29. The Quiet Destruction
CHAPTER 29
THE QUIET DESTRUCTION
NATE
I wake up drenched in sweat, sheets tangled around me like a vice. My heart pounds against my ribs while the pre-dawn air sits thick and heavy in my lungs. The nightmares are always waiting, lurking just beneath my eyelids, ready to drag me back into that darkness the moment I let my guard down.
It's always him. The crack of his fist meeting bone, the thunder of my own pulse drowning out everything else. That look in his eyes right before impact—cold, detached, like I wasn't even his son.
4:48 AM glares at me from the bedside clock. I push off the sheets, but the remnants of the dream cling to my skin like tar. Without the drugs, everything's sharper, more visceral. The screams—Mom's screams—echo in my head with perfect clarity now. There's nowhere to hide anymore.
It wasn't always like this. Back when I was numbing myself with whatever I could get my hands on, the memories stayed buried, fuzzy around the edges. But now? Now they're in HD, surround sound, playing on repeat. My legs shake as I stumble to my feet, running trembling hands over my face. I've gotten good at hiding it all: the sleepless nights, the tremors, the constant gnawing need that lives in my bones. I can't afford to crack now. Not when things are finally shifting. Not when I'm starting to believe that maybe I'm capable of not destroying everything I touch.
But fuck, the withdrawals are hell.
Every nerve ending feels like a live wire, muscles seizing up like they're trying to tear free from my body. The headaches drill into my skull, and nausea rolls through me in waves. It would be so easy to make it stop. Just one pill. But I can't. I won't.
Instead, I let the nightmares remind me of who I am—still that helpless kid who couldn't fight back, who never managed to protect the people who needed him. Only now, there's nothing to dull the edges of that truth.
The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I expect: a fucking train wreck. Dark circles carve shadows under my eyes, skin pale as a ghost. I lean against the sink, studying the stranger staring back at me. He's a mess, but at least he's trying. The cold water hits my face like needles, and I welcome the sting. It grounds me to this moment, but my mind drifts anyway—to her.
Fuck.
I wrap a towel around my waist, bare skin still damp—who the hell would be awake now?
Wrong.
She's awake.
Of course she's awake and she’s pressed up against me.
My brain short-circuits. All that separates us right now is her sports bra, skin-tight shorts and my towel. Sweat from her run is making her glisten like something dangerous. Those eyes—they're wild. Hunted. I know that look. I've worn it my whole life. Running. Always running.
Nora freezes.
I freeze.
We're this weird snapshot of tension, while every breath I’m trying to take is catching in my throat. Close enough to feel her heat, to count the way her chest rises and falls.
I drop to retrieve her phone, and fuck me. Being on my knees for her changes everything. The angle. The vulnerability. All I can think is how easy it would be to press her against the wall and taste the mix of sweat and desperation on her skin. She's beautiful like this, raw and unguarded. Strength coiled tight beneath her surface.
After getting her fresh towels, we part ways, but my mind keeps circling back to one thought:
What would Nora say if she knew everything?
Would she still look at me the same way? Still trust me?
Still let me be someone she feels safe enough to turn to?
I don't know. I'm not sure I want to find out.
The sunroom smells of dust and forgotten things, morning light filtering through cracked blinds to illuminate years of careful avoidance. I roll up my sleeves, surveying the cluttered space. Boxes crowd every corner, each one filled with memories we tried to bury. I want to give Nora somewhere quiet to write, and this room—this shadowed corner we've long abandoned—feels destined for transformation.
My muscles protest as I start clearing boxes, exhaustion gnawing at my bones, but I welcome the distraction. This is for her. That thought alone keeps me moving.
Something catches my eye as I shift a heavy box—photo frames, hastily packed away like someone couldn't bear to look at them anymore. I pull one out, wiping away years of dust with my thumb. There we are—me, Jake, Mom, and... him. Dad. We're smiling: the perfect Sullivan family portrait.
What a fucking joke.
Every smile was a performance, every pose carefully arranged to maintain the illusion. The cracks were already there, spreading beneath the surface like spider webs, but we painted over them again and again. Broken glass held together with cheap glue and cheaper lies.
My hands shake as I stare at my father's face, his proud grin making my stomach turn. The frame slips, shattering against hardwood in a spray of glass and splintered wood. I stare at the pieces, breathing hard. The metaphor isn't lost on me—cracks everywhere, in the glass, in my family, in me. No matter how hard we try to piece things back together, the breaks are always visible.
