22. Pieces Of A Puzzle
CHAPTER 22
PIECES OF A PUZZLE
NORA
It's been a few days since the carnival, and the tension between Nate and me has started to dissipate. The awkward pauses are becoming rare, giving way to the easy talks we used to have. Things feel lighter now, almost hopeful.
Needing a change of scenery, I grab my laptop and head to Corrigan's Bakery. The moment I push open the door, the aroma of fresh coffee and vanilla envelops me. The comforting murmur of conversation fills the space, and the familiar tinkle of the bell above the door welcomes me in. I spot a cozy table by the window where sunlight pools on worn wood.
I've been here for hours, alternating between typing furiously and people-watching, with coffee as my steady companion. The afternoon light has shifted to gold when a familiar voice cuts through the café's gentle buzz.
"Nora?"
I turn to find Mia, effortlessly stylish as always, but there's something in her expression—a flash of genuine warmth that catches me off guard. She cradles her coffee cup like precious cargo.
"Mia, hey," I say, brightening despite myself. "Want to sit?"
She smiles, her dark hair catching the light. "Actually, I was just grabbing a quick bite before heading home. You could come over if you're free? It's a ten-minute walk. I could use the company."
There's something in her tone—a hint of vulnerability that makes the invitation feel weightier than casual plans. I pack up my laptop, intrigued by this glimpse beneath her polished exterior.
"Yeah, sure." I had no other plans except maybe drowning in more coffee at home.
Walking with Mia, the conversation flows naturally, though there's an undercurrent of something more, like looking in a mirror and seeing familiar cracks. She opens up about her life: elite boarding schools where success meant perfect scores, relentless academic pressures, and a nomadic existence following her father's business demands. Her stories scatter across continents, each city seeming to have taken a piece of her with it.
When we round the corner, I freeze. The house before us isn't just large, it's something from a luxury magazine. Marble steps gleam, leading to regal columns that stretch skyward. Expansive windows, framed by pristine shutters, reflect the late afternoon light.
"Uhh, this is your house?" I blurt out, unable to mask my astonishment.
Mia gives a small, strained smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Yeah," she says, typing in a gate code with practiced efficiency. "I know, it's a bit... much."
"Mia, this place looks like it's straight out of The Great Gatsby ." I laugh.
Her laugh is light, but her eyes flicker with a mix of pride and resignation as she looks back at her home. "It's beautiful, but being an only child in a house like this sometimes feels like living in a museum where you can't touch anything."
The garden feels staged, too perfect—no weathered decorations, no evidence of life being lived.
Mia's voice drops when she mentions her dad. "He's... intense. Big shot in business. Forbes 100 and all that.”
"You never mentioned your dad was..."
"The CEO of one of the biggest tech companies out there?" Mia finishes, her smirk tinged with irony. "Yeah, I don't usually start with that. Makes people act weird. Like suddenly they're talking to my father's bank account instead of me."
"Forbes 100 is pretty impressive though. "
She exhales heavily. "Honestly, most days I don't even get what he does. Growing up with all this..." She gestures at our surroundings. "Everyone you meet tends to want something from you, not just friendship. It's like being a fancy store display—everyone wants to look, but nobody really sees you."
I've only known Mia for just over a week, but hearing her open up makes her more real. She's not just the girl with perfect grades and a rich family—she's been under pressure her whole life, trying to meet impossible standards.
"You know," she continues softly, "I used to just hole up in my room with my books studying till sunrise. It wasn't about loving school; it was the only thing I felt I could control."
Makes two of us.
"I'm sorry," she says suddenly, looking embarrassed. "I don't usually talk about this stuff."
"No, I'm really glad you did," I tell her, feeling the weight of my own guarded nature.
As we step inside, the house is more showcase than home—high ceilings, museum-worthy art, and furniture that looks untouched. I turn to Mia. "For what it's worth, I really don't care about any of this. I'm just happy we're friends."
Her smile then is one of the realest things I've seen in a long time. "Me too."
Walking through the house, the walls display family portraits—young Mia in each one, wearing that kind of smile that's more pose than joy. She flops onto a pristine couch, tucking her legs under her.
"I've always kind of felt like the odd one out," she admits. "Even at boarding school, I never really meshed with everyone else."
"Why not?"
She looks off into space, lost in memory. "I was always a homebody, never cared much for the party scene. And I loved riding horses. It was my escape from feeling alone."
“Well I’m glad you found something you love that much."
Her smile brightens momentarily but fades. “I think I’m finally okay with being an outsider. The girls at school just didn't understand. Eventually, I stopped trying to make them."
"I get that. After we lost my dad, trying to fit in anywhere felt... wrong somehow."
We sit in comfortable silence until she brightens with an idea.
"You know what we need? A real girls' night. Just us, and Marcus. I think he’d kill us if we didn’t invite him."
I laugh, feeling lighter. "A sleepover sounds perfect."
