18. Carnivals And Confrontations
CHAPTER 18
CARNIVALS AND CONFRONTATIONS
NORA
Calling it a distraction would be like calling a hurricane a light breeze. For the past hour, I've been hopelessly replaying Nate's words from our earlier car ride, each syllable etching itself deeper into my consciousness.
It's not about you.
The way he wouldn't meet my eyes, the tense set of his jaw making the muscle tick beneath his skin—none of it sat right. My fingers hover over the keyboard, the blank document's cursor blinking accusingly. Nate's presence weaves through my thoughts like smoke, stubborn and persistent. We said we'd try to be okay, but what does "okay" even mean when every glance between us feels charged with a thousand unspoken words?
I force my eyes back to the screen, its harsh light burning my tired eyes. I should be focused on Alfie's story. When he talked about Gracie, something in me stirred—a flicker of inspiration that's been dead for too long.
Jake's voice cuts through the silence. "If you need a muse for your main character then I volunteer as tribute."
I look up to see him lounging against the doorway, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. The sight of him, so effortlessly casual, makes me smile—this is how simple friendship should be. I laugh, shaking my head, grateful for the momentary escape from my thoughts.
"I'll keep that in mind for the next one. I think I'm onto something. It's not fully formed yet, though."
"Oh?" A grin spreads across his face. "Do tell."
"It's actually about Alfie," I manage, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I went back to the bookstore. He told me more about how him and Gracie met, and it got me thinking about a story I could write. Their story." The words feel inadequate, unable to capture the depth of what I'd witnessed in Alfie's eyes when he spoke of her.
"Well knowing Alfie and the life he's lived, I don't doubt it'll be anything short of incredible. Especially if you're writing it." He winks, his grin turning cheeky.
Jake pulls out a chair, the sound scraping against my nerves. "Are you sure you don't want to hit up the carnival tonight? Could be a good distraction. Might even help spark that idea into life."
I hesitate, then shake my head. "I'm good. I've had my fair share of drama already. Besides, I really want to dive into this story while I'm still feeling inspired."
He settles in, looking thoughtful, his blue eyes studying me in that way that makes me wonder if he sees right through my excuses.
"Fair enough. But if you change your mind, I'll come back and get you."
"How was your day, anyway?" I ask, partly to change the subject, partly to stop my mind from wandering back to Nate.
"Good, actually," Jake begins, leaning forward. "Nate was... different today. Better. Guess getting his ass kicked did him some good." There's a teasing lilt to his voice, but his eyes are serious, watching me like he's waiting for something to crack.
Just hearing Nate's name makes my heart skip a beat—a familiar stumble I've grown to hate. The car ride floods back in vivid detail—his half-apologies hanging in the air like mist, his confusing signals ricocheting off the walls I've built around myself. I feel a sharp pang of longing mixed with frustration. He had said sorry, kind of, but it wasn't enough. Memories of last summer surface unexpectedly—the night that changed everything. I'd needed him, believing with every fiber of my being that he'd be there like he always was.
But he wasn't. That absence, that silence on the other end of the phone, had shattered something inside me I hadn't realized existed until I was holding the broken pieces.
I hadn't told him about that night, how I'd cried into the silence until my throat was raw, feeling foolish and abandoned. He had always been my rock; the one person I believed would be there without judgment. But when I needed him the most, he wasn't there.
The worst part?
He doesn't remember any of it.
Or at least, he pretends not to.
That was the moment it hit me. Life can shatter you into pieces so small you don't recognize yourself anymore, and no one is immune to that pain. Staying open, even when you're hollowed out by hurt is a choice that feels like trying to breathe underwater.
Then, Dad passed away.
Just when I thought I couldn't break any further, the final piece of my heart cracked. I nearly let myself drown in that grief, let it pull me under like a riptide. You hold onto things, onto moments, thinking you've got forever to memorize the sound of someone's laugh or the way they say your name. But everything is temporary.
That includes Nate.
