Chapter Seventeen
Nora
Boston
The first drink was a liar. It promised a temporary truce, and for maybe fifteen minutes, it delivered.
The aggressive thrum of the Boston bar—the clinking of ice against glass, the jagged bursts of my friends’ laughter—softened into a blurred hum that didn’t grate against my nerves.
I even managed to laugh once. The sound felt alien in my own throat, a hollow echo of a girl I didn’t quite recognize anymore.
A week ago, I had watched them lower my mother into the frozen New England earth. Now, I was sitting at a crowded bar, masquerading as a college student, pretending the world hadn’t tilted permanently on its axis.
My friends were trying, in that desperate, clumsy way people do when they’re afraid of catching someone else’s tragedy.
I could see the silent conversations happening over my head—the quick, darting glances, the way they shifted in their chairs whenever I went too quiet or started talking too fast. Is she okay?
How long do we have to stay? What do we do if she starts crying again?
I didn’t blame them, but the pity felt like sandpaper on an open wound.
The second drink didn’t help, and by the third, the armor I’d spent all week building simply disintegrated.
One moment I was trying to follow a story about a midterm, the next, my throat seized.
The tears didn’t sting—they were a flood, sudden and humiliating.
I turned my face away, staring at the scarred wood of the bar.
Don’t cry. Not here. Please, not in front of everyone.
The bartender, a man with tired eyes and a quiet way of moving, slid a napkin toward me without a word. I wiped at my face and let out a watery, pathetic laugh. “Sorry.”
He gave me a single, kind nod, and that small act of empathy was the final blow.
When I looked back at the table, my friends wore that universal expression of people who have realized they can’t fix a situation and are looking for the nearest exit.
One checked her phone. Another mentioned an early lab.
Someone suggested, with forced cheer, that I probably needed some rest.
I nodded. I smiled. I played the part and told them it was a great idea.
But as they filed out, the hollowness in my chest expanded.
I didn’t want the silence of my dorm room.
I didn’t want to call Drew and hear my own grief reflected back at me.
And I definitely didn’t want the man at the end of the bar who had been tracking me for twenty minutes.
He had the hungry look of a predator who had spotted a limping deer.
I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over a contact I’d never used, a name attached to a promise made years ago: If you ever need me, Nora, call.
I pressed the button before I could talk myself out of it. It rang twice.
“Hello?”
His voice. Steady. Alert. It acted like an anchor. I opened my mouth to say his name, but instead, a sob broke through—the messy, alcohol-soaked kind that leaves no room for pride.
“Nora?”
“I—I’m sorry,” I choked out, the words slurring. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Where are you?”
“A bar,” I whispered miserably.
“Which one? Give me the name.”
I told him. There was a brief silence. In the background, I heard movement—voices, quick and sharp, someone asking what was wrong. Then Evan again, focused.
“Okay. Listen to me. Can you sit at the bar?”
“I’m already here.”
“Good. Don’t move. Is the bartender nearby?”
“Yes.”
“Hand him the phone. Now, Nora.”
I waved the bartender over, my hand shaking as I held out the device. “He wants to talk to you.”
I didn’t hear what Evan said, but I caught fragments—clear, direct, efficient. Logistics. Location. Timing. The bartender’s expression shifted from polite detachment to immediate understanding.
Within thirty seconds, a tall glass of ice water appeared in front of me, and a bouncer the size of a mountain moved to stand at my shoulder, a silent, human wall between me and the rest of the room.
“What’s going on?” I blinked up at the giant.
“Your friend is on his way,” the bouncer grunted, though his eyes were kind. “He asked me to make sure you stay exactly where you are.”
Relief flooded me so fast it made the room spin. I might have dropped my head onto my arms. I definitely closed my eyes. I knew I was safe because Evan was coming.
I might have napped.
Then, a gentle hand touched my shoulder. “Nora.”
I lifted my head. Evan stood there. “You came,” I said, the words heavy with wonder.
“Of course.”
He guided me out of the bar, his hand firm on my waist. A black car was idling at the curb. The rest of the night was a blur of motion—a hotel lobby, the hushed chime of an elevator, and finally, the soft, cool expanse of a bed.
He pressed a glass into my hand. “Drink. All of it.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re doing great.”
