42. Sorry On Repeat
CHAPTER 42
SORRY ON REPEAT
NATE
I'm still floating, drunk on the memory of Nora's lips on mine only minutes ago. The taste of her still lingers, sweet and electric, making my head spin in the best possible way. My fingers trace my bottom lip for the hundredth time tonight, chasing the ghost of her touch. For once in my life my chest is light, and my heart full of something that feels dangerously like hope.
I should know better by now.
The dim light spilling from the kitchen stops me cold, yanking me back to reality like a punch to the gut.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
This is how it always goes—one perfect moment before everything goes to shit. It's like the universe can't stand to see me happy, can't let me have one goddamn thing without reminding me who I am, what my life is.
The tension coils around my chest as I step through the doorway. Mom's there, perched at the counter, fingers wrapped loosely around a half-empty wine bottle. Her eyes are distant, glazed with a familiar emptiness that used to terrify me as a kid. Still does, if I'm honest. For a moment, old fears grip me: memories of finding her unconscious, checking her pulse with trembling fingers, praying this wouldn't be the time she didn't wake up. But tonight, she's upright, coherent enough to meet my gaze. After the day's events, I feel a bitter gratitude for even that small mercy.
My high from the kiss evaporates like smoke, replaced by the heavy weight of responsibility that's been crushing me since I was old enough to understand what was happening in this house. This is my reality—not stolen kisses and teenage dreams, but wine bottles and broken promises. Mom watches me, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and guilt, as if the burden of our unspoken history is finally too heavy to bear.
"Nate, I know you're angry right now, but??—"
"But?" The word escapes like venom. "No shit I'm angry, Mom." Each syllable feels like it's been lodged in my chest for years, finally breaking free. "I've spent my life trying to recover from what I should've been protected from. Angry doesn't even begin to cover it."
"I didn't know he was in town, let alone coming. Jake shouldn't have??—"
"Why do you think Jake invited him?" I cut her off, my words sharp as glass. "Because he has no fucking idea about anything. Because you always painted him as some kind of hero to Jake."
I can't bring myself to say 'dad'.
He's never earned that title.
My pulse thunders as years of suppressed rage boils over.
I'm done pretending.
Done being the ghost of a child who should have known joy instead of terror.
"You don't get to stand there and tell me how to feel. Not after everything I've done to protect you from him."
She flinches as if struck. Part of me wants her to feel it—the hurt, the betrayal, the endless nights of looking over my shoulder, waiting for his shadow to reappear. All because she couldn't bring herself to leave with Jake and me in tow.
"Nate, I'm not trying to tell you how to feel. I'm trying to??—"
"What?" My voice cracks with raw fury. "Help me? Protect me? Save me? You're fourteen years too late for that."
Her face crumples, tears welling up even as she fights to maintain composure—the same way she had through every one of his pathetic apologies.
"I know. I'm sorry, Nate. I'm so sorry??—"
"I was forced to grow up, Mom." The words tear from somewhere deep and wounded. "I didn't have a fucking choice in any of this. You did. You could've left the first time. You should've left the fifteenth time. But you didn't. You chose him over Jake and me every single time. And for the life of me, I can't understand why."
Her voice drops to a whisper. "It's complicated, Nate. None of this is that easy to??—"
"Not easy?" Rage trembles through me, my fists clenched tight enough to draw blood. "You want to talk about what's not easy?"
The memories burst forth like a broken dam.
Not easy is being suffocated by the hands of a man who's supposed to be your hero when you're nine.
Not easy is having your face smashed into a wall at thirteen because you're trying to stop him from hurting your Mom.
Not easy is walking around with more broken bones by seventeen than most people will have in their entire lives.
I step closer, my voice rising with each word.
"Not easy is lying awake outside your little brother's bedroom every single night after a fight, praying to God he doesn't go after him, too. Then waking up to go to school the next morning pretending everything in life is just fucking dandy. That's not easy, Mom!"
Years of silence has finally cracked open, everything spilling out like shattered glass. My voice shakes with the intensity of memories I can't bury anymore.
"Hearing you scream every time he came home reeking of booze—that wasn't easy. So forgive me if I can't empathize with your choice to stay with someone who didn't give a fuck if you lived or died."
Her tears fall freely now, each of my words landing like physical blows. Nothing could undo the years of damage, the choices she'd made.