I wanted to confront him earlier today. Sitting in the car with him while his hands were clenched around the steering wheel just added to the thick tension suffocating the air between us. I wanted to scream, demand to know why he abandoned me, then proceeded to act like I didn't exist. But all I managed was to ask why he'd been ignoring me. As if it was just about the distance, the silence from the beginning of this summer. Not about the gaping void his absence had left over the past year.
I muster a small smile, murmuring, "That's good."
Jake studies me for a moment. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, just tired," I lie smoothly, and he lets it slide.
After dinner, as our moms head out for their night, while the boys take off for the carnival, I settle back at the table outside, determined to immerse myself in writing. The house falls silent, filled only with the soft hum of the dishwasher and occasional creak of the floorboards.
Outside, the air is warm, thick with the scent of grass and salt from the lake. Crickets chirp softly, their sounds weaving into the night's calm. The sky stretches vast and navy above, dotted with stars, traces of sunset lingering at the horizon in stubborn strokes of purple and blue. Trees stand still, their leaves whispering secrets in the gentle breeze. Everything feels distant, simpler. Tonight, at least, the world is quiet, and I am at peace with its silence.
As I stare at the blinking cursor, trying to find words that could capture a love as deep as Alfie and Gracie's, the sudden sound of footsteps on the stairs sends a jolt through me. My heart hitches—I was sure I was alone. Looking up, I see Nate walking into the kitchen. The light falls across his strong jaw and angled features, casting subtle shadows that play up the intense look in his deep-set eyes. He's dressed casually in a black t-shirt that fits snugly across his broad shoulders, complemented by a backwards baseball cap that somehow adds to his rakish charm.
"I thought you'd gone to the carnival," he comments casually as he heads for the fridge.
"I need a break from crowds and drama," I respond, eyeing him warily. He moves with a familiarity that seems out of place after our strained talk. "Why didn't you go?"
He shrugs, leaning against the counter. "Same reasons."
I tilt my head, studying him. "Don't enjoy crowds and cotton candy?"
He lets out a laugh, then his jaw tightens. "When I was ten, yeah." He avoids eye contact, and I suspect it's because of our earlier conversation. "Where've you been hiding all day?"
"Just around, trying to find the right spot to write," I admit, aware of his intense focus. "Still haven't found it, so I'm settling for here tonight. At least the view's decent."
His eyes drift to my computer, curiosity flickering across his face. "What are you working on?"
It feels odd talking like this—almost normal, as if we're skirting around deeper issues, both of us waiting for the other to drop their guard again.
“Remember Alfie from the bookstore in town?" I say, leaning back. "He inspired something in me today."
A slow grin spreads across Nate's face, unexpectedly gentle. "You know, my favorite story you ever wrote was the one about Daisy and Archer's adventures to Illyria."
I blink, taken aback. "You remember that?"
"Yeah, well," he laughs, “it cost me six packets of Skittles to read it because you wouldn't let anyone see it."
A laugh escapes me, tinged with nostalgia. "And I only ate the yellow ones."
His eyes light up with familiar mischief. "Are they still your favorite?"
Yes, they are.
Just like that, amidst the familiar banter, a sliver of the past slips in, reminding me why it's hard to completely shut him out. Because sometimes, in moments like these, he's still the boy who traded candy for stories, who knew exactly how to make me smile—and that boy still has the power to break my heart all over again.
"It was good. Hard to believe a nine-year-old wrote it," he says, his tone laden with sincerity I haven't heard since before everything fell apart.
He steps closer, his movements careful, almost cautious. I feel the heat radiating from his body, the air between us crackling with electricity that quickens my pulse. His breath fans my cheek, warm and familiar, and though he hasn't touched me yet, it feels like he's tracing lines of fire across my skin. The scent of him—pine and soap, and something uniquely Nate—wraps around me like a memory I've tried too hard to forget.
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "But then again, you've always seen the world differently…” he trails off, looking away for a split second, struggling with his words. Then, like a switch being flipped, his expression shifts. He smirks—a dark, knowing smirk that makes my heart stumble even as my mind screams warnings. "It's why I'm not surprised you don't have a boyfriend."
Wait, what?