After hours of work, the room looks different.
Still rough, but with potential. I decide to take a break and head toward the kitchen.
The note on the fridge is in Mom's neat script:
Went out with the girls for the morning.
I down a glass of orange juice, letting the cold calm the heat in my chest. A few weeks ago, this would've been mostly vodka. Progress, I guess.
Jake's call pulls me from my thoughts, waves crashing in the background of his voice.
"Can you pick up Mom and the girls from Criniti's? Ollie and I won't make it back in time."
"Sure," I answer, already grabbing my keys.
I find Mom and Kat giggling on the curb like teenagers, swaying slightly as they stumble toward the car. Seeing Mom like this—light, unburdened—stirs something hopeful in my chest. But a knot forms in my stomach at the sight of her glassy eyes, her midday intoxication another reminder of her fragility. I can't ignore the unease creeping through me, it's a contradicting tangle of relief and worry.
"Our knight in shining armor!" Kat throws her arms up dramatically as they pile in.
"Where's Nora?" I scan the street.
Kat grins from the backseat. "She went to the bathroom about five minutes ago. Must be a line. She'll be out any minute."
"Stay here," I tell them, already climbing out of the car. Something feels off.
Inside Criniti's, I spot them immediately—Connor and his crew, harassing a waitress with their usual brand of entitled bullshit. My fists clench at my sides. Then Nora appears, pale as chalk, like she's seen a ghost. She stops short when she sees me, something fragile in her expression.
"Nate?" Her voice wavers. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm your ride." I study her face. "You good?"
She nods too quickly. "Yeah. Let's just go."
But before we can leave, a voice cuts through the restaurant noise—unfamiliar to me, but Nora goes rigid at the sound.
"Lenora Wells, is that you?"
The guy who approaches screams old money—perfectly styled hair, designer polo, country club smile. Everything about him sets off warning bells in my head, especially the way Nora shrinks from his attention.
"E-Evan?" Her voice trembles on his name.
Evan.
Something dark coils in my gut as I watch him eye her like a prize he's already won.
"What are the chances of running into you here? You're looking good." His tone makes my skin crawl. "Oh, come on, Nora. Why aren't you as happy to see me as I am to see you?"
I step between them, blocking his view.
"We're having a conversation here," he clips.
"No, you were monologuing. Takes two for a conversation, Ethan."
"It's Evan."
"Don't care."
"Someone's possessive," he sneers.
The last thread of my patience snaps. “You’re done talking to her. Turn around and leave.”
My voice drops low, dangerous.
Connor steps in as Evan backs off. "Take it easy, Sullivan. My cousin here was just being friendly." He turns to Evan. "Let's go, before he decides to throw another cheap shot."
I scoff. Nothing cheap about that shot.
"I'll be seeing you Nora." Evan winks as he retreats, and it takes everything in me not to put him through a wall.
"Nate," Nora whispers, her heart pounding so hard I can almost hear it. "Please, can we just go?"
Outside, I study her face—the fear in her eyes cuts deeper than any knife.
"Who was that?"
The question comes out harder than I mean it to, but seeing her like this, shaken and pale, makes something dark curl in my chest. She wraps her arms around herself, a defensive gesture that makes my jaw clench.
"No one."
"Didn't look like no one." I step closer, keeping my voice low. "How do you kn??—"
"Drop it. Please?"
Everything about this makes me feel uneasy, but I don't push her to talk.
"Fine, let's go." We head towards the carpark in silence until she breaks it.
"I thought you were going to hit him," she says and there's something in her tone I can't read.
I was.
The moms are too drunk to notice the tension in the car, but I see how Nora sits rigid beside me, staring out the window like she's trying to hold herself together. Her breathing comes in short bursts, and she won't look my way.
"You two are awfully quiet up there," Mom slurs.
"Long day," I shoot her a look in the rearview.
"Long day? It's not even 1 PM!"
Yeah. And look at the state you’re in.
I can't get home fast enough. Right now, all I can think about is figuring out who the fuck Evan is and what he did to put that look in Nora's eyes. I've felt rage before, but this is different—deeper, darker, threatening to pull me under.
The drive passes in tense silence, Nora staring out the window while our moms chat obliviously in the front seats, the wine from lunch making them loose and giggly. I keep glancing at her profile, trying to read what's going on behind those walls she's put up.
