Before We Were

40. Front Row Seats To The Shit Show

CHAPTER 40

FRONT ROW SEATS TO THE SHIT SHOW

NORA

For the second time this summer, Nate has found his way into my bed. His muscular body curves around mine like a shield, his breathing evening out as peace finally claims him. Though I can't see his face because I'm pressed against his chest, I feel the weight of exhaustion in his limbs, the way tension bleeds from him with each breath.

"Leni?" His voice carries a rare vulnerability, almost childlike.

"Yeah?"

"You're my favorite," he breathes, arms tightening around me like I might disappear.

"Favorite what?" I whisper, smiling against his warm skin.

A low hum vibrates through his chest as sleep begins to claim him. "Everything," he murmurs, grip steady around my waist.

I tilt my head up to find his eyes closed, features softened by approaching dreams. My fingers find their way to his hair instinctively, threading through dark strands in a soothing rhythm. The intimacy should frighten me, but instead it feels like coming home.

Our shared past pulses between us as I hold onto him, protecting him like I did when we were just kids—when he was simply a boy desperate to be seen. My cheek rests against him, catching the steady rhythm of his breath as it slows, the storm inside him quieting beneath my touch.

This is my Nate.

Not the hardened shell he presents to the world, but the boy—raw, real, and recklessly beautiful in his imperfections. My heart aches with the weight of this truth: loving him isn't a choice, it's as natural as breathing.

"Don't leave me," he whispers, voice raw with a desperation he shows no one else. Each word is a plea woven with vulnerability that cuts straight to my core.

"I wasn't planning on it," I murmur back, emotion thick in my throat. Sleep finally takes him completely. I could stay suspended here forever, lost in our private infinity where need flows both ways, where we don't complete each other but elevate one another instead. But that's exactly what terrifies me most. I would walk through fire for Nate Sullivan, shield his heart with my own, regardless of how many pieces mine might shatter into. I just pray I'm strong enough to weather the breaking.

Morning light paints golden stripes across the room as consciousness finds me. There's solid warmth pressed against my back—Nate, his arm still claiming my waist, his body hard and unyielding against mine. My heart stutters, panic rising swift and sharp in my chest.

How the hell am I supposed to extract myself from this?

I attempt to shift, gently working to loosen his hold, but he only draws me closer in sleep, grip tightening possessively. I freeze, trying to quiet the whirlwind of thoughts swirling through my mind. He misses us.

But which version of 'us' does he miss? His admission lingers, igniting something deep inside that I can't keep ignoring.

When he stirs slightly, I seize my chance. I wiggle free with careful movements, heart thundering as I rise from the bed as silently as possible.

I need air.

I grab my running shoes and flee into the early morning, desperate to clear my head.

The crisp morning air bites at my exposed skin as I weave through empty streets, thoughts racing faster than my feet can carry me. Last night's revelations tangle with Scott's unsettling offer to Jake, I feel complete and utter guilt gnawing at me for keeping Nate in the dark. While the guilt eats away my gut, my mind spins with unanswered questions:

Where did Nate go after Farrah's frantic texts?

Why did he come home looking like he'd just been to war?

Why would Jake be willing to throw away his hard-earned scholarship for Scott's hollow promises?

And why doesn't Nate finally tell him the truth about his dad?

My chest tightens with fierce protectiveness, especially for Nate. I saw it clearly last night—the bone-deep sadness, the raw hunger to be enough for someone. That's what breaks my heart the most: he believes he's unworthy of love.

No one seems to be awake when I get home. Upstairs, I push open my bedroom door to find Nate gone, the bed neatly made. The only trace he was ever here is Bones, perched on my pillow like a silent guardian.

A knock interrupts my thoughts. Jake stands in the doorway, wearing an unusually bright smile.

"Nice run?" He steps inside, settling onto the bed.

I manage a smile in return. "It was."

"So, I know it's not your birthday today, but I've got something for you," he announces, producing a small box from his pocket. "Thought maybe you could wear it today."

