65. A Flicker Of Hope
CHAPTER 65
A FLICKER OF HOPE
NATE
"Go check on her," Nora says softly, her voice steady and sure, as if she's already traced the path of my inner conflict.
I hesitate, torn between following her upstairs and checking on Mom. The weight of responsibility pulls me in opposite directions, threatening to split me in two. Nora steps closer, her hand rising to cradle my cheek. Her thumb traces my skin with butterfly-light pressure.
"It's okay," she whispers, leaning in to press her lips to mine. The kiss is soft, meaningful—a promise wrapped in warmth. Her hand lingers, heat seeping into my skin, and for a precious moment, I let myself believe in the possibility of okay.
"I'll be fine," she murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. "She needs you."
I nod, grateful for her understanding even as reluctance weighs heavy in my chest. She slips inside, the porch light casting her in a warm glow before she disappears. The space between us suddenly feels sharp and electric, like a live wire exposed. I stare at the closed door, gathering courage, before heading to the kitchen.
The quiet clink of glass leads me forward. Mom stands at the counter, dark liquid swirling in her glass, shoulders curved inward like wilting petals. She looks small. Fragile. The sight twists something deep in my gut.
"Mom?" My voice barely disturbs the air.
She startles, quickly wiping tears from her eyes as if erasing evidence.
"Nate," she says, voice thick with emotion. "I didn't hear you come in."
Ignoring the wine glass, I step closer, studying her face. "You okay?"
She releases a shaky breath, avoiding my gaze as she pushes a stack of papers toward me. "I, um…" Her voice catches, and she forces herself to meet my eyes. "They're officially signed."
The weight of those words hits me slowly. The divorce. After years of being chained to Dad's toxic presence, she's finally broken free. Pride and relief war with a complicated knot of emotions I can't name. I pull out a chair, the wood scraping against tile as I lean forward.
"Mom… I'm sorry about what I said??—"
"No, you had every right to be mad, Nate. I should have done more. You were just a little boy and??—"
I reach over to grab her trembling hand. "Mom, I love you," I say, keeping my voice steady but gentle, even as my heart thunders against my ribs. “And I’m proud of you. It's a step forward. You did the right thing."
Her lips tremble, composure cracking like thin ice.
"I should've done it sooner," she whispers, voice splintering. "For you and Jake. For me. But I didn't, Nate. I didn't, and I'm so sorry. For all of it."
She drops her gaze to her trembling hands, and something shifts beneath my feet—like the ground I've been standing on isn't as solid as I thought. I lower my head so I’m at eye level with her. When she tries to look away, I take her hands in mine, holding them tight enough to stop their shaking.
“Stop," I say firmly, though my chest constricts with each word. "You did the best you could with what you had. You gave us everything you had to give."
Tears well in her eyes, and she opens her mouth to argue, but I press on, my voice softening like a wave reaching shore.
“You weren't a shitty wife. He was a shitty husband. That's on him—not you. You didn't deserve any of the things he put you through."
Her face crumples, and the tears come—quiet but heavy, like rain on windowpanes. I pull her into my arms, holding her as years of guilt and pain pour out. She clings to me, her sobs muffled against my shoulder. This shirt has absorbed more tears than a November rain, but I hold her tighter, becoming the shelter she's always tried to be for me.
The sobs gradually quiet, her breathing steadying though grief still hangs thick in the air. She pulls back slightly, wiping her tear-streaked face with unsteady hands.
"I waited so long because… I was scared, Nate," she confesses, voice barely above a whisper, fragile as moth wings. "I had nothing growing up—no one, until Kat. My biggest fear was losing the only thing that mattered to me. You and Jake. He threatened to take you both away, and I knew I couldn't fight him. You know him better than anyone. You've seen what he's capable of. I??—"
"Mom, stop." Her words knock the air from my lungs, and I grip her shoulders, steadying us both. My jaw clenches, rage simmering beneath my skin at the thought of what that bastard put her through. "You didn't lose us. And you won't. Ever. Do you hear me?"
She nods, drawing a shaky breath that seems to rattle in her chest.
"I need to ask you something," she says after a moment, her eyes searching mine like she's trying to read a story written in water. "And I want you to be honest with me."
Tension coils in my muscles, my heart drumming a warning beat.
"Okay."
"The drugs," she says carefully, each word carrying the weight of sleepless nights and unanswered prayers. "Have you really stopped?"
I exhale slowly, fingers raking through my hair as memories of darker days flash through my mind like lightning in a storm.
"I haven't touched anything in weeks," I admit, the truth both bitter and sweet on my tongue. "Since the beginning of summer."
Her shoulders sink with relief, but the words aren't finished clawing their way out of my chest. That night flashes through my mind with brutal clarity—the fear in Nora's eyes when she saw what I'd become. That look, like I was a stranger wearing familiar skin. It gutted me. Left a wound I never want to reopen.
"I almost slipped up after Dad showed up here,” I confess, my voice dropping to match the heaviness in my chest. "Nora stopped me."
