37. Reckonings
CHAPTER 37
RECKONINGS
NATE
When I pull up to Farrah's house, the porch light casts shadows that dance across the weathered steps like warning signs I should leave. It's late—too late for this conversation. But I can't keep living this lie, can't keep pretending what Farrah and I have is anything but poison dressed up as a relationship. My hands tremble on the steering wheel, and I force them still.
The engine dies with a soft whimper, leaving me in silence, broken only by my thundering heartbeat. Each breath feels like borrowed time as I stare at that front door, knowing what waits behind it—the beginning of an end I should've initiated months ago. The walk up the steps feel like crossing a minefield. When Shay answers the door, her eyes narrow with the kind of judgment that comes from watching someone make the same mistakes on repeat. The air around her crackles with unspoken accusations.
"Is Farrah here? I need to talk to her." My voice comes out steadier than I feel, a small victory.
She shrugs, but there's tension in her shoulders as she calls out, "Farrah! It's Nate." The words echo through the house like a death knell.
The rhythmic click of heels against hardwood announces Farrah's descent. She appears at the top of the stairs in one of her signature dresses, the fabric clinging like a second skin. But where I once saw allure, I now see armor—protection against a world she's determined to conquer, no matter the cost.
"Well, look who decided to show up." Her smirk is razor-sharp, cutting through the space between us. "Didn't think I was gonna hear from you tonight. No text, no call."
She moves down the stairs with practiced grace, each step a performance. When she leans in to kiss me, I step back, my hand rising between us like a shield. The gesture feels both defensive and definitive.
"Can we talk? In private?"
Her eyes flash—a predator sensing prey slipping away. "That sounds serious." The mockery in her tone can't quite mask the venom underneath.
My silence answers for me, and I watch as playful contempt morphs into pure fury.
"You think you're breaking up with me?" Her laugh is winter frost creeping across glass—cold, spreading, destructive.
I draw in a breath that tastes like courage.
"I'm not thinking about it. It's official, we're done. Whatever this fucked-up thing between us is needs to stop."
"No." The word drops between us like a gauntlet.
"What do you mean, no?"
Her arms cross, a barrier between us that feels more symbolic than physical. "I mean, no. We're not breaking up, Nate. You don't get to walk away from me. We both decide when this ends, and guess what? It's not over."
My fingers rake through my hair, frustration building like steam in a pressure cooker. "Farrah, this isn't working. We're not good for each other. You've known that for a long time."
She steps closer, and there's something dark swimming in those eyes—something that's always been there, but I've chosen to ignore. "Don't pull that 'we're not good for each other' bullshit. You're always the one that comes crawling back."
"It's not happening," I say, my voice rising with the tide of emotions I've kept bottled up. "I'm done. I don't want this, and I don't want you calling or texting me anymore. It's over."
Her face twists into something cruel, a mask finally slipping to reveal what's always lurked beneath. "You're seriously breaking up with me for that little whore?"
The word ignites something primal inside me. My vision narrows to a tunnel of red, and before I can process the movement, I'm in her space, finger jabbing toward her face like a weapon.
"Don't," I snarl, rage making my voice unrecognizable. "Don't let her name cross your mind or leave your mouth again, do you hear me?"
Farrah doesn't flinch—she never has. Instead, her lips curl into a familiar twisted smile, the one that's always preceded pain. Her head tilts, calculating, like a snake preparing to strike. "You think you can protect her? Or worse, save her? You can't even save yourself. A junkie like you always comes back for another hit. Stop lying to yourself. It's pathetic."
Her words hit their mark with surgical precision, each one a blade sliding between my ribs. But I've spent too long letting her see me bleed. I step back, my breathing harsh in the silence, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
"Not this time," I say, the words carrying the weight of a vow. "It's over, Farrah."
Her laugh follows me out like poison, seeping into my skin even as I walk away. But with each step toward my car, the air feels cleaner, lighter. Nora's image floats through my mind—her genuine smile, the way sunlight catches in her eyes—and it's like a lifeline pulling me toward something better.
The car door slams behind me with a finality that feels right. I sink into the seat, releasing a breath that seems to carry years of toxic weight with it. My hands shake as I pull out my phone, but there's purpose in the tremor now. Jay needs to know what's coming—he's the only one who understands the full scope of the Monty situation.
Me
I'm going to deal with Monty. Once and for all. Then I'm out. For good this time.
The response comes quickly, concern bleeding through the pixels.
Jay
Wait, what does that mean? When are you planning on executing this little plan of yours?
Me
Tonight.
Jay
I'm out of town tonight, just wait till I'm back.
Don't do this alone, man. Monty's dangerous. You know that.
Nate
I'll handle it. I've got the money.
Jay's call lights up my screen, but I let it ring out. His voice of reason would only slow me down, and I can't afford hesitation. Not tonight.