When I threw up fifteen minutes later, Evan didn’t flinch. He held my hair back, and afterward, wiped my face with a cold cloth as if I were a child.
“Sorry,” I croaked, the shame burning hotter than my stomach contents had.
“Don’t apologize for being human, Nora.”
Then I threw up again, right down the front of my shirt and my slacks.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping into that calm, problem-solving register. “New plan.”
He turned on the shower, stripped me down, helped me rinse off while he kept his gaze averted. I kept apologizing. He kept telling me everything would be okay.
After I stumbled out of the shower and nearly face-planted on the slippery floor, he wrapped me in a thick towel, carried me into the bedroom, and set me on the edge of the bed. I slumped backward and he pulled his shirt off then put it on me. A heartbeat later I was tucked beneath the sheets.
He dragged a chair to the bedside and sat.
I was mortified and determined to not throw up again.
He talked me through the nausea, telling me ridiculous stories about his travels—about Mateo getting them lost in a mountain village and insisting it was “an opportunity,” about Luca arguing with a customs officer in three languages at once.
My embarrassment fell away and, finally, I felt safe enough to sleep.
When I woke the next morning, the room was flooded with pale Boston sunlight. Evan was still in the chair but now dressed in a button-down shirt and dark slacks. The TV volume was muted with a closed caption flashing at the bottom of the screen.
“You’re still here,” I said, my voice thick. A quick look beneath the bedsheet revealed that my last memories of the night before were accurate. Oh, God.
He looked over, a small, tired smile touching his lips. “Morning. How’s the head?”
“Like it’s being used for target practice.”
He stood up, disappeared from the room, and returned with a glass of water. “The more you drink, the better you’ll feel.”
“Thank you.” I pushed myself into a seated position, my back against the headboard of the bed, and accepted the glass from him. The long sip I took was mostly to delay having to come up with something to say. “How are you here?”
“You called me and asked me to come.”
“I understand that part, but I thought you were in South America.”
He shrugged. “I came back when I heard the news about your mother. And I decided to stick around for a while. Just in case.”
“In case what?” In case I needed you? What I wanted him to say in response felt impossible, but I asked anyway.
“My family was at the funeral—briefly.”
My throat tightened. I remembered the line at the wake—the sea of faces, even Gabe Holliston standing in the back.
My father had been furious at his attendance.
I didn’t remember seeing Bella, Evan, or Brady there, but I was full-on in survival mode.
Looking back, I vaguely remembered seeing them, but the whole event was hazy to me, like a bad dream I was relieved to wake from.
Except it had been real.
And he’d been there. “I’m sorry,” I said hoarsely. “I should have thanked you for coming.”
“Don’t even think about that. We went to support you . . . And to make sure our father behaved himself. Which is why we didn’t stay long.”
I half smiled at that.
“So, you’ve been back for two weeks?”
He nodded.
I wanted to ask why, but if the answer wasn’t for me, I didn’t want to know. Thankfully, my body chose that moment to urgently require relieving.
“I need the bathroom,” I announced, unwilling to reveal myself mostly undressed. In only his shirt.
“I had clothes put in the bathroom. I hope they’re your size. Take a shower. You’ll feel better.”
“You should leave the room.”
“Of course,” he said, then there was an amused twist to his lips, “but I did put you in that shirt.”
The memory of why returned with painful clarity. He didn’t need to, but he added, “You were vomiting all over yourself, so don’t worry, there was nothing inappropriate about it.”
“Great,” I grumbled. “I wasn’t worried.”
And that was the truth. There were people in my life I knew better than I knew him, but there was no one I trusted more.
After he walked out of the room, I bolted to the bathroom to discover that Evan had not only ordered several articles of clothing for me, but also all the basics any woman would be grateful to discover.
Deodorant, make up, even pads and tampons.
It was all so considerate I gave into a brief, hangover cry.
None of the men I’d let into my life or into my bed had ever shown me this kind of care.
There were even little medicinal bottles in case my stomach or intestines were not ready to start the day happy.
When I surfaced from the bathroom, I felt human again in a comfortable pair of slacks and a beautiful blouse, both of which were exactly the style I often wore.
I found Evan in the main room of the hotel suite, seated at a table where breakfast—eggs, toast, fruit, coffee and beverages were laid out and waiting.
“Feeling better, Nora?”