The memory floods back. That first night at the beach party, when Nora looked at me like I was someone else entirely. Someone dangerous. Someone she couldn't trust. And in that moment, I knew I couldn't be that person anymore.
Not for her. Not for Mom. Not for myself.
Mom's hand reaches out, trembling as she cradles my face. The touch is so gentle it aches.
"You've come so far," she whispers, voice breaking with emotion that mirrors my own. "I see you trying, Nate. And I'm so proud of you."
Her words wash over me, soothing the wound I've been carrying so long I forgot it was there. Her eyes find mine, and I watch something shift behind them, like hope breaking through storm clouds, tentative but determined.
"It's in the past now, all of it," I say, my voice soft. "I'm more focused on the future. And you should be too."
She nods, the motion starting hesitant before gaining strength, like she's letting the words take root somewhere deep inside.
"You're right," she says, her voice finding its footing. "And… I am. I'm trying."
Then she does the thing I've been silently praying she'd find the strength to do for years. She reaches for the bottle of red wine on the counter, fingers wrapping around its neck like she's confronting an old enemy. My heart clenches, caught between wanting to take this battle from her and knowing this has to be her choice. With a breath that sounds like courage, she tips the bottle over the sink. The wine spirals down the drain in a crimson rush, taking years of pain with it. The glass follows, emptying itself like a final confession. The smile that touches her lips isn't triumphant—it's fragile as a new leaf in spring—but her eyes, though red-rimmed, hold something I haven't seen in years. Resolve.
I realize I've been holding my breath only when she looks at me and says, "We're both going to do better."
"We are," I agree, the words feeling like a promise I finally believe I can keep.
"Are you nervous about tomorrow night?" she asks, her voice lighter now. In this moment, she's not the broken version of herself I've grown used to seeing. She's the woman who used to sing while making pancakes, the one who taught me about strength even when life was crumbling around us.
Pride swells in my chest, warm and unexpected.
A soft laugh escapes me, easing some of the tension that's been hanging in the air like smoke.
"Maybe a little," I admit, lowering my voice as if speaking the fear too loudly might make it more real. "Okay, maybe more than a little. It's been a long time since I've played, let alone played for a room full of people."
Her hand finds mine, warm and steady—an anchor I didn't know I was searching for.
"I'm so proud of you," she says, voice trembling just slightly, like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze. "For so many things." There's warmth in her words, but also something heavier. "I've made more mistakes than I can count in my life. Some of them haunt me, but if every single one had to happen to bring you and your brother into this world, then I forgive myself for them all. And I think it's time you forgive yourself too, so you can start to embrace every opportunity life gives you."
Forgiveness.
A word that feels too big to hold yet too important to ignore. I've carried guilt like armor, kept it close because being burned so many times has taught me to expect the worst. Maybe because somewhere along the way, I started believing forgiveness was something I didn't deserve. Or maybe because I never thought I was worthy of it in the first place.
But hearing her say it now—seeing the love and sincerity shining in her eyes—something shifts. A crack forms in the walls I've spent years building. Small, but enough to let light seep through.
The morning sun streams through Sonder's windows, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility. The place still carries the crisp scent of fresh paint and polished wood, an electric anticipation humming in the air as final touches are made for tonight's opening.
Nick's already here—probably has been since dawn broke, knowing him. The guy treats sleep like a suggestion rather than a necessity. He's adjusting bar stools with surgical precision, fussing over a vase of flowers like they hold the secret to perfection. But I get it—this place isn't just a business to him, it's a dream given form.
"Morning," I call out, my voice carrying through the quiet space. The mingled scents of wood polish and fresh espresso hang in the air like a held breath before tonight's storm.
Nick looks up from behind the bar, his grin easy but eyes sharp as ever. "Morning."
"Figured I'd get a head start, make sure everything's set for tonight." My words carry more nerves than I let on—this isn't just another gig, it's a chance at something I'm only beginning to understand.
He waves me toward the small stage tucked in the corner, already moving with his characteristic efficiency. I set the guitar case down, the familiar motions of unpacking grounding me as my fingers instinctively check the strings.
"Hey," Nick says after a moment, his tone shifting to something softer, more deliberate. "I got you a little something. To say thanks for helping with this place and??—"
"Nick," I cut him off, shaking my head as I straighten up. "I can't keep taking from you. You've saved my ass more times than I can count. Me helping out this summer? That was because I wanted to."
"And I wanted to do this," he counters, amusement sparking in his eyes like flint striking steel. "So don't fight me on it, just say thank you and make sure you use it religiously."
Before I can form another protest, he disappears to the far corner of the stage, returning with a sleek black guitar case. The kind that makes my heart skip a beat just looking at it.
"Nick, I??—"
"Nate," he cuts me off, mock sternness failing to hide the warmth in his voice. "Just open it."
I flip the latches with hands that suddenly feel clumsy, my heart drumming an irregular beat against my ribs. Inside, cradled in deep velvet like a sleeping dream, lies a guitar worth more than I’d like to think about.
"Nick, this is…" My voice catches as I trace the ornate detailing with my eyes. "A Martin D-45? Are you fucking kidding me?"