Another message flashes.
Jay
He knows who your family is. He knows you've got money. You think a couple grand will be enough?
He's not letting you out easily.
The truth in those words settles like ice in my stomach. Of course, Monty knows—he's made it his business to know everything about everyone he deals with. But I'm past caring about the risks. Living under his thumb isn't living at all.
Another message.
Jay
Just wait till I'm back. Don't do anything stupid, Nate. For real.
I toss the phone aside, ignoring its persistent buzz, and start the engine. The old car park behind the abandoned warehouse looms in my mind like a nightmare waiting to happen. I've been there too many times, each visit leaving another scar on my soul. But this time has to be different.
I step out of the car noticing Monty's already there, lounging against a beat-up Chevy like he owns the world. The cherry of his cigarette glows like a demon's eye in the darkness, and his crew lurks in the shadows, patient predators waiting for their cue.
"Preppy," he chuckles, smoke curling from his lips like morning mist. "It's about time."
I approach him with measured steps, forcing my spine straight despite the fear coiling in my gut. The envelope feels heavy in my hand, weighted with desperate hopes of freedom.
"I brought you what I owe you. Plus an extra thousand on top. I'm done, Monty. That's it."
The silence stretches like a rubber band about to snap. For one brief, foolish moment, I think he might take it—might let me walk away. Then his laughter shatters the night, echoing off concrete walls and sending chills down my spine.
"You think an extra grand's gonna buy you out?" He pushes off the car, closing the distance between us. His eyes glitter with malice in the dim light. "Sullivan, you've got more money than this pathetic little offering. I mean, doesn't your dad pretty much own the entire town?"
"I don't have anything to do with him." The words taste like ash. "Take the money, Monty."
I barely register the movement before pain explodes in my ribs. The first blow sends me stumbling, and the second drives the air from my lungs in a violent rush. I hit the ground hard, concrete scraping skin from my palms. Then they're on me—a pack of wolves tearing into prey—fists and boots coming from all directions.
Monty's voice cuts through the symphony of pain. "I gave you a lot more credit than you deserved, Preppy. But turns out you're a fucking idiot." His face appears inches from mine, breath hot and reeking of nicotine. "I own your ass now, Sullivan."
I try to push myself up, defiance burning through the pain, but a kick to my ribs sends me sprawling. Stars dance at the edges of my vision, but his next words come through with terrifying clarity.
"Know your place, Preppy, or next time, it'll be your girl who gets it. She's a pretty little brunette you got yourself." The threat slides between my ribs like an ice-cold blade.
How the fuck does he know about Nora?
Rage burns through the fog of pain, but my battered body won't respond. Blood fills my mouth, copper-bright and bitter.
"Stay away from her," I manage to growl, the words more wheeze than threat. "I'll do what you want, just leave her out of it."
Monty towers over me, satisfaction painted across his features.
"I'll be in touch." He pauses, savoring the moment like fine wine. "Watch yourself, kid. You never know who might get hurt. Because someone always does in the end."
It's not a threat—it's a promise.
They leave me there, broken on the concrete like discarded trash. Every breath sends daggers through my chest, but panic drives me to move. My trembling fingers fumble with my phone, muscle memory dialing the one person I trust right now.
Nick answers on the second ring. "Nate?"
"Can I come by and see you?" My voice sounds foreign, scraped raw.
"Is everything all right? Are you all right?"
"If it's too late, I understand??—"
"I'll text you my address."
Relief floods through me like morphine.
"I'll be there soon. And Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"Drive safe. I'll see you in a bit."
Guilt gnaws at me as I end the call. What kind of person shows up at their new boss's door, bleeding and broken? But the alternative—letting Mom see me like this, adding to the weight she already carries—isn't an option.
The stars above blur and swim as I lie there, gathering strength. The pain reminds me of those nights with Scott, taking beatings meant for Mom. It was easier then, becoming the thing they said I was. Fighting felt pointless. But now? The thought of Monty getting anywhere near Nora or Jake sets my blood on fire. I won't let them touch either of them—not ever.
The drive to Nick's passes in a haze of pain and determination. By some miracle, I make it to his driveway without wrapping my car around a pole. He's waiting on the porch, a dark silhouette against warm light. As I step out, the world tilts violently. I hear his voice, panic-edged and distant.
"Shit, Nate! What the hell happened?"
The words dissolve on my tongue as darkness crowds the edges of my vision. The last thing I feel is the ground rushing up to meet me, then nothing but black.
Consciousness returns in fragments—the metallic tang of blood, the sharp sting of sweat in my wounds, Nick's steady hands guiding me to his couch. The TV's flickering light creates ghostly shadows that dance across the walls. Each blink feels like sandpaper against my eyes as I fight to stay awake.
