69. No More Hiding
CHAPTER 69
NO MORE HIDING
NATE
A few days have passed since Monty turned me into his personal canvas. The bruises are fading from purple-black to sickly yellows and greens, like a twisted watercolor painting. My ribs still protest with each breath, but they're healing. Hospitals aren't an option—too many X-rays would map out years of Scott's handiwork in broken bones and hairline fractures.
So, I do what I've always done: survive.
Nora's become my morning ritual, her small hands gentle as she covers the worst of the damage. Each brush of her fingers against my jaw is both salvation and torment—a reminder that she sees all of me, even the parts I try to bury.
That night after Furlo's haunts me. Every breath felt like swallowing shattered glass, blood seeping into my clothes from places I couldn't count. The lake stretched before me like black silk under the moonlight, and there she was—a beacon in the darkness, perched on the dock just like when we were kids, feet skimming the water's surface. Everything in me screamed to walk away. Monty's threats echoed in my head like a death sentence. Knowing about her—it's painted a target on her back.
Each step toward the dock felt like wading through molasses, weighted with equal parts longing and dread. She turned, her expression softening at the sight of me before hardening with concern as I stepped closer, revealing Monty's handiwork.
She reached for my hand, and I let her. Her touch was warmth in the cold, a reminder that not everything in my world was violence and shadows. But looking at her—God, all I could hear was Monty's voice, his threats about her playing on repeat. I couldn't drag her into this darkness. Not her. Not my one pure thing.
Her green eyes searched mine, questions swimming in their depths. The kiss that followed tasted of blood and desperation, and she didn't pull away. She tightened her fingers in my ruined shirt, drawing out my darkness with each press of her lips. Her fingers in my hair felt like absolution. I didn’t want to open my eyes, scared it would be another pain-induced hallucination.
Or worse, she’d finally see what Jake already knew—that I'm not good enough for her. Never have been, never will be.
But I'm selfish, and I'm addicted to how she makes me feel. She's the closest thing to heaven I'll ever know, and I'll burn in Hell for wanting her this much.
Nora's fingers ghost over my jaw, dabbing concealer on the worst of the bruises pulling me from the memory. She's precise, methodical—like she's done this a thousand times before.
"You're thinking too loud," she murmurs, tilting my chin to catch better light. Her touch is feather-light, but it burns straight through me.
I try to smile, but it pulls at my split lip. "Just remembering."
The rest of the morning is spent at Sonder with Nick, using the space to rehearse. Music has always been my escape hatch, the one place where I feel untouchable, where the noise in my head transforms into something beautiful. Summer's winding down, and if I've got no plans, I could take Nick up on his offer to go to Spain to write and maybe record an album. I don't know how, but Nick seems to have connections within the industry.
The ping of a message yanks me back to earth.
Mom
Your tux is ready—left it in your room. You're driving Nora and Camilla, they're getting ready at the house. And please don't be late for the gala. Love you x
When I get home, the house is silent as a graveyard. Jake and Ollie must've left with the moms already.
"Hello? Anyone here?" My voice echoes off empty walls, returning lonely and hollow.
I'm halfway up the stairs when Camilla bursts out of Nora's room, practically vibrating with excitement. She's got that look—the one that means she's sitting on information that could start or end wars. Her dark curls are wild from what I assume was an intense styling session, and there's a smudge of mascara above her left eye that she hasn't noticed yet.
"Wait until you see her," she stage-whispers, bouncing on her toes. "She looks like an absolute fucking queen."
I don't doubt it. Nora could wear a trash bag and still outshine anyone in any room. I try to keep my face neutral, but Camilla reads me like a billboard. She pokes my chest with one perfectly manicured finger.
"It's actually painful watching you try to play it cool right now."
"I need to talk to you about something, or someone…" She freezes mid-bounce. "Jay??—"
"Oh God," she groans, but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her. "Not this again."
"Why not?" I dodge her swat, grinning. "The guy is crazy about you, Camilla, give him a chance."
"He is not!" She lands a hit this time, her rings catching my arm.
I rub my arm, still smirking. "It's actually painful watching you try to play it cool right now," I mimic her earlier remark.
"Oh, shut up," she mutters, but her lips are twitching. "We're polar opposites. He's all…" she waves her hands vaguely, "broody and dark, and I'm??—"
"A hurricane in a party dress?" She swats my arm again, harder. "It's why it works. Opposites attract."
"It's not going to happen." She's fighting a smile now, tucking her hair behind her ear—her tell when she's flustered. "Besides, we'd kill each other within a week."
"At least you'll never get bored." I wink, knowing I'm pushing her buttons. But she can't deny what's there. I've seen it, Nora has seen it, and Jay isn't someone who gives up easily when he decides he cares about something.
"I will end you, Sullivan." But she's grinning, her eyes bright with possibility she won't admit to. "And if you breathe a word of this to him??—"
"Your secret is safe." I raise my hands in surrender. "Though it's hardly a secret when you stare at his arms every time he wears a t-shirt."
"Jesus, you're insufferable," she groans, already heading for the stairs. At the top, she pauses, throwing me a look that's pure mischief. "And speaking of insufferable pining, wait till you see what your girl is wearing. Try not to swallow your tongue, Sullivan."
She disappears down the stairs before I can respond, her laughter trailing behind her like perfume, her heels clicking against hardwood fades replacing the thundering of my own heart.
Downstairs, I adjust my bow tie again, the fabric suddenly too confining. Then I hear her footsteps trailing down the stairs, each one making my pulse skip like a needle finding that perfect scratch in a vinyl record. The sound resonates through my bones, through spaces I didn't know existed inside me.
There's a feeling when you're waiting for that one person to enter a room—something beyond mere anticipation. It's like standing on an edge, but it's not like the jagged precipice of addiction I know too well. This edge is different—diamond-sharp, splitting me between who I was before this moment and who I'll be after.
