46. A Home, Not A House
A HOME, NOT A HOUSE
NORA
The plane lands in Eden just after sunrise, and the second my feet hit the ground, there's only one place I need to be.
I go straight to the studio without stopping to see Mom or Camilla or anyone. Hell I haven’t even changed clothes in two days. The parking lot is nearly empty when I pull in, just Julian's beat-up Honda sitting in the spot closest to the entrance.
My heart hammers against my ribs hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. I knock once—more out of habit than actual courtesy—then push through the door.
Julian's at the mixing board with a coffee in hand, looking exactly like someone who's been here since before the sun came up. When he sees me, his entire face lights up in that way that makes him look about fifteen instead of twenty-one.
"Well, well, well," he says, grinning wide enough that I can see he's genuinely happy to see me. "Look who decided to come back."
"Is he here?"
The words come out more desperate than I intend, but I'm past the point of trying to play it cool.
"Nate?" Julian shakes his head, and my stomach drops before he continues. "He's at Westbrook Lane. Working on the house."
I stare at him, trying to make sense of the words.
"What house?"
Julian's grin widens in a way that tells me he knows something I don't, and he's enjoying the fact that he gets to be the one to tell me.
"You don't know?"
"Know what?"
He sets down his coffee carefully, like he's buying himself a moment to decide whether this is his story to tell. Then he looks at me with something that might be pity or might just be understanding, and says, "Jesus, he really hasn't told you."
The words don't compute at first. They just sit there between us while my brain tries to catch up with what he's implying.
"Told me what, Julian?"
"For three years now—maybe longer—every spare second he has, he's been working on this house.
It's on Westbrook Lane, down past South Eden where the old tobacco fields used to be.
He's been building it himself. Well, mostly himself.
Nick helps sometimes, and Dom's been around lately, but it's Nate's project. "
Julian stands up, grabs his keys from the console, and looks at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Come on. I'll drive you."
The drive feels endless and far too short all at once, like time has stopped making sense.
Julian fills the silence with easy chatter about the band, about how Tommy's doing in his recovery program and actually showing up to rehearsals now.
He talks about the album they just finished—twelve tracks that he thinks might actually change their lives, that Nate produced in between everything else he's been juggling.
But I barely hear him.
"He loves you, you know," Julian says quietly as we turn onto a street I don't recognize, lined with old oak trees that create a canopy overhead. "Like, really loves you."
"I know," I whisper, because I do know. I've always known, even when I was pretending I didn't.
"Do you?" He glances at me, and there's something protective in his expression that reminds me he's Nate's family now too. "Because that guy has spent years getting sober, building a business from nothing, helping people who remind him of who he used to be—all while waiting for you to come back."
My throat tightens. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall yet.
"I know," I say again, and this time my voice breaks on the words.
"Good." Julian pulls up in front of a house that makes my breath catch in my chest, and he puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine.
"Because he deserves to be loved back just as hard.
And if you're not here to do that, if you're just here to break his heart again because you're scared or confused or whatever—"
"I'm here to stay," I interrupt, and saying it out loud makes it real in a way it hasn't been before. "I'm here for him. For us. For however long he'll have me."
Julian's expression softens. He nods once, satisfied with whatever he saw in my face.
"Then go get him."
I look at the house through the windshield, and something in my chest cracks open.
It's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with architecture or design and everything to do with intention. With care. With the kind of love that shows up in the details you'd only notice if you knew what you were looking for.
Two stories with a wraparound porch that's clearly been built by hand—I can see the careful craftsmanship in the railings, in the way the boards fit together. Large windows that would let in morning light and make the whole place glow.
And there, along the side of the house, is a garden.
Not just any garden. One that’s growing sunflowers. Rows and rows of them in various stages of growth—some already tall and bright yellow, faces turned toward the sun. Others just beginning to bloom. Some still small and green, just starting their journey upward.
These are the flowers he brings to Jake. Every three days for seven years. He grows them here.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, but I can't look away yet because there's something else. Something about the house that's nagging at the edges of my memory.
The porch wraps all the way around. The windows are tall and numerous, the kind that would make the inside bright no matter what time of day. There's a swing on the left side of the porch, and the front door is painted a deep forest green.
My heart starts pounding harder.
Two stories but not too big. A wraparound porch where you could sit and watch the seasons change. Big windows to let the light in. A garden for growing things. Green accents because green was always my favorite color.
And then it hits me all at once, stealing the air from my lungs.
This is my house.
Not a house. My house.
The one I described to him when we were kids. The one I said I'd want someday when I was grown up and had my life figured out. A place that felt like home.
"Where you could sit and watch the world go by," I'd said.
He'd been quiet for a long time after I described it, and then he'd said, "What color would you paint the door?"
"Green," I'd answered without hesitation. "Forest green, like the trees up around Eden.”
And he'd smiled in that way that meant he was filing the information away somewhere safe, somewhere he'd remember it forever. I thought it was just conversation. Just two kids dreaming about lives they might never live.
But he remembered.
He remembered every detail.
And he built it.
For three years, he's been building the house I described to him when we were kids. The house I said I'd want to grow old in. The house that represented everything I thought love could be if you were brave enough to believe in it.
He built me my dream house.
My hands are shaking so badly now that I have to press them against my thighs. My vision blurs with tears I can't hold back anymore.
And there, on the porch of the house he built from my fifteen-year-old dreams, painting the railing with patient, careful strokes that speak of someone who has all the time in the world, is Nate.