Just like that, the spell shatters. The walls slam back up—his and mine—fortified by years of practice at keeping each other at arm's length.
"Wow, you're a royal jackass," I snap, pushing past him, trying to shake off the sting of his words and the lingering warmth of his proximity.
But before I make it far, his hand gently clasps my arm, pulling me back. His touch zaps through me like lightning, my body tensing as if bracing for a storm. His eyes lock onto mine, filled with a sincerity that seems to pierce right through my armor.
"I didn't mean it like that," he murmurs, his voice low and steady, tinged with vulnerability that throws me off balance. The kitchen light catches the gold flecks in his eyes, making them appear like amber caught in sunlight.
"What I mean is you find depth where others skim the surface," he continues, his voice soft but firm. "I guess not everyone can handle that." His thumb traces an absent pattern on my arm where he's still holding me, probably unaware he's even doing it.
"Your eyes light up when you talk about what fires you up," he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, intimate as a confession. "And you're not scared to push against the grain. You just... live. And that scares people."
I stare at him blankly, unsure what to say. His words envelop me like a warm tide, threatening to sweep away my defenses.
"And that's what I admire most about you."
The moment stretches taut between us. I'm teetering on the edge of something indefinable, my emotions tangled and raw. Then, abruptly, he breaks the tension.
"Want to go to the carnival?" he suggests, his voice unexpectedly light, though something darker still lingers in his eyes.
"What?"
"The carnival," he clarifies, a casual hand slipping into his pocket. "Do you want to go?"
"Together? With you?" The question slips out before I can catch it, still reeling from the quick shift from intensity to nonchalance.
He glances around theatrically, though his eyes keep finding their way back to me. "Well, unless you see someone else lurking around here that would be better company..."
I roll my eyes, though his playful tone coaxes a reluctant smile from me. His earlier words hang in the air between us, warming me despite my reservations.
"Okay, fine," I concede, snapping my computer shut. "But I'm driving."
"Yeah, no. That's not happening."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's not."
"Hand over the keys," I demand, arms folded as I extend my hand expectantly.
He chuckles, head shaking. The sound wraps around me like warm honey. "As reckless as I can be, I still value my life, thank you very much."
I feign outrage, though my heart skips at the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "You diss my non-existent love life and now doubt my driving? Seriously?"
He leans closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes my breath catch. "I'm just saying, I haven't witnessed your driving firsthand. Yet."
We lock eyes, the challenge clear between us, crackling with an energy that feels dangerous and familiar all at once.
"Compromise," he finally offers, still smirking. "You can control the music tonight. And about driving, maybe later this summer I'll give you a lesson. Then you can take the Mustang for a spin."
"Deal," I relent, brushing past him with a playful nudge that sends electricity shooting through my arm. "But I will be driving that car before summer's over."
His laughter echoes behind me as we head out, rich and warm as sunshine. A lightness blossoms in my chest despite the earlier tension, despite knowing better, despite everything. Because with Nate, it's always been like this—a dangerous dance between what we say and what we mean, between what we want and what we can have.
The vintage radio of Nate’s Mustang crackles with static, setting a backdrop of nostalgia. My fingers find the dial, dancing across its worn surface until the unmistakable opening riff of "Mr. Brightside" crashes through the speakers.
Nate lets out a low, amused chuckle that sends warmth spreading through my chest. His eyes catch mine for a split second in the dim dashboard light, and something electric passes between us. I turn the volume up until the bass thrums through my bones, and dive headfirst into the lyrics, singing with the kind of abandon that only comes when you're either completely broken or perfectly whole.
I glance over and catch Nate trying to hide a full-on grin, his usual cool demeanor melting away. The sight of him like this, guard down and genuine, makes my heart stumble over itself. His smile is contagious, spreading through me like wildfire, and suddenly my spirits are soaring higher than they have in forever.
The wind rushes through the open window, tangling my hair as I belt out the lyrics with a freedom I haven't felt in months. Nate's fingers tap rhythmically on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and me like he can't quite help himself. I catch him watching and flash a quick, carefree smile between lines, pretending not to notice how his breath catches slightly. The song dwindles into its last notes, leaving me breathless and giggling. Nate shakes his head, a lopsided grin breaking through his usual reserve, and my heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when he looks at me like that.