"Nate?" Nick's voice cuts through the fog like a lighthouse beam. "Hey, stay with me, yeah?"
"I'm good. I'm—" The lie dies in my throat. Nothing about this situation even approaches good.
"I'm taking you to the hospital." The determination in his voice jolts me back to full awareness.
"No!" Panic surges through me, temporarily drowning out the pain. "No hospitals. Please."
Nick studies me, concern etching deep lines around his eyes. For a moment, I think he'll ignore my plea, but then he releases a heavy sigh.
"Fine. But you're gonna have to let me at least fix the gash on your head."
I manage a weak nod as I sink deeper into the couch, consciousness wavering like a candle flame in the wind.
"I need you to stay awake, especially if you're carrying a concussion." Nick hands me a bundle of clean clothes and guides me toward the bathroom. "Get cleaned up. I'll get some painkillers."
The bathroom light is merciless, highlighting every cut and bruise in stark detail. Water stings as it hits my face, washing away blood and grime in pink rivulets. When I peel off my shirt, the mirror reveals more than just tonight's damage—it shows a roadmap of old scars, faded silver lines that tell stories I've spent years trying to forget.
Nick's eyes lock onto those scars when I return to the living room, but his expression remains carefully neutral.
"Where'd you get those?" His voice is soft, almost cautious.
"Football. Fights I got into at high school." The lie tastes stale, practiced.
He hands me pills and water without comment, but his silence speaks volumes. We both know I'm full of shit, but he doesn't push. Instead, he settles into the chair across from me, his presence oddly comforting.
"Nate," he says finally. "How did you end up like this tonight?"
I swallow the pills mechanically, years of practice making the action smooth despite my trembling hands. The question hangs in the air like smoke, and I find myself staring at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. The weight in my chest feels heavier than any physical pain.
"I got mixed up with the wrong people a while back," I admit, each word scraping against my throat. "I thought I could handle it. Thought I could find a way out. I was just… trying to fix things, trying to stop letting everyone down."
Nick leans back, something raw and understanding in his expression. "You're not the first person to end up in a mess like that. I've been there. I know what it's like to want to fix things but feel like you're in too deep."
The weariness in his voice makes me look up, surprising me with its honesty.
"When I was your age," he continues, "I got caught up in my own shit too. Thought I could save my brother from the mess he got himself into with drugs and bad people. But I couldn't. He OD'd, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it."
The clock on the wall ticks steadily, marking the weight of his words. The pain behind them feels tangible, like another presence in the room.
"And after he died…" Nick swallows hard, his gaze distant. "I drank myself stupid. I didn't care what happened to me. I'd lost my brother, the only person who hadn't abandoned me, and it felt like I'd lost everything." His voice cracks, revealing the wound that's never fully healed. "He was my kid brother who made a couple of bad decisions with the wrong people, and the price he paid for it was his life."
The silence that follows feels sacred, heavy with shared understanding. I recognize the guilt in his eyes—it's the same one I see in the mirror every morning.
"I haven't touched a drink since the night I drove home drunk," Nick continues softly. "I almost killed a mother and her daughter coming home from the movies." His head drops, shoulders heavy with the memory. "Sometimes I think that I haven't allowed myself to fully move on either. Haven't let anyone close enough because I didn't think I deserved it after that."
His words hit too close to home—echoing my own reasons for keeping Nora at arm's length, for believing I don't deserve her light in my darkness.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, though the words feel inadequate.
"For what?"
"Calling you and showing up like this. I understand if??—"
Nick shakes his head, a sad smile playing at his lips. "I'm glad you called and showed up here. Don't apologize."
The silence that follows feels different, lighter somehow, like we've both set down weights we've been carrying too long.
"I do wish you'd let me take you to the hospital though. Just to be safe that there aren't any serious injuries."
"No hospitals. I—" The words catch in my throat. I can't explain about the broken bones that never healed right, the scars that tell stories I'm not ready to share, the questions that would lead to truths I've buried deep.
"Could you, uh, could you drop me home?" I ask after a while. "I can pick up my car in the morning, but if I'm not home, my mom's gonna ask questions and??—"
Nick's dry chuckle cuts me off. "Unless you've got a hidden talent for makeup, she's gonna take one look at your face and know something's up."
"Yeah, probably," I admit, wincing as I shift position.
He stands, grabbing his keys from the table. At the door, he pauses, looking back at me with an intensity that makes me want to shrink away.
"You're a good kid, Nate. You've got a big heart. Don't lose sight of that, no matter what."
The words settle over me, warm and unexpected. For a moment, I feel the weight of my father's shadow lift—just enough to let in light. Maybe there's a version of me that isn't destined to destroy everything he touches. Maybe there's a version that deserves her.
For the first time tonight, I feel something close to the hope Nora spoke about—fragile as a bird's wing, but there, beating against my ribs, refusing to die.