Curiosity piques as I accept the box. Inside, nestled in velvet, rests a delicate gold necklace with a charm that pulls a laugh from me—a tiny golden whale. He remembers my obsession with whales, how I've dragged him through countless National Geographic documentaries about them, always dissolving into tears when mother and calf are separated.

"I still think you're the only person who doesn't cry at 'The Notebook ' but loses it during whale documentaries," he teases.

My heart swells—not from the gift's value, but because he remembers these small details about me.

"I love it," I whisper, fingers tracing the charm. "Thank you."

"Here, let me help you put it on." Jake's hands work the clasp, but linger longer than necessary at my neck. There's an odd tension as he watches me through the mirror.

"Beautiful," he whispers, too close to my ear.

"We should, um... check if the moms need help downstairs."

I hurry toward the stairs, trying to shake off the strange moment.

The house thrums with celebration, every sense awakening to Lydia's masterpiece. Fresh-cut roses and lilies perfume the air, their sweetness mingling with the warm, decadent scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafting from towers of Cinnabons—Lydia must have cleared out the entire bakery this morning. The backyard has transformed into something from a magazine spread: crystal-clear mason jars filled with fairy lights dot the perfectly manicured lawn, while delicate white string lights weave through the trees.

Even the placement of each fork and napkin feels intentional, precise. Jake and I have always shared our birthdays and Lydia always made a big deal over it. But this year, she's outdone herself. She's been up since the crack of dawn, directing her small army of helpers with military precision—adjusting centerpieces, rearranging chair formations, and fussing over every detail until it's perfect.

I catch her straightening a slightly crooked place card, and can't help but smile.

"That woman is like a bullet train. Does she even have an off switch?" Ollie grumbles, snagging a muffin while dodging Lydia's eagle eye.

I laugh, leaning against the doorframe. "Not when it comes to parties. You know how she gets."

Ollie shakes his head, cramming the muffin in his mouth. His gaze drifts to where Mia, Camilla, and Marcus are arriving. I watch the awkward dance between Mia and my brother as they hug—a gesture that reveals more than words ever could. Their connection is obvious, even if they haven't made it official. Warmth blooms in my chest watching them. It's been too long since I've seen Ollie this light, this present. But with Mia, something in him has reawakened.

"Hey, birthday girl," Mia greets me with a grin and quick hug.

"Glad you could make it." I squeeze her back.

"As if we'd miss this," Camilla gestures around, wide-eyed at the fairytale setting.

"That's Lydia for you," I shrug.

As afternoon deepens, the party gains momentum. Laughter and conversation wrap around me like a comfortable blanket, but something feels off. Jake keeps checking his phone, distracted, waiting for something—or someone. It's subtle, but I've known him my whole life. I can read the tension in his shoulders.

Then the doorbell rings.

Jake jumps up, too quickly, muttering about answering it. Lydia glances at Mom, brow furrowed.

"I thought everyone was here?"

Unease coils in my stomach as Jake disappears inside. When I see who stands on the porch, my heart plummets.

Scott Sullivan.

Jake stands beside his father, their features suddenly mirror images. I haven't seen Scott in over two years, and he was never a welcome sight even then. Horror dawns on Lydia's face—she had no idea he was coming.

Which means neither does Nate.

Shit.

"Quite the party you've thrown, Lydia." Scott gestures around before kissing his wife's cheek. Her body goes rigid, a reaction I recognize all too well, though I wish I didn't.

"Scott, I... I thought you were in London."

"Wanted to surprise my boy for his birthday. That okay with you?"

Lydia nods with a forced smile that screams 'absolutely not okay.'

"Can I speak to you inside Scott, please?"

"Sure." His smile is cold, calculated, hiding secrets. "Kat, so sorry to hear about David. He was a good man. And Lenora, happy birthday."

Mom acknowledges his condolences with quiet grace.

Jake returns to our table, and I can't help asking, "Does Nate know your dad is here?"

His expression darkens instantly. "Why does it always have to be about Nate? Can't I invite my own dad to my birthday without him acting out?"