"That was... something," he chuckles, the warmth in his tone wrapping around me.
I sink deeper into the cool leather, feeling its smooth embrace—trying to hold onto this moment like it might slip away if I breathe too hard. "It's my favorite song," I say, my voice riding that thin line between vulnerability and defiance.
He shoots me a look. That knowing smirk that does something ridiculous to my insides—makes my stomach twist and my heart do these stupid little somersaults.
"You don't have a favorite song," he says. Not a question. A statement.
"Uh, yeah I do."
His eyes are doing that thing. That infuriating thing where he's picking me apart, seeing right through me.
"You think you have one single favorite song?" he asks, leaning in closer. His voice drops—soft, conspiratorial—close enough that I can smell his cologne mixing with leather, close enough that my breath catches.
"I just told you it is," I retort, but we both know I'm losing whatever argument this is.
"Nora..." The way he says my name—god. "I know you. And I know you don't have a favorite song."
He's right, and we both know it. Songs aren't static for me. They're living, breathing things—snapshots of emotions, little time capsules that capture exactly how it feels to be alive in a single, perfect moment.
"You have songs for moments," he continues. "Songs that resonate with what you're feeling right then."
And shit if he isn't completely correct.
His observation hangs in the air between us, weighty as a confession, and I find myself momentarily speechless. I turn away, staring out at the passing lights that blur like shooting stars, trying to mask how his words stir something deep within me. It's ludicrous to think he might know me better than I know myself. Yet, as the engine hums beneath us, I can't shake the feeling that he might be right.
"Tell me I'm wrong," he says softly, confidence in his voice making my skin prickle.
"You're wrong," I reply, my voice weaker than I'd like.
"You're lying," he laughs softly, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
"I am not," I insist, putting on a defiant front.
"Then why did you just scrunch your nose?" he points out with a gentle tease.
I blink, taken aback. "My nose?"
"When you lie, you scrunch your nose." His tone softens, filled with an affectionate familiarity that aches. "You know how I know that?"
I remain silent, the atmosphere thickening around us. He watches me, his gaze intense, silently urging me to look at him. When our eyes meet, there's a gravity in his look that has always drawn me in.
"Because I know you," he whispers, the space between us charged with an unspoken understanding.
The words hit me harder than they should, slicing through the air with an accuracy that's almost cruel. I hate that he's right, and how he's always been able to see through me like I'm made of crystal.
And the worst part?
He knows it.
I feel my cheeks heating up, that familiar prickling of vulnerability spreading under my skin. He smirks, an infuriatingly triumphant expression painting his face as he leans in close enough that I can count his eyelashes in the passing streetlights.
"Your poker face sucks, Leni. It's what makes you such a terrible liar."
My heart skips at the way he says my nickname—it's soft, almost reverent, and it jerks me back to a time I thought I'd packed away in the dusty corners of my memory. Nobody has called me that since Dad was around. And he's used it more times in the space of three days than anyone else has in over a year. Hearing it now, from him, feels like a punch to the gut, like jumping into deep water, or falling without knowing where you'll land.
Does he even realize what that does to me?
Does he understand the weight that name carries, the flood of memories it unleashes?
I sneak a look at him, my eyes flickering up through my lashes, wondering how he sees me. Do I still look like that awkward eleven-year-old with braces and glasses, trailing behind him like a lost star in his orbit? Or does he see something more, something beyond just little Leni?
It's almost laughable this dance we do.
Here I am, trying to catch glimpses of him like stolen moments, desperately hoping he'll see me the way I see him. Yet, the moment our eyes meet, I have to look away, scared he might see too much, might read the story written in my eyes like pages from a diary I never meant to share.
It all feels too real, too raw, like a nerve exposed to open air. The truth is, to Nate, I might just be a chapter in his life—a brief story from his past, pages he's already turned.
But to me?
Nate Sullivan has always been the whole damn book.