Purple Rain #2
"You know what's fucked up?"
"What?"
"I wasn't even mad."
I glance at her. She shakes her head, staring out at the water.
"I wasn't mad at him. When I saw the photos Camilla sent me—I wasn't angry. I was relieved."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it.
She turns to face me and—
God.
The look in her eyes guts me completely.
There's hurt there. Raw and deep and trying so hard to hide behind the bravado, behind the dry humor, behind the claim that she wasn't angry.
But I can see it.
The betrayal does something to a person. Changes them. Leaves marks that don't show up in photographs but are visible in moments like this—when their guard drops for just a second and you see exactly how much damage was done.
And she's trying to act like it doesn't matter. Like being relieved instead of heartbroken is somehow better. But relief doesn't put that particular shade of pain in someone's eyes.
Every protective instinct I have roars to life. I want to fix this. Want to hunt down the man who put that look on her face and make sure he understands what he's done. Want to promise her that she'll never be hurt like this again, that I'll make damn sure of it.
But I can't.
Because she doesn't need me to fight her battles. Because the last thing she needs right now is me making this about what I want to do to Wes instead of what she needs from me.
So I stay silent, letting her words settle between us. Letting her have this moment without my rage crowding into it. Even though it's taking everything I have.
"I should have known better," she continues, and her voice has gone small, defeated.
"The signs were there. The way he'd be distant for days, the late nights that didn't quite add up, how he never really wanted to know me—the real me, not the version that looks good at industry events. I should have seen it coming."
I hate that she's blaming herself. For his choices. For his betrayal. I can't let her do that.
I do something reckless and reach out, cup her face in my hands, turning her toward me so she's forced to look at me. Her eyes widen slightly at the contact, but she doesn't pull away.
"Don't you dare do that," I say, voice firm but gentle.
"Do what?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Blame yourself for his fuck-up. He's the one who cheated. He's the one who lied. He's the one who asked you to marry him and then betrayed that trust."
My thumbs brush across her cheekbones, and her breathing changes.
"You did nothing wrong here, Nora. Nothing."
Her breath catches, and it ghosts across my palms—that small intake of air that speaks of something shifting.
Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before coming back up to meet mine, and the look in them makes every rational thought evaporate.
Kiss her.
The voice in my head is insistent, demanding.
Kiss her and tell her everything. Tell her the truth. Tell her that you never stopped, that seven years didn't change a damn thing, that she's still the only person who's ever made you feel like this.
But I don't.
Instead, I let my hands drop, force myself to create distance even though it feels like tearing away from gravity.
She's quiet for a moment, then asks, "Do you have your phone?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. Why?"
"Can I borrow it?"
I pull it from my pocket, hand it to her.
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine in a way that sends electricity up my arm.
"What's your passcode?" she asks.
I hesitate for just a second. "It's still the same."
She types in her birthday.
I watch her process it, watch understanding dawn in her eyes.
All these years and I never changed it. Never even thought about changing it.
She looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression, but she doesn't say anything. Just unlocks the phone, scrolls through until she finds my music, and taps something.
The opening notes of "Purple Rain" drift out into the evening air.
Slow. Aching. Beautiful. And intentional.
Because music has always been our love language.
Every song between us has meant something. Every mixtape I made her, every track she'd play when we’d go for a drive, every melody we'd hum together without thinking—it was all deliberate. A conversation happening underneath the words we couldn't say out loud.
Prince's voice fills the space between us, guitar building like a prayer, and I remember.
She had a thing for guitar riffs.
Still does, apparently.
This was one of the first songs that ever made her feel something—really feel something—beyond just liking the melody.
She was fourteen, sitting on her bedroom floor with her dad's old vinyl collection spread around her like treasure.
Purple Rain spinning on the turntable he'd given her for her birthday.
She told me once that when Prince's guitar solo kicked in—that soaring, desperate, perfect riff—something in her chest cracked open. Like the music reached inside and found a part of her she didn't know existed.
She'd played it, made me sit and listen to the whole thing, start to finish, watching my face to see if I felt it too.
I did.
And she knew it.
The same way she knows now that choosing this song, this particular song, isn't random.
She sets the phone down on the dock between us, then stands, brushing off her dress.
"Dance with me," she says, and it's not quite a question.
I should say no. Should remember that she's drunk and sad and vulnerable and this isn't fair to either of us.
Should remember that this song is about loss and longing and wanting something you can't have.
Should remember that dancing with her while Prince sings about never meaning to cause her pain is possibly the worst idea I've had all night.
But I've never been good at saying no to her.
Especially not when she's speaking to me in the only language we've ever been fluent in.
I take her hand, let her pull me to my feet.
She steps into me, one hand in mine, the other resting on my shoulder.
I put my free hand on her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress, and we start to sway.
Just like we used to when we were teenagers, on this exact dock, under stars that looked the same then as they do now.
She rests her head against my chest, and her breathing, her heartbeat against mine, every point where our bodies connect like a map of everything I've been trying to forget.
"Thank you," she murmurs, so quietly I almost don't hear it over the music.
"For what?"
"Coming."
“Always.”
We don't talk after that. Just move together in one fluid motion, the lake stretching out endlessly before us, the music wrapping around us like a memory made tangible.
The space between us—or lack thereof—feels both dangerous and inevitable.
I tighten my hold on her slightly and she shifts closer in response. When the song finally fades out, neither of us moves.
We stand there, still swaying slightly even though there's no music anymore, just the sound of water and our breathing synchronized in a way that feels like its own kind of music.
She lifts her head finally, looks up at me with eyes that hold too much but says nothing.
I should take her home. Should maintain whatever boundaries we're supposed to have. But standing here with her in my arms, the lake at our backs and the stars emerging above, I realize something with absolute clarity:
Some moments are meant to be lived in, consequences be fucking damned.