When we finally pull into the driveway, our moms stumble out first, arms linked as they make their way to the front door, still reminiscing about something from their college days. The sound of their laughter feels jarringly out of place against the heaviness hanging between Nora and me.
As they disappear inside, I reach for Nora's wrist without thinking. She flinches away like my touch burns.
The pieces click together—her reaction to Evan, her recent edge.
"Nora, did he..." My voice drops low. "Did he hurt you?"
"No."
Her response is too quick, too defensive.
"Then how do you know him?"
"He's just someone from school, Nate. That's it." Her voice strains against something bigger. "I-I don't know why he's here."
I step closer, she steps back. Like she's afraid of me. But when our eyes meet, her expression softens.
"I notice, you know."
"Notice what?" she asks.
"How you flinch when someone touches you. The other day, when you were crying—was it because of him? You saw him that day, didn't you?"
Anger flashes in her eyes. "Stop, Nate. Just drop it."
"Nora—"
"I said stop!" She backs away, voice raw. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk to you. I just... I just need to be alone."
The words hit like a slap. And I've copped a few of those in my lifetime, but this one stung a little more than I expected it to. I watch her retreat inside, the cool breeze doing nothing to calm the noise in my head. Evan did something to her. I feel it in my bones. But I can't help her if she keeps pushing me away.
Hours pass before I decide to leave my room and head downstairs. There’s only so much overthinking a person can do before they drive themselves to the point of insanity. The TV casts soft shadows across the living room as I find Mom in her usual spot—half-conscious on the couch, wine glass teetering on the coffee table's edge. For a moment, I just watch her, aching for the woman she used to be, the one who lit up rooms with her presence. But that person's long gone, buried under years of disappointment and carefully hidden addiction.
I move the glass to safety and drape a blanket over her. She stirs, blinking up at me with unfocused eyes.
"Nate?" Her voice is thick with sleep and wine. I sink down beside her, chest tight at the sight of her pale face. "You didn't have to??—"
"I got it, Mom," I cut her off gently, knowing this well-worn path.
She shifts, gripping my hand with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispers, breaking. "I know I haven't been... I haven't been what you deserved."
I close my eyes against the familiar ache. It's the same guilt, same apology, same regret. But it's too late.
"It's okay," I lie, like always.
"No, it's not." She squeezes my hand, breath uneven. "You've done so much. Looked after Jake, taken care of me. You've been more of a parent than I ever was. I'm so sorry, honey. You deserved better."
The words shake something in me, unearthing memories I've tried to bury. Nights spent waiting up, only to find her stumbling through the door reeking of alcohol. Covering her with blankets when she couldn't make it upstairs. Holding my breath, praying Jake wouldn't wake to see her like this. I was just a kid, but I had to be more. I had to be the one holding everything together.
My mind drifts to that night when I was sixteen, cramming for calculus and found her in the bathroom. She'd emptied a bottle of gin, then moved on to wine. I spent hours beside her, holding her hair back, listening to slurred apologies and bitter truths.
"You're so much more than I ever could have wished for," she'd said between retches. "You're too good for this world, my sweet boy."
The story spilled out that night—her alcoholic father, her mother's parade of boyfriends.
She never stood a chance, really.
She was broken long before I was born.
She met Scott at a college party, back when she still had light in her eyes. Scott Sullivan, with his polished name and family reputation, fell hard for her. His parents hated her—she wasn't good enough for their world of wealth and status. But they married anyway, and for a while, things were good. She loved him completely, but he chipped away at her until that light went out.
She thought I didn't know about the cheating, the endless string of women, the drugs I found evidence of—empty bottles, bags of white powder. When I confronted him, I wasn't expecting an apology, but I wasn't ready for the fury either. He threw me into a wall so hard I blacked out. Woke up with a concussion that cost me two weeks of football. Our relationship died that day.
I've been stuck here since, caught between the love I wanted to feel and the hate that's consumed me. Through it all, I had to shield Jake and protect him from seeing the ugliness of our family. I became the parent, the one who carried the weight of our dysfunction.
"I should have done more. Should have protected you better," Mom says softly, breaking. "I'm so sorry, Nate. For everything."
I nod, but the words won't come. I can't tell her it's okay, that I've forgiven her for staying, because I'm not sure I ever will. But I do what I've always done—I take care of her. Pull the blanket higher, sit with her until she sleeps.
And then, like every night before, I carry the weight in silence.