My eyes catch her feet first, bare against the hardwood. My gaze trails upward, and when our eyes lock, it's like magnets finding their match. I've had the shit kicked out of me multiple times, but I've never had the breath stolen from my lungs quite like this. Nora descends the stairs like a dream walking into reality. Her emerald dress clings to her frame, the slit high enough to make my pulse forget its rhythm. The color makes her eyes more vibrant than I've ever seen them, and her hair cascades in waves, catching the light as she moves with so much grace. Every step is deliberate, unhurried, as if she knows exactly what she's doing to my sanity.
She's not just beautiful—she's blinding.
The kind of sight that makes everything else blur around the edges until there's nothing left but her. Lenora Wells is the song I've been trying to write my whole life, the melody that's always been stuck in my head, but I could never quite catch.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs, barefoot, holding her heels with a dramatic sigh.
"I hate these things. If I could, I'd wear my Converse instead."
I chuckle, because of course she would. She was always the girl who preferred the Stones over The Backstreet Boys, who'd rather play football than with dolls. She was always different, and that's what I loved about her.
"I think Marcus would have a meltdown if you showed up in Cons.”
We both laugh and she rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there—the same smile that used to make my teenage heart skip beats, now doing dangerous things to my adult one. As she leans against the railing, struggling with one heel, the fabric of her dress makes it impossible for her to bend.
"Ugh, stupid dress. I can't??—"
"Here, I've got it," I offer, kneeling without thinking.
Her foot rests lightly against my knee as I slide the shoe on and do up the buckle. Her dress shifts slightly, the slit parting just enough to reveal the curve of her leg. My fingertips brush against her ankle, and that small contact sends electricity through my veins. I glance up at her, and the world narrows to just this: her catching her lower lip between her teeth, the pulse visible at the hollow of her throat, and the way her hands grip the railing tighter. A faint blush creeps up her neck.
She's mesmerizing—I notice things I've spent my whole life learning to read about her, each freckle and smile, and gesture a thing I know by heart now. I secure the other shoe, my fingers ghosting over her ankle.
"There," I manage, my voice rough. "You're good to go."
"Thanks," she breathes, the word falling from her lips like a secret.
Camilla's entrance shatters the moment. "Let's go! We're going to be late!"
As Nora passes, her perfume—vanilla and something darker, something that reminds me of midnight promises—wraps around me like a noose. Her lips curve in that knowing smile that's haunted my dreams for years.
The car ride is exquisite torture. Not because of Camilla's chatter, but because Nora's bare thigh catches my eye with every streetlight we pass. The emerald silk flows like water over curves I shouldn't memorize. She stares out the window, either unaware or too aware of how she's unraveling me thread by careful thread.
At the country club, Camilla vanishes in search of Marcus, leaving us alone under lights that paint Nora in gold and shadow. The gala's music pulses behind us like a heartbeat.
I catch her wrist, pulling her close enough to count her eyelashes, close enough to feel the hitch in her breath. She stumbles slightly, steadying herself against my chest, and suddenly breathing becomes optional. Her eyes catch the light like diamonds, turning my thoughts to static.
"You're…" The word dies in my throat, inadequate.
She tilts her head, lips curving into that devastating smirk that's both invitation and challenge.
"Do I make you nervous, Nate?" The words drip like honey, sweet and dangerous.
My laugh comes out strangled.
"Speechless," I confess, letting my gaze trace her like an artist memorizing his masterpiece. "You make me speechless. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"Liar," she whispers, trying to turn away, but my hand slides from her wrist to her waist, claiming this space between heartbeats as ours.
"I wouldn't lie to you. Not about this. Not about anything."
Then I'm kissing her, soft but deep. Her lips part beneath mine with a surrender that makes my heart stutter—she's been waiting for this, too. When she presses closer, fingers clutching my jacket like a lifeline, I groan into her mouth, losing myself in the taste of her. I pull back only when breathing becomes necessary, taking in her flushed cheeks and swollen lips with a satisfaction that burns through my veins.
"Tell me, Nate," she breathes, voice teasing but eyes ablaze, "how are you going to stop yourself from doing that tonight?"
I meet her gaze, letting her see the raw truth of what she does to me. "Who says I'm going to stop?"
A blush paints her cheeks, and when a strand of hair falls across her face, I brush it back, my fingers lingering on her skin. I take her hand, pressing a deliberate kiss to her knuckles.
"I don't want to hide anymore." Her eyes search mine, waiting, so I continue, words spilling out like a confession, "I want everyone to know you're mine, Nora. The future, the distance—we'll figure it out. I'll do whatever it takes. I just need this to be real."
"Nate," she whispers, "this has always been real."
I capture her lips again, desperate now, pouring everything I can't say into the kiss. She tastes like promises, like homecoming, and when her arms wind around my neck, I'm lost.
"I'd love nothing more than to take you home right now."
She laughs softly against my mouth. "Your mom would murder us if we bailed."
"Fine," I sigh, resting my forehead against hers. "I'll behave. Torture myself with admiring you from afar."
Her grin turns wicked. "Let's see about that."
"I've had eleven years of practice," I smirk. "What's one more night?"
Then she gives me that smile—the one that stops time, that makes my chest ache with possibility. The smile I'd spend a lifetime chasing.
"Ready for this?" she asks softly. "Everyone's going to be staring."
I squeeze her hand. "Let them."
We step inside together, and the room hushes. I catch Jake's gaze—his jaw tight, eyes dark—before he looks away. The guilt twists briefly in my chest, but I made my choice. It's her. It's always been her.
I press my lips to her temple.
"No more hiding. It's you and me."
Her fingers tighten in mine, and we move forward, together at last.