Liar Liar
NORA
Why aren't you wearing your engagement ring?
I'm standing at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that's gone lukewarm while I stared out the window, when yesterday's drive with Nate replays in my mind for the hundredth time.
I should be furious with him.
I am furious with him.
Who does he think he is, asking me that? What gives him the right to question my choices, my life that he hasn't been part of by his own doing?
Except he wasn't wrong to ask and that's what's making me spiral.
I take another sip of cold coffee, grimace, and pour it down the sink.
Nothing says "I have my life together" like drinking cold, bitter coffee at 9 AM while spiraling about my life choices.
I make a fresh cup even though I don't need more caffeine. What I need is a lobotomy. Or a time machine. Or possibly just better decision-making skills.
I need something to do with my hands, something to focus on that isn't the endless loop of thoughts that's been playing since I walked away from him yesterday.
The Nora I knew always knew what she wanted.
Did I overreact?
Maybe. Probably. Yes.
Definitely yes.
I overreacted in the same way the Titanic had a minor leak. Catastrophically and with zero ability to course-correct once it started.
He asked a simple question. A fair question, really, given that I showed up here in the middle of planning my wedding, without my engagement ring, staying on his property, looking at him the way I've been looking at him—like the last seven years didn't happen.
Like I'm seventeen again and he's the only person in the world who matters. Extremely well-adjusted behavior for an engaged woman.
I should be wearing the stupid overpriced ring.
The one that cost more than my first car. The one that screams "I have excellent taste and zero financial anxiety." The one that makes other women do that thing where they grab your hand and gasp.
I should be happy about wearing it.
Thrilled, even. Posting photos of it on Instagram with captions about being #blessed and finding my #forever.
But when Nate asked me why, I panicked.
Lashed out like a feral cat and demanded he take me home like he'd crossed some unforgivable line when really he just poked at a sore spot I've been trying to ignore.
Professional conflict avoidance. I should teach a masterclass.
The truth is, I don't know why I'm not wearing it. That's the lie I told him, and it's the lie I've been telling myself. The actual truth—the one that makes my stomach twist—is that I know exactly why.
I just don't want to say it out loud.
I don't want to make it real.
Because if I make it real, I have to deal with it.
And dealing with it means admitting things I'm not ready to admit.
Because if I admit why I took it off, then I have to admit everything else: that I said yes to Wes because it felt like what I was supposed to do.
That the life I've built in LA looks perfect from the outside but feels hollow from the inside.
That coming back to Eden has made me remember what it felt like to want something so badly it scared me, and I haven't felt that way about Wes once in the two years we've been together.
That seeing Nate again has cracked open something I thought I'd sealed shut.
I set down the coffee mug harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin.
This is his fault.
If he hadn't offered me the cabin, if he hadn't been so understanding about everything, if he hadn't looked at me yesterday with those eyes that see too much, I wouldn't be standing here questioning my entire life.
Except that's not fair either, and I know it.
He didn't do anything except exist. Except be the version of himself that he's become—steady, grounded, successful in ways that matter. He rebuilt himself and this town and created something meaningful, while I've been in LA writing books about love I'm not sure I believe in anymore.
And yesterday, when he asked about the ring, what I heard wasn't judgment.
It was concern.
It was the same care he used to show me before he told me there was no future for us, that I was naive to think there could be.
God, why am I even thinking about that? About him? About us?
There is no us. There hasn't been for years.
He made that clear at Ollie's wedding.
Argh. Stop.
I'm not going down that road again.
I grab my phone, needing a distraction, and see a text and six missed calls from Camilla from an hour ago that I missed.
Camilla
UM SORRY, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?
Answer your phone
Hello!!!
I'm going to rip his fucking balls off if this is true.
This fucking guy is about to meet Satan in the flesh.
Call me please. I need to know you’re okay xxx
I click the link without thinking and my stomach sinks to the floor.
Photos of Wes at Catch LA, one of those trendy Melrose restaurants where celebrities go to be when they don't want to be seen.
He's laughing with a woman who's definitely not me—a brunette in a tight dress, all manicured perfection and calculated charm. Molly Marlowe, one of Hollywood's up-and-coming actresses.
She's leaning into him, hand resting possessively on his forearm, her body angled toward his in a way that speaks of practiced intimacy. The body language isn't just familiar—it's territorial. Comfortable. Like they've done this a hundred times before.
My hands start shaking.
I keep scrolling as more images appear.
Them leaving the restaurant, his hand on the small of her back.
Getting into a car that's definitely not his Mercedes—something sleeker, more discreet.
Because nothing says "innocent business dinner" like switching to a burner vehicle.
Him kissing her.
Not a peck. Not friendly.
Full, open-mouthed, hands-in-her-hair kissing that makes the photographer's intentions crystal clear.
Well. That's unambiguous.
I stare at the screen, waiting for the emotional impact to hit. Waiting for heartbreak or betrayal or rage or something that matches the magnitude of what I'm seeing.
Instead, what comes is vindication.
And isn't that telling?
Shouldn't I be crying right now? Throwing things? Eating ice cream directly from the container while watching rom-coms and cursing all men?
Instead I'm just sitting here thinking, "Huh. Impeccable timing universe.”
Which is either very emotionally mature or deeply concerning. Hard to say.
I forward the link to Wes with no message. Just the photos.
Let him explain that. Should be fun.
My phone rings almost immediately. His name flashing on the screen.
Well shit, that was fast. Almost like he's been expecting this conversation.
I let it ring.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Then silence as it goes to voicemail.
He calls again.
Persistent. I'll give him that. Probably one of the qualities I found attractive initially.
I drop the phone on the counter and walk away from it, my chest tight with something that isn't quite anger and isn't quite hurt.
More like relief?
I need to get out of here.
I change into running clothes, lace up my shoes, and hit the door before I can talk myself out of it.
My feet find a rhythm on the gravel path that leads away from the studio property, toward town, and I let the physical exertion quiet my mind for a few blessed minutes.
But it doesn't last.
By the time I reach Main Street, the thoughts are back, circling like vultures.
Wes is cheating.
After two years of relationship that I convinced myself was mature and stable and exactly what I needed—he's been sleeping with someone else.
Probably for months, judging by how comfortable they looked together.
I slow to a walk as I pass familiar storefronts—some updated, some exactly as I remember.
And then I see it: Gracie's bookstore.
Alfie's bookstore, really, even though Gracie ran it after he retired.
Dust covers the windows, but the shelves inside are visible, books perfectly arranged, frozen in time like a museum exhibit of a life that used to exist here.
My heart twists painfully.
Alfie.
God, I miss him.
Miss his gentle wisdom, his terrible jokes, his way of making you feel like everything would eventually make sense even when nothing did.
He would know what to say right now. He would probably hand me some obscure book about finding yourself and tell me to read it with an open heart.
I stand there too long, staring at the empty store, at my own reflection ghosted in the dusty window.
The girl looking back at me seems like a stranger—hair pulled back hastily, running clothes that have seen better days, eyes that look lost in a way I don't recognize. Behind my reflection, the shelves of books sit untouched, gathering dust, waiting for someone to breathe life back into them.
My throat tightens. My eyes burn.
My feet carry me without conscious decision, muscle memory taking over, following paths I walked a thousand times growing up.
I end up at the one place I always seem to come back to, the place that's been my true north even when I've been too stubborn to admit it.