slipping off her shoes to dangle her feet in the water. The dim pool lights cast shadows across her face, revealing the troubled look in her eyes.
Nora has a tell when she's upset—she can't meet your gaze, and she seems to shrink into herself.
I fucking hate it.
I push off the edge toward her, each stroke mirroring my mind's struggle for clarity. The cool water parts for me like the last of my restraint giving way. With every inch closer, I cross invisible boundaries that once seemed sacred, venturing into territory that feels both forbidden and inevitable.
"Do I make you nervous, Nora?"
The words rip out of me, rougher than I meant, but fuck it. I watch her fingers dig into the pool's edge like she needs something to hold onto. The water between us pulses, each tiny ripple drawing me closer like a tide answering the moon's irresistible call. So damn close but still out of reach, kinda like she's always been.
"No," she says, and I catch it—that little crack in her voice. Trying to sound sure but I hear what she's hiding. "You're not my type." Her eyes do that thing where they skate away from mine.
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face.
She's so full of shit. Playing this game where she pretends she's got walls I can't touch. She thinks all that armor she's built keeps me out, but her body's selling her out big time. That pulse hammering at her throat, the way her skin flushes pink when I get close—her body doesn't lie like her mouth does.
She feels me. Every-fucking-where.
"I never said I was," I whisper, moving in closer, the space between us disappearing. "But I think you're lying." My voice drops low, the way that used to make her shiver. I plant my hands on either side of her legs, trapping her between my arms. The concrete digs into my palms but I barely notice. She's so close now I can feel the heat coming off her skin, mixing with the water droplets on my chest. We're close enough that each breath we take feels borrowed from the other.
"You're dreaming," she fires back, a sweet venom in her smile.
She's been weaving through my fucking dreams for years. And what irks me now, despite all the shit between us, is I still want her in ways I shouldn't.
"You know how I know you're full of shit? Your lips say one thing, but your eyes," I lean closer, her breath hitching, "they tell me something else entirely."
There's a charged silence, our energy speaking volumes more than words ever could.
"Wow. I knew you were an asshole but an arrogant one too?" she challenges.
I laugh, real and raw. "You're confusing arrogance for confidence. I'm confident you're full of shit."
"You still know how to get on my nerves.” She flicks water at my face.
"You're welcome." I laugh again, the sound genuine, echoing around us.
She shakes her head, moving to get up from the pool edge. "Goodnight, Nate."
She's retreating to the house, every instinct screaming at me to shut up, but I don't. "I didn't like the way he touched you.” The words tumble out, harsh and raw.
She pauses, turning, shock flitting across her face.
"I'm not sorry I beat the shit out of him," I cut in before she can speak, my voice laden with a gravity I seldom let show. "But I am sorry he touched you. I don't want you to think... I didn't want you to see me like that."
She stares at me blankly.
"And thanks for not ratting me out about the weed," I add after a heavy silence, my voice dropping to a murmur. It feels dumb, trivial even, but it's all I can voice.
She gives me a faint smile. "Guess we're even."
"Goodnight, Leni.” The nickname slips out, a ghost of past closeness.
Her eyes widen, a flash of something vulnerable.
"Night, Nate." She glances back, a lingering look, then disappears inside.
I watch her go, a gnawing loss settling in. Maybe she's just another loss—another ghost in a long line of things I can't hold onto.
The clock hits midnight, and I'm back to being twelve years old, sitting on these same stairs, listening for Mom's key in the lock. Jake would be asleep upstairs, trusting his big brother to keep watch. Some habits are carved too deep to break, like making sure there's aspirin by her bed before she gets home or knowing exactly how to guide her up the stairs without waking the whole house.
Eventually, the front door creaks open. Kat's laughter filters through the hall, along with Mom's slurred words.
"Shh, the kids are asleep." Kat's whisper carries down the hallway.
They stumble past the lounge room, supporting each other in their drunken state.
"Oh, Nate, are you still up?" Kat whispers, half-laughing.
"Natey is always up. He never sleeps, right, honey?" Mom's laugh has that brittle edge I know too well—the one that means she's trying to joke away the guilt.
I get up from the couch, moving on autopilot to support her weight. Jake used to ask why I always waited up, but he stopped questioning it around the same time he stopped waiting with me.
"I'll take it from here," I tell Kat, taking Mom's arm.
Kat nods, relief clear in her eyes. "Thanks, Nate. She's... had a bit too much tonight."
"It's fine," I mutter, leading Mom toward the stairs.
It's not the first time and it won't be the last. She drinks to drown out the pain. I get it, better than anyone.
Every step up the stairs is a familiar dance—me steering, her leaning, both of us pretending this isn't a scene we've played out hundreds of times. I catch our reflection in the hallway mirror: her small frame against my shoulder, my hand steady at her back. We look like what we are—a son trying to hold his mother together, a mother trying to hold onto her pride.
In her room, I help her onto the bed, slipping off her shoes and tucking her in. She mumbles a slurred mess of regrets and apologies.
"Here, Mom," I offer, holding out a glass of water and some aspirin. "Drink this."
She takes a sip, her hand shaking. "Nate... I'm sorry," she slurs, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I wish... I could've been better. Done better for you."
"Don't," I cut her off, my voice firm but tired. "Don't apologize. It's done."
"I'll do better," she promises again, a familiar refrain that doesn't sting as much as it used to.
Her hand reaches out, brushing the bruises on my face gently. "You're nothing like him." Her voice breaks, filled with a mix of pain and something like pride. "You always protect what you love. You're a good boy, Natey," she mumbles, already half-asleep. "Always taking care of everyone."
The words twist something in my chest. If she only knew how badly I've failed at that lately. But I still straighten her covers, making sure there's water within reach, check her phone is charging—all the little things Jake never had to learn because I made sure he didn't have to.
I pause in the doorway, watching her breathing even out. Tomorrow she'll be embarrassed and will try to make it up to me with pancakes or apologies. I'll brush it off like always, protect her from her own guilt the way I've been protecting her from everything else since Scott left.
It hits me then—I learned to swim carrying other people's weight. Maybe that's why I'm drowning now.
Dragging myself back to my room, a decision crystallizes in my mind. It's time to cut the bullshit, to really change. I don't want to be anything like him. Now or ever.
I head straight to the bathroom, my hands shaking as I reach for the last stash of weed and bag of pills I keep tucked away for emergencies. It's been my crutch—a pathetic escape I've clung to for far too long. With grim satisfaction, I dump it into the toilet. Watching it swirl away, I feel a part of me—the weakest part—get flushed down with it. The house falls silent as I crawl into bed, but it's a different kind of quiet now. It's not the oppressive silence that usually suffocates me.
Tonight, there's a hint of peace—a fragile thing I'm not quite used to. It's not perfect, but it's a start. My father broke me long before anyone else even had a chance. That's the truth I've avoided for too long. But acknowledging it—really facing it—is the first real step toward putting myself back together. Tonight, I start rebuilding, not just for them, but for me too.