She takes a shaky breath, her entire frame quivering. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" The word claws its way out, bitter as ash. "Do you have any idea how fucking useless that word is? Sorry doesn't mean shit. It doesn't fix the fact that I had to become Jake's parent when I was still a kid myself because you couldn't protect us." I lift the wine bottle, my laugh hollow. "This? And the sleeping pills? That was your solution?"
The realization hits me like a punch: no wonder I'm a fucking addict. The two people who raised me made sure I'd never stand a chance at being anything else.
I slam the bottle down.
"Sorry doesn't change anything, Mom." Every word rip something raw and jagged from inside me.
Unshed tears burn in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not after years of holding myself together while everything threatened to shatter.
"You should've left," I spit. "You should've fucking left. I would've done everything to help you get out. But instead, you stayed. Every time he came crawling back with his bullshit apologies, you let him. You chose him and then forced me to play house." My voice cracks. "And do you know what that taught me? It taught me that I didn't matter. That the person who was supposed to love me the most couldn't even choose me."
Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, but I can't stop.
"I took every punch, every scream, every broken thing he threw at us. And for what? So I could grow up hating the person I had to become just to survive?"
She tries to speak, but no sound emerges.
I laugh bitterly.
"You don't get to cry. Not now. Not after everything."
Because no amount of tears will ever undo what you let happen to us.
To me.
For the first time in years, I've unleashed everything I'd buried to protect her. The air between us feels fractured beyond repair.
"Nate, I never wanted this for you. For Jake. I was scared. I thought??—"
"Unbelievable. You're still trying to justify it."
Her words feel hollow as prayers in an empty room. "I'm sorry" has become her shield, a soft phrase meant to cover damage that words could never fix. Trust needs proof, and sorry needs change.
"It's not enough anymore," I say, my voice cracking. I grip the counter, knuckles white, using it to stay upright as the past threatens to pull me under. "Same shit, different day. I'm so fucking tired of this conversation. Nothing changes. It never does. I wouldn't be surprised if he was back in our lives in a week's time and we're all out here playing happy fucking family again."
I meet her tear-filled eyes.
"I'll never get my childhood back. That's gone. And right now, I don't know what's left of my future. So if my way of dealing with this doesn't look right to you, I don't care. I'm done caring about what looks right. I'm done caring, period."
It's a lie.
I'll always care, even when I don't want to.
The truth is simpler: I'm tired. Bone-deep, soul-shattering tired. Tired of the beatings—physical, emotional, and everything between. Tired of broken promises and pain that clings like a second skin.
"I'll never stop being sorry, Nate," she whispers, wiping tears with her sleeve. "I should have done more to protect you. Just… tell me what you need from me."
I stare at her—the woman who should have been my shield—and feel hollow. "I need space."
"Nate, please??—"
"If you want to salvage whatever's left between us," I cut her off, my voice quiet but firm, "then stop. Now. Before I say something I really can't take back."
She starts toward the door, then stops. From a kitchen drawer, she pulls out a folder and drops it on the counter.
"I've filed for divorce." Her voice wavers. "You're right, I should've done it years ago, but… I'm doing it now. I didn't protect you when you needed me most. Even if I… I had my reasons, I should have done better for you, for Jake. For us."
I keep my face unreadable. "Then tell Jake. Don't let him find out about this on his own."
She nods, broken determination in her eyes, and leaves. In the emptiness that follows, I sink to the floor, head in my hands.
For the first time in years, I let the tears threaten to fall.
I drag myself upstairs, exhausted and strung out. At Nora's door, I hesitate, my hand hovering over the handle. It takes every ounce of control not to go in, not to kiss her again, not to lose myself in her like before. I force myself onward.
In my room, I collapse onto the bed, mind spinning.
I kissed her.
I kissed Nora.
And it was everything I've wanted, everything I've never let myself imagine. The memory overwhelms me—the warmth of her breath, her lips fitting against mine as if they were made for me. I can't stop wondering how her skin would feel under my hands, how she'd taste if I kissed her deeper, pulled her closer, made her mine. I want her in ways I don't know possible. But reality's cold weight settles in, familiar as breathing. Good things don't last in my life. They either slip away or I destroy them first.
I do what I've always done: push people away, keep them at arm's length, shield myself from inevitable hurt. It's safer that way—for me, for her.