33. When You Were Young
WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG
NATE
The Mustang's engine hums beneath us as we drive through Eden's dark streets.
Nora's in the passenger seat, shoes off, feet up on the dashboard in a way that should annoy me but never does. The window's down, night air rushing past, tangling through her hair and cooling her flushed skin.
She looks loose and warm and reckless and more alive than I've seen her in years.
"When You Were Young" comes on the radio—The Killers, that opening guitar riff—and she turns it up without asking.
She sings along, loud and off-key and completely unself-conscious.
Throws her hands up, lets the wind catch her voice and carry it into the night.
And I can't look away.
I should be watching the road. Should be focused on driving.
But she's having a whole concert in my passenger seat, and I'm completely transfixed.
The way she looks right now should be studied.
How can someone look this beautiful just existing? Hair wild from the wind, skin flushed from alcohol and laughter, eyes closed like she's feeling every note in her bones.
Completely free. Completely herself.
This version of her—uninhibited, joyful, present—is the Nora I remember from before.
Before LA. Before Wes. Before she learned to make herself smaller to fit into someone else's life. Before we were nothing but two people finding each other in storms, saving each other.
This is who she's supposed to be.
Wild and free and taking up all the space she wants.
Because a woman like her was never meant to be tamed—she was meant to be loved exactly as she is, in all her chaotic, beautiful, impossible glory. And watching her remember that, watching her come back to herself, is worth every year I've spent wanting her.
"Eyes on the road, Nathaniel," she teases, catching me staring.
"Hard to when you're over there having a whole concert."
"You love it."
I don't deny it because it’s true. I force my attention back to the road even though every instinct I have wants to keep watching her.
The next verse plays out—lyrics about being young and naive and full of hope—and I see something shift in her expression.
The joy dims slightly. The lightness fades.
"Don't know why though," she says, quieter now.
"What do you mean?"
She tilts her head to look at me properly.
"I am a fucking disaster, Nate. No need to be nice about it. Everything about my life right now is a complete mess and—" She looks away, as if she’s embarrassed for even admitting something like that. To me, of all people.
The worst part is, she actually believes that. And I know exactly who taught her to think that way.
Wes.
The thing I hate most about that asshole isn't the cheating. Isn't even the way he grabbed her arm this morning. It's how he made her feel small.
How he took this vibrant, extraordinary person and convinced her she was only valuable because of what he did for her. How he made her doubt herself, second-guess her instincts, apologize for taking up space.
Lenora Wells was never meant to be small.
"You really want to know what I see?" There's more intensity in my voice than I intend.
But I can't help it. I can't let her sit there believing she's anything less than extraordinary.
She studies me, confusion and vulnerability warring in her expression.
"What?"
"What I've always seen."
I take a breath, choosing my words carefully.
Because this matters and she needs to hear it.
"I see a girl whose mind is constantly battling with her heart because her heart chooses to feel what her mind chooses to ignore for the sake of self-preservation."
Her lips part slightly, but I continue before she can deflect or argue.
"I see a beautiful girl with an amazing heart and a restless mind. Thoughts and ideas damaged by broken promises and lies from people who didn't deserve you in the first place."
"Nate—"
"I'm not done."
"I see someone who's been convinced she has to choose between what she wants and what's safe. Who's learned to ignore her own instincts because other people told her they were wrong. Someone who's spent so long trying to be what everyone else needs that she forgot what she needs."
I glance at her, and her eyes are wide, glassy with unshed tears.
"And I see someone who's starting to remember that maybe those instincts were right all along."
She doesn't speak and I don't push. Just let the words settle and let her sit with them.
We pull up to the studio, and I go to get out and head toward her cabin, but her hand lands on my arm.
"Wait."
"What?"
"Take me to the studio." The words come out rushed, unplanned. "I'm not done listening to music tonight."
I war with myself.
Because taking her to the studio—alone, late at night, when she's tipsy and vulnerable and looking at me like I'm the only solid thing in her world—is dangerous.
Not for her. For me. Because my restraint has limits, and she keeps testing every single one of them.
"Nora, I don't think—"
"Please."
She squeezes my arm, and even through my shirt the contact sends heat through me.
"I just... I don't want to go back to an empty cabin. And you're the only person I want to be with right now."
The confession hangs in the air between us.
Raw. Honest. Impossible to ignore.
How does she not know that I'd give her anything she asked for?
Finally, I nod.
"Okay. Yeah. Okay."
Because of course I'm going to say yes.
I've never been able to say no to her.
Not when we were seventeen. Not now.
I shift the car into drive and head toward the studio.
And I don't let myself think about what happens when we get there.