His grin spreads wider, pride radiating from him like heat. "Actually, it's an authentic aged 1936 Martin D-45. Only a handful exist, and now one of them is yours."
My fingers hover over the polished wood, almost afraid to touch it, like it might dissolve under my fingers like morning mist. The question burns in my throat: Why would he give me something like this? After everything this poor guy has had to do for me this summer, after every mess he's helped clean up…
"Why?" I finally manage, my throat tight as a fist. "Why all of it? This. The job. Bailing me out of jail…”
The blind faith in me when I'd given him every reason not to believe.
Nick's hand finds my shoulder, his gaze steady as a lighthouse beam. "Because maybe you don't see it in yourself yet, but I do. I see a guy with a good heart and a hell of a lot of raw talent. And I want to make sure you never forget that there will always be someone in your corner, rooting for you to win."
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me, and all I can manage is a quiet, "Thank you. For everything."
Nick's smirk cuts through the weight of the moment like a blade through butter. "I also did it because I wanted my guitar back. It was passed down to me by a special friend."
A laugh bursts from me, unexpected and genuine, my head falling back as I shake it in disbelief.
"You know you could of just asked for it back?" I say, grinning at the simple truth of it.
"Come on, let's hear something," the teasing edge in his voice making the moment lighter.
Nick smiles before turning to fiddle with the soundboard, his movements precise and practiced. The strings hum under my fingers as I tune, each familiar motion keeping me present to this moment.
"You know," Nick says, his tone casual but carrying weight like storm clouds heavy with rain, "I really do mean it when I say you've got real talent, Nate. Ever thought about making music more than just a side thing?"
I pause, glancing up at him, fingers stilling on the strings. "Never seemed like an option to be honest."
"Why not?" he asks, leaning against the table, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp as broken glass.
I shrug, avoiding his gaze. "I guess my dad always saying music's a hobby, not a real man's job, made me believe it." Saying my Dad leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
Nick's face hardens, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. "Your dad is a real piece of work."
I let out a laugh that's more scar tissue than sound.
"You have no idea."
"But do you believe him?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke, making me think harder than I want to.
"I don't know," I admit, running my thumb along the guitar's smooth neck. "I guess I never gave it enough thought. I mean, I've only just started playing and writing again."
"Gotta start somewhere." Nick straightens, crossing his arms as something shifts in his expression. "He came by a few weeks ago. I want to be honest with you. Scott tried to throw his weight around and offered to buy the place out because he thought a wine bar was a 'waste of real estate.'"
Familiar heat rises in my chest, anger burning like acid.
Of course he did. Typical Scott Sullivan thinking money is a skeleton key that can unlock any door, fix any problem, or better yet, control anyone who dares stand in his way.
"Sorry," I mutter, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
"Don't apologize for him, ever. Especially not to me. Guys like that? They'll never be happy. Always chasing something they'll never catch because nothing will ever be enough for them. Don't let that be you, Nate. You're not him. You never were."
I pluck at a string, the note ringing sharp and clear as truth. "Sometimes it feels like it's in my blood, though. Like poison running through my veins."
"You know what you have to do? Rewrite the narrative," Nick says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You don't need to live in his shadow. Father or not, you need to trust your gut and follow your own heart, even if it leads you down paths he'd never understand."
I look up at him, caught off guard by the quiet strength in his voice. "You're full of advice today."
Nick's smirk returns, a flash of light in darkness. "I call it as I see it. And lately, I've noticed you seem… different. Lighter, even. Like you're finally letting yourself breathe."
I can't help but smile, thoughts drifting to Nora like a compass finding true north.
"Maybe I've got more reasons to smile than I used to."
Nick chuckles, shaking his head like he's reading a book he's seen before. "When it's real love, you know."
"How?" I ask, curiosity warring with lingering skepticism.
His grin spreads slow as sunset, too knowing for my comfort. "Because you'll suddenly start believing in destiny. And on bad days, hope will see you through it."
I raise an eyebrow, seizing my chance. "Is that how you feel about Kat?"
The question catches him like a hook, but he doesn't try to hide the smile that creeps across his face like dawn breaking.
"Shut up and finish your sound check, will you?"
I laugh, shaking my head as my fingers find their place on the strings. "You should consider taking your own advice when it comes to her, you know?"
Nick shrugs, but there's a glint in his eyes. "Wise ass." He steps closer, his tone shifting to something more serious. "If and when you start to figure out what you might want to do with music, I've got a good friend in Spain who runs a studio. You could always go for a summer to write, play, and get a tan."
The idea floats in my mind. It feels so far removed from the chaos of my life here that it's almost impossible to grasp. But maybe that's exactly the point.
"Think about it," Nick adds, clapping me on the shoulder. "Sometimes getting away isn't about running—it's about finding your way back to who you were always meant to be."
I nod, letting his words settle into the spaces between my thoughts.
A summer away.
Just music.
No ghosts, no shadows, no expectations.
It sounds like an escape, but maybe it's the beginning of something I've been too afraid to dream about.