Bottles, Bibs and Sangarias
NORA
The windows in Nate’s Mustang are down, while the radio plays softly—‘Champagne Supernova.’—and I'm hyperaware of everything.
The way his hands look on the steering wheel.
The line of his jaw.
The way his breath is uneven.
The fucking irony of the song right now.
The song surfaces the memory of Málaga. The night of my eighteenth birthday at the gallery. The night he organised to bring the stars to me.
Why is it every time I'm in this car with Nate, it's like the universe decides to mess with my head and my heart right when I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown.
I should be angrier than I am about the whole Wes situation. About the photos. About the fact that my engagement just imploded spectacularly and publicly. About the life in LA that's waiting for me to return and pick up the pieces.
But all I can think about is the baby shower.
It was beautiful. Of course it was. Lydia doesn't do anything halfway.
Soft white fabric had draped from the beams of the back deck. Pale pink roses and baby's breath climbed the railings, winding around fairy lights. Long tables were set up on the lawn, linen pressed, glassware sparkling, little place cards written in Lydia's elegant looping handwriting.
That house has seen so many versions of us. Jake cannonballing off the dock like he was invincible. Nate teaching Ollie how to wakeboard. Me sitting on the porch with Dad, our shoulders brushing as the sun went down, neither of us needing to say anything. Mom marrying Nick.
Now it was celebrating new life.
Mia had stood near the dessert table, one hand resting on her stomach, glowing in that way people always talk about but you never really understand until you see it. I'd walked over and hugged her gently, careful, even though she laughed and told me I didn't need to be.
"Do you want kids one day?" she'd asked, casual, like she was asking what I wanted to drink.
I'd paused, just for a second too long.
I do. I always have. I've imagined small hands in mine, bedtime stories, tiny shoes by the door. A life that feels rooted and steady. A life that feels... chosen.
But when I pictured the person standing beside me, it was never Wes.
"I think so," I'd said instead. "One day."
Mia's eyes had flickered, perceptive, but she didn't push.
Someone had pressed a sangria into my hand before I could decline. Then another appeared not long after.
I sipped them slowly, then less slowly. Fruit and wine sweet on my tongue, the alcohol warming my chest in a way that felt both grounding and dangerous. Sometimes you drink because you're celebrating. Sometimes you drink because you don't want to think.
By the fifth glass, Camilla was beside me, eyes sharp despite her own slightly flushed cheeks.
"So," she'd said, entirely too loud for a baby shower. "I've been researching. Did you know you can hire someone to not just slash his tires, but fill them with expanding foam first? So when he tries to replace them, the rims are completely fucked? Very reasonable rates, too."
"Camilla—"
"Or—and hear me out—we could go full scorched earth. I'm talking hiring a skywriter to spell out 'WESLEY GRANT IS A CHEATING BASTARD' over Horizon Pictures during their next board meeting."
She'd taken another drink of her sangria, eyes gleaming with manic creativity.
"Oh! Or we could send him a glitter bomb. But not just glitter—herpes glitter. The kind that's so fine it gets into everything. His car vents. His laptop keyboard. His pores. He'd be finding sparkles in places sparkles should never be for the rest of his miserable life."
"You've really thought about this."
"Nora, I have spreadsheets. Color-coded spreadsheets. Organized by cost, effectiveness, and likelihood of legal consequences. I've ranked everything from mildly petty to full felony. There's even a tab for 'plausible deniability.'"
Despite everything, I'd laughed. "You made actual spreadsheets for revenge plots?"
"What can I say, I'm organized chaos." She'd squeezed my hand, her expression shifting from manic to fierce.
"He's a piece of shit. You deserve so much better. And if you want, I will burn his entire life to the ground with such efficiency and creativity that he'll wish he'd just been nice to you."
"I don't doubt it."
"Good. Because I have thirteen more ideas and at least six of them are actually doable."
I'd slipped away after that conversation and before anyone could notice, heels in my hand, toes sinking into the cool grass as I walked toward the dock. And that’s when Nate found me.
I'm pulled back to the present by the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him. The need is so strong it makes my fingers twitch against my thigh.
He's wearing his signature all black—dark jeans that fit perfectly, a black t-shirt that's just tight enough to show the definition of his shoulders and arms, the ink on his forearms stark against his skin.
