44. Westbrook Lane
WESTbrOOK LANE
NATE
The song fades out slow, like it's not ready to let go of the room yet. Neither am I. My fingers stay on the strings even after the last note dies. The studio hums around me, it’s quiet in that way that feels earned. Like something important just happened, even if no one's here to witness it.
This one's hers.
Because it’s the kind of song you write when you don't trust yourself with words anymore.
There's a knock that comes at the door and breaks my chain of thought. Three soft taps, tentative, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be here.
I open the door and Dom's standing there with two coffees and an expression that's equal parts hopeful and uncertain.
He's wearing the same leather jacket from the first time he showed up here, jeans that have seen better days, and work boots that suggest he actually uses them.
"Hey," he says. "Hope I'm not interrupting. I texted but—"
"Sorry, my phone's on silent whenever I'm in the studio," I say, stepping back to let him in. "It's fine. Come in."
We’ve been communicating more and more since he first showed up. He enters carefully, like he's afraid of taking up too much space.
His eyes scan the studio—the mixing board, the instruments on the walls, the gold records, the photographs.
Taking it all in.
"This setup is incredible," he says quietly. "You built all this?"
"Most of it." I take the coffee he offers. "Thanks for this."
"Figured you could use it." He gestures to the guitar leaning against the wall. "You were playing when I got here. Didn't want to interrupt."
"Just messing around."
"Didn't sound like messing around." He sets his coffee down, moves toward the guitars with the kind of reverence that tells me he understands what they mean. "Mind if I...?"
"Go ahead."
He picks up the Gibson—the same one he played when he first showed up weeks ago—and settles onto the stool like he belongs there.
His fingers find the strings immediately, adjusting the tuning with muscle memory that mirrors my own.
"What were you playing?" he asks.
"Something new but it’s not finished yet."
"Can I hear it?"
I hesitate then pick up my own guitar. The melody comes easier the second time.
Dom listens for a few bars, then joins in. He doesn’t try to overpower, his playing just complements. His fingers find harmonies I hadn't thought of, countermelodies that make the whole thing richer.
We play together, and something in my chest loosens making my shoulders relax.
This should feel strange or at least awkward or forced or weighted with all the years we didn't have.
But it doesn't. It feels natural, like our hands know how to speak the same language even if our mouths haven't figured it out yet.
Music has a way of filling in all the gaps that words can't reach.
He plays clean, steady, with a style that's clearly influenced mine without me ever knowing it. Echoes of myself in his phrasing are visible, or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe I've been carrying pieces of him in my playing all along without realizing it.
We finish together, the final chord hanging in the air between us.
"That's beautiful," Dom says quietly. "Really beautiful. The girl you wrote it for, has she heard it yet?"
I don't ask how he knows it's about someone. I guess the song makes it obvious.
"She doesn't know it exists," I say.
"You going to tell her?"
"I don't know."
He nods, understanding in a way that doesn't require explanation then sets the guitar down carefully.
"Thank you," he says. "For letting me do that. Play with you."
"You're good," I say, and I mean it. "Really good."
"Had a lot of years to practice." He picks up his coffee. "A lot of years alone with a guitar and too much time to think."
"I'm sorry," he says after a moment. "For all of it. For not fighting harder to be in your life. For letting Scott and his family intimidate me into staying away. For—"
"You don't have to keep apologizing," I interrupt gently. "I get it. I understand why you made the choices you made."
"Do you?" He looks at me properly now, and there's rawness in his expression.
Desperate to be understood but terrified he doesn't deserve it.
"Because I'm not sure I do anymore. I tell myself it was to protect you.
To keep you safe from Scott. But maybe I was just protecting myself from the risk of trying and failing. "
The honesty lands heavy and I recognize it immediately because I've told myself the exact same thing.
Different circumstances, different person, same justification.
"I do," I say quietly.
Dom's eyebrows raise slightly.
"The girl the song's about," I continue. "I spent seven years telling myself I was protecting her. That staying away, staying silent, letting her move on without me—that was love. That was me being noble."
"And was it?"
"I don't know," I admit. "Maybe some of it was.
But a lot of it was also me protecting myself from the risk of her saying no.