The words sting, but I can't focus on that now. My mind races. Nate's still at Sonder with Nick—he should have been back hours ago. My pulse quickens as I dial his number. One ring, then straight to voicemail.

"You okay?" Marcus leans in, concerned.

I fight to keep my voice steady as I turn to him and Camilla. "Nate doesn't know Scott's here. This... this could be bad. Really bad."

Marcus frowns. "Why?"

"Nate and his dad—it's complicated," I struggle to explain. "Their relationship has been broken for years. Nate's been through hell because of him. If he walks into this unprepared..."

"Glad I'm not the only one with daddy issues," Camilla jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

Marcus and Mia exchange worried looks.

"Want us to try calling him?" Camilla offers gently.

Before I can answer, the front door opens. I would know Nate's voice anywhere. He enters alongside Nick, expression neutral at first, until his eyes land on Scott. The air seems to vanish from the space around us. His entire body transforms, tensing for battle. His face hardens, eyes narrowing, and the vulnerable boy from last night disappears, replaced by someone I barely recognize—someone with hatred burning in his eyes.

I stand frozen, watching the storm gather in his expression.

My heart splinters.

All I want is to grab his hand and run. Run far from here. This look in his eyes now—this is why Nate hates his father. This is the part of him I couldn't fully grasp until yesterday, when he finally let me see behind his walls. Scott paces toward where Nate and Nick stand, each step deliberate and casual, as if he hasn't just walked straight into a minefield. The tension radiating off Nate is almost visible, like heat waves distorting summer air.

"Hello, son," Scott says, his voice strained as he tests the waters, softening the blow with that word—'son'—as if it still means something between them. As if he has any right to claim it.

Nate doesn't respond.

His fists clench at his sides, knuckles turning bone white beneath tanned skin. His breathing comes shallow and quick, like he's holding onto control by the thinnest thread. I can almost see it fraying.

"Nate?" I call softly, taking a step toward him, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear myself.

His face is etched with a pain that makes my chest ache, eyes darkening as if the shadows inside him are growing, threatening to consume everything soft and vulnerable I'd held in my arms last night. I want to throw myself between him and this moment, protect him from it, but I know that won't be enough. Nothing ever is when it comes to Scott.

"Nora, don't," Jake mutters under his breath, suddenly beside me. His voice is tight, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "He's fine. He just needs to calm down."

But Nate isn't fine. He's anything but. His whole body is wound tight, like a bomb ready to explode, and I can almost hear the fuse sizzling down.

Scott shifts his attention to Lydia, deliberately ignoring the ticking bomb in front of him. "I was just about to speak to your mother," he says, his tone too familiar, too dismissive. The audacity of it makes my skin crawl.

"You lost the fucking right to speak to her a long time ago." The icy tone in Nate's voice and the intensity of his gaze was a look that could kill. Right now, Nate was contemplating acting on his anger.

Lydia's eyes narrow, noticing too that Nate was on the brink of losing his self-control. "Scott, I think it's time for you to leave."

"What? Why?" Jake cuts in, disbelief clear in his voice, still that little boy desperate for his father's attention.

"Jake, it's fine. I have some business to attend to while I'm here. Thanks for the invite, champ," Scott says, clapping Jake's shoulder in that fake, fatherly way that makes it look well-rehearsed.

I catch the flicker of hurt in Nate's eyes—that split-second tell that says he's used to this. Used to being second-best. Used to watching his father choose Jake, over and over, while pretending it doesn't cut him to the bone.

Nate's entire body goes rigid beside me. The muscles in his jaw work beneath his skin, and I practically hear his teeth grinding. His eyes, when they flick between Jake and Scott, hold something dangerous—a mix of betrayal and dawning realization.

Jake's expression hardens.

"Today of all days, you just had to be a dick. Couldn't let me have just one fucking day. No. Because everything is about Nate. Can't we do anything anymore without you turning it into some fucking drama?"

"Jacob!" Lydia's sharp voice cuts through the tension. She steps between them, every inch the protective mother, but I see the strain around her eyes. "You should have told me you were inviting your father."