One hand rests on the steering wheel, relaxed, and the flex of muscle in his forearm when he shifts gears makes my stomach tighten.
My attraction to him never died. I've spent seven years trying to convince myself it had, that it was just nostalgia or first-love syndrome or something I'd outgrown.
But sitting here now, slightly tipsy on sangria and heartbreak and proximity, I know the truth.
I want him.
Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the fact that my fiancé has been cheating on me and it's all over the internet. Maybe it's being back in Eden where we were young and reckless and so completely consumed by each other that nothing else mattered.
Or maybe it's just that it's always been him, and I've been running from that truth for years.
"You okay?" he asks, glancing at me.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"Everything. Nothing." I lean my head back against the seat, let the wind tangle through my hair.
"Sounds dangerous." He smirks.
"Thank you. For getting me out of there."
"Anytime, Len."
The nickname does something to my chest. Makes me brave in ways I shouldn't be.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Why did you keep my birthday as your passcode?" The question has been sitting in my throat since I unlocked his phone. "You could've changed it a thousand times."
He's quiet for a long moment, jaw working like he's deciding how honest to be.
When he speaks, his voice is low.
"I tried once. I stood there with my phone, ready to change it to something else. Something that didn't remind me of you every single time I unlocked it." He pauses. "But I couldn't do it."
"Why not?"
He pulls into the studio property, parks in front of my cabin, and turns off the engine. Just sits there, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.
"Because changing it felt like giving up," he says finally. "Like admitting you were really gone. And I wasn't ready for that."
The air in the car shifts, becoming charged with something dangerous.
My pulse quickens. Heat pools low in my stomach.
"Nate—"
"We're home," he says, cutting me off gently, and the restraint in his voice is palpable.
The effort it's taking him to maintain distance.
When we reach my cabin, I barely make it through the door before it hits me like a fucking hurricane without warning.
Maybe I'm more drunk than I realize or maybe it's the weight of everything—the photos, the betrayal, the fact that my life in LA is imploding and I'm standing in Eden feeling more alive than I have in years and I don't know what to do with any of it.
I can't breathe.
My dress feels too tight, the fabric suddenly suffocating against my skin, constricting around my ribs like it's trying to squeeze the air from my lungs. My chest is too warm, heat spreading through me in waves that have nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with panic clawing its way up my throat. My thoughts are too loud, crashing over each other like waves and I’m drowning in them.
"Hey, you okay?"
Concern fills Nate's voice, but it sounds distant, muffled, like he's speaking through water.
"I just—" My voice shakes, breaks into fragments. "I need—"
The words fall apart as I do.
My hands are trembling as I reach for the zipper of my dress, fingers fumbling, clumsy with panic and alcohol and desperation.
I tug the dress over my head without thinking, not caring how it looks, not caring that Nate's standing right there watching me unravel. I'm down to my bra and panties, and the air feels like ice against my overheated skin but it's still not enough.
Nothing is enough.
I can't get enough air, can't slow my racing heart, can't stop the spiral. I stumble toward the bathroom on unsteady legs, vision blurring at the edges. Turn the shower on with shaking hands, water steaming instantly, filling the small space with heat and humidity.
I don't even wait for it to reach the right temperature.
Just step in fully, letting the scalding water hit my skin, and immediately sink to the floor. My knees pull up to my chest, arms wrapped around them, and the sobs tear out of my throat—raw, ugly, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and broken.
Everything hurts.
Everything is too much.
My chest is heaving, each breath a battle I'm losing. The water pounds down on me but I barely feel it. My heart is racing so fast it feels like it might burst through my ribs. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
Then suddenly, there's warmth that isn't the water.
Arms around me, solid and real, pulling me back against a chest that's rising and falling with steady, measured breaths.
I register dimly that Nate has stepped into the shower fully clothed, that he's sitting behind me in the tub, that he's wrapping himself around me like a shield, his body curved protectively over mine as the water pounds down on both of us.
"Breathe with me," he says against my ear, his voice cutting through the panic like a lifeline. "In for four. One, two, three, four."
His chest expands against my back, and I try to match it, gasping.
"Hold for four. One, two, three, four."