From the possibility that even knowing the truth, she still wouldn't choose me.
So I made the choice for her. Decided what she could handle, what she needed, what was best for her—all without ever asking her what she actually wanted. "
Dom nods slowly, understanding flickering in his eyes.
"It's easier, isn't it?" I say. "To tell yourself you're being selfless. That you're making the hard choice to protect someone you love. Because the alternative—admitting you're just scared—that's harder to live with."
"You sound like you've thought about this a lot."
"Like I said, I've had years to think about it." I set my guitar down, lean back.
Dom is quiet for a long moment, absorbing this.
"Your mother told me once when we were young,” he says finally, "that loving someone means trusting them to make their own choices. Even when those choices scare you. Even when you think you know better."
I stay quiet and let him finish.
"I didn't listen." He sets the guitar aside. "I was so convinced that staying away was the right thing even after all these years—the only thing."
"I think you did what you thought was right at the time," I say carefully. "Just like I did. Just like anyone does when they love someone and they're scared of losing them."
Dom puts a hand on my shoulder, and this time the gesture feels earned.
"You're wise beyond your years," he says.
"I've made enough mistakes to learn from." I meet his eyes.
"So have I."
"You went to prison for six years," I say. "On charges Scott planted. That's not exactly taking the easy way out."
"But after?" He shakes his head. "After I got out, I could have tried. Could have reached out. Could have fought to know you. Instead I convinced myself you were better off without me."
"Maybe I was," I say. Not cruel. Just honest. "Maybe you showing up when I was a kid, trying to save us would have made things worse."
"Or maybe I could have gotten you and your mom out sooner."
"Maybe. Or maybe we'd all be dead." I set my guitar down. "We can play the 'what if' game forever. Doesn't change what actually happened."
We sit in comfortable silence, and I realize this is what having a father could have felt like.
Should have felt like.
Just two people who understand each other without needing to explain everything.
"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Dom asks eventually.
"Got some work to do on a house."
His eyebrows raise. “A house?”
"I've been working on it for about three years now."
"Need a hand?" He gestures to his work boots. "I'm pretty good with a hammer. Spent some time in construction when the whole full-time musician thing didn't work out."
I consider it.
Consider whether I'm ready to show him this—the house I built for a future I'm not sure exists yet.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. “I’d like that.”
The drive out to Westbrook Lane is quiet. Dom doesn't try to fill the silence with small talk, just looks out the window at the town he left behind decades ago.
When we pull up to the house, he lets out a low whistle.
"Jesus Christ. You built this?"
"Most of it. I had help with the foundation and the framing. But everything else..." I gesture to the structure. "That's me."
It's beautiful in an understated way. Two stories, wraparound porch, large windows that let in natural light. The kind of house that feels like home before you even walk inside.
Dom gets out of the truck slowly, studying every detail.
"This is incredible work, Nate. Really incredible."
"Porch still needs finishing," I say, grabbing my tools from the truck bed. "Steps need sanding. Render needs another coat."
“Does she know you built her house too?” He says with a smirk, grabbing the ladder.
"No."
"Why not?"
I set my tools down, lean against the porch railing.
"Because telling her feels like I'm trying to force a choice. And she's got enough of those to make already."
Dom picks up sandpaper, runs his hand along the steps that need smoothing.
"So you built her a house without telling her."
"Built us a house," I correct. "But yeah."
"That's either the most romantic thing I've ever heard or the most terrifying."
"Probably both." I laugh.
"How long’s it been?” He asks after a while.
“How long since what?”
“Since you knew you were in love with her.”
“I’ve known forever that there wouldn’t be someone else like her. I think seven year old me knew that.”
"Wow."
I begin sanding the opposite end of the porch.
“Where is she now then?”
"She went back to LA," I say. "To her life there."
"And?"
"And I don't know if she's coming back."
"Do you want her to?"
"I built her the house she's talked about ever since she was a kid.”
"Then maybe you should tell her that." Dom moves to the next step. "Or better yet, show her that you've been building a future that includes her because you can't imagine one that doesn't."
We work in silence for a while.
Dom's got good hands—steady, practiced, the kind that know how to build things that last.