I don’t expect anyone to be back at the house when I get home. Jake had texted that he and Ollie were getting pizza, and Lydia and Mom were downtown. Music drifts from the spare living room—Guns N' Roses, "November Rain," filling the space with nostalgic chords.
I find Nate sprawled on the floor, focused on a jigsaw puzzle scattered across the coffee table, pieces catching the late afternoon light. His brow is furrowed in concentration, fingers moving with unexpected gentleness.
"What are you doing?" I ask, struck by the sight of him—usually so carefully composed—lost in something so simple.
He looks up, a playful smirk crossing his lips. "A puzzle," he answers, his tone suggesting deeper meanings.
"A puzzle? To 'November Rain'?"
"It's cheaper than therapy." His grin broadens into something genuine that makes my heart skip.
"Can I help?"
"Sure."
We settle into comfortable silence, the clink of puzzle pieces filling the room. The tension between us dissolves as we work, like we're rebuilding something lost, finding each missing part of a bigger picture.
"Ever feel like you're missing pieces?" Nate asks, after a minute of silence.
I study his face, wondering if he means more than just the puzzle. "Sometimes," I begin, turning a piece over in my hands. "But I think that's the thing about life—just like a puzzle, we can't force pieces to fit just because we think they should, and sometimes the picture we're trying to create isn't even the one we're meant to make. Maybe the missing pieces aren't really missing at all; they're just not part of our puzzle."
He looks up, his eyes catching mine with an intensity that steals my breath. The soft light paints his face in gold and shadow, making him look both younger and older at once.
"That's... actually profound," he says softly.
"Well, I am a writer,” I smile, half-joking but serious.
"That you are." He lets silence stretch between us before asking, "How's the writing going anyway?"
I fidget with a puzzle piece, avoiding his eyes. "I really think I might have something."
"Is that what you're planning to submit for the scholarship?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "How did you know about that?"
"I saw the application on the table. Wasn't snooping, promise."
"I... I'm not sure I'm ready."
His eyes hold mine, refusing to let go. The heat in my cheeks starts to slowly surface.
How the hell does he do that?
"Being ready is bullshit. You're never truly ready for things that scare you."
"So then how do you know when to go for it?"
"When the thrill outweighs the fear, that's your moment. If it scares you, it's probably worth it." He focuses on the puzzle. "Besides, you're an incredible writer. It's time you believed that."
My heart races. "What if they don't like what I write?"
"Then fuck 'em."
"Nate, you don't??—"
He leans forward, eyes intense. "They will love it and you."
"I can't fail. Not at this," I whisper, vulnerability raw in my voice.
"You won't fail," he insists, closer now, his Armani cologne making my head spin. "You know why? Because you're the girl who, when she sets her mind to something, doesn't back down."
His confidence is both terrifying and exhilarating.
"Want to know my prediction? You're going to be a world-renowned author. Bestsellers, translations, interviews... And I'll be here, saying, 'Remember that time we were trying to do that puzzle, and I told you so?'"
I laugh, warmth spreading through me like sunrise. "What's it meant to be?" I ask, studying the scattered pieces.
"Big Ben and the River Thames." His smirk is mischievous.
I place a piece that fits perfectly.
"Maybe it's a sign. The pieces might be aligning for you in plain sight," he says, looking up through those ridiculous eyelashes, his defined jawline and dimples making my mouth go dry.
"Do you still play?" I ask suddenly, needing to shift focus.
His smile fades. "I quit football a while ago..."
"I meant music. Do you still play?"
The haunted look in his eyes makes my heart crack. "I- I haven't touched a guitar in years."
His words throw me back to summer days—his guitar singing through open windows, Def Leppard riffs and Oasis tracks painting the air gold. His playing was effortless then, natural as breathing, passion evident in every note. Seeing him let it go is like watching someone dim their own light.
"I miss it," I confess, ache vivid in my voice. "Hearing you play."
Shock and vulnerability war in his eyes. "You do?"
"Yeah, I do." Struck by sudden inspiration, I offer, "Okay, how about this. I'll submit my scholarship application... if you start playing again."
Something raw flickers across his features. "I don't have my guitar anymore."
"We'll find you one."
He studies me for a long moment before a genuine smile breaks through. "I'm not getting out of this, am I?"
I hold out my pinky finger—a childhood gesture that feels both ridiculous and profound. "Nope, especially if you pinky swear right now."
He laughs softly, rich with memory. "We only made pinky swears for promises we intended to keep."
"I know," I reply, surprising myself with my confidence. "And we're going to keep this one."
As our pinkies link—his warm and calloused, mine small and determined—it feels like more than just a childhood ritual. It feels like a bridge being rebuilt, like finding a missing puzzle piece. Surrounded by scattered jigsaw pieces and the fading notes of "November Rain," we're making a promise to stop running from the things that make us whole, to start believing in the possibility of putting broken things back together.
Some promises are made to be broken, but this one?
This one feels like the beginning of something real, something that might just save us both.