"Why wouldn't I invite my own dad to my birthday?" Jake's voice rises, anger and hurt bleeding together. "He's your husband for Christ’s sake! You're always saying he's never around, and now you're kicking him out because golden boy here can't handle??—"

"Fuck you, Jake." Nate's words come out as a growl, vibrating with barely contained fury.

"No, fuck you," Jake fires back, face flushed. "I'm so sick of your shit, Nate. Everything always has to revolve around your damage, your issues. God forbid anyone??—"

"Boys, enough!" Lydia's voice cracks like a whip, but the damage is already done. I see it in the way Nate's shoulders bunch, in the dangerous stillness that settles over him.

I reach for his hand, desperate to calm him, to pull him back from whatever edge he's approaching. His fingers twitch against mine, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—I feel him soften. But then he lets go and storms after Scott.

I can't let him do this on his own, so I follow him.

It's Nate's voice I hear first as I round the corner to the front door.

"You've got some fucking nerve showing up here," Nate spits, voice dripping venom.

"Calm down," Scott dismisses, as if Nate's fury is merely childish rebellion.

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down," Nate snaps, barely containing his rage.

"Watch your tone, boy," Scott growls, advancing on Nate. "We both know what happens when that smart mouth runs. Don't forget whose house you're still under."

Nate's fists clench tighter, knuckles white with strain. He gestures violently toward the house. "You think I give a fuck about any of this? Your money? Your name? It means nothing to me." His voice cracks with years of accumulated pain. Scott laughs, cold and bitter, the sound like ice cracking.

"Spoon-fed your whole life, and you still don't appreciate what I've done for you. You're exactly like your mother."

I see the exact moment something fundamental breaks in Nate—a fault line finally giving way. His eyes darken to obsidian, holding years of repressed pain and rage. He's on Scott in an instant, pushing him back, every muscle coiled with barely contained violence. When he speaks, his voice is raw, stripped of everything but pure, distilled fury.

"What you've done?" The words tear from his throat like they're ripping him apart. "All you've fucking done is destroy this family. Destroyed her." His voice cracks on 'her,' and the sound splinters something in my chest.

"You're a coward, a piece of shit who can't own up to anything. So you know what? Burn it all to the ground. Or better yet, watch me do it for you."

Scott's face hardens into something brutal. "You ungrateful little cunt," he growls, grabbing Nate's shirt with a savagery that makes my blood freeze.

I move before I can think, instinct driving me between them.

"Hey!" My voice cuts through the tension like a blade.

They both turn to look at me, and the contrast is stark. Scott's expression is unreadable, a mask of cold indifference, but Nate—God, Nate's face is an open wound. Anger twists with something deeper, more vulnerable. Pain, maybe. Or shame. The kind that comes from having your deepest fears confirmed in front of everyone you love.

Scott releases Nate's shirt with deliberate slowness, smoothing the wrinkles as if this were nothing more than a minor disagreement. His eyes, when they meet Nate's, hold nothing but contempt.

"I should have given you up when I had the chance," he mutters, the words precise and purposeful, designed to draw blood.

Then he's striding to his Porsche, gravel crunching under expensive shoes. The engine roars to life, and he peels away without a backward glance, leaving nothing but dust and devastation in his wake.

"Nate," I call out, my voice catching on his name. I reach for him, but he's already retreating, building walls I can almost see materializing around him.

He shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is stripped raw, barely holding together.

"Nora, don't. Please... just don't. Not right now. I need… I just need to be alone."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I watch him turn away, each step widening the chasm between us. His shoulders are rigid with tension, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands—the only visible sign of how deeply Scott's words cut.

The space he leaves behind feels charged with hurt and shattered possibilities. The contrast between this Nate and the one who held me last night, who whispered vulnerabilities against my skin, makes my chest ache. I want to run after him, to remind him that he's more than Scott's poisonous words, more than the damage his father inflicts.

But I stay, understanding with crushing clarity that sometimes love means knowing when to let someone bleed in peace.

Even if every instinct screams to stem the flow.