Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
NATHAN
It never occurred to me to even look Thea up.
To ask Dylan if they had pictures together.
To be nosy via social media. Why would I?
Thea isn’t that uncommon of a name, right?
If I even remotely thought her Thea was the same as my Thea—as if I even have the right to call her that—I would’ve done something.
Said something. Asked questions. Avoided coming on this godforsaken trip entirely.
I’d spent years trying to forget. Forget the accident, forget the helpless feeling that still threatens to consume me day in and day out, forget her, the look on her face when she realized he wasn’t coming back, the look she pointed at me filled with blame.
But I never could, not really. That look haunts me, even now after all this time.
And the way she looked at me when recognition sparked…
it was the same. She was the same. Except not.
She was a woman now, even more striking than the last time I saw her. I always thought that maybe there was a future for us, despite the years that separated us and the fact that she was convinced she was going to spend the rest of her life with her high school sweetheart.
The very douchebag that carved her heart right in two.
When the time was right, I was determined to convince her that he wasn’t right for her, and deep down I always thought she knew that.
No, that’s not true, she always knew it.
I caught it in the way she watched me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention—her gaze always lingering for a moment too long.
I caught it in the way she would brush her hair behind her ear when I’d drop a casual comment.
The way her lips would twitch ever so slightly when I said something that hinted at feelings that had only continued to grow.
It was always subtle, but it was there, just as the age difference between us had always been a quiet tension, an unspoken thing we both acknowledged but could never give a voice to. Seven years.
On the surface, it was nothing, especially considering how we had grown up together.
But there was a line that I refused to cross.
The moment I realized she was becoming more mature, she was still so innocent, so full of dreams and ideals, thinking she had all the time in the world to figure things out.
She believed she was in love with Lucas and I let her live that reality because most relationships don’t last after high school.
And then there was me, sitting there on the other side, already well aware of the reality that life was fleeting.
That time slipped away faster than you could catch it.
But I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t fair for me to make my move, to let my feelings cloud the space where her own growth needed to happen.
She was growing into herself, and I watched it happen from a distance.
I knew how dangerous it was, how fragile the boundary was between us.
Not just because of everything that separated us, but because of my best friend, her brother—Miles.
But even then, I was patient because I saw who she was and who she could be—strong, smart, and capable.
Hell, I wanted her to be all of those things, independent and free to choose her own path without anyone, least of all me, influencing her decisions.
But when she turned eighteen, something in me shifted and while it wasn’t a sudden revelation, it was a culmination of several years waiting for her to catch up.
But then the accident happened. And everything—everything—got destroyed.
She was never supposed to see me as someone who could hurt her.
Never supposed to look at me the way she did that day, with the same sadness, the same blame that’s present in her still.
But it was too late. I never bothered to seek her out after that.
I never looked for the apology, gave her the apology, or the answers we both needed after Miles died.
After I failed to save him. Because a part of me was terrified of what I’d find—of what she’d still think of me, of how the ghosts of that day would come rushing back.
But fuck, if I don’t regret it now. My ignorance, distance, and the pretense that I’ve moved on from something I never truly left behind is biting me in the ass.
How the fuck am I supposed to pretend like we aren’t strangers in a shared history?
How am I supposed to pretend like I wasn’t still aching for the girl I had hoped would one day be mine?
It was stupid of me to offer her a bedroom knowing Dylan would only encourage it.
It was stupid knowing that the only way Thea looked at me now was with contempt.
But god, the masochist in me would give up everything I am, everything I have, just for the chance to be near her and to bask in the quiet beauty of her presence, even if it means drowning in the ache of never being enough for her.
Even if it means being the one she will never choose.
Dylan pulls into my driveway before the sun starts to rise and puts the truck in park.
The engine hums for a moment, the silence in the cab heavy until Fletcher breaks it by opening his door and stepping out, likely to help carry some of Thea’s items in.
Opting to join him, I do the same. As soon as I do, I can feel his eyes on me.
He knows. He might not know exactly what it is, but he knows there’s more under the surface than I’m letting on.
It’s what makes him so damn good at his job.
But thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.
Just like I know when he knows something, he also knows that I’ll talk about it when I’m ready.
We work in silence as we move the few bags, boxes, and essential items into the house.
She won’t need the furniture since it’s already furnished, so we plan on taking that to storage when we’ve all had a chance to rest.
It takes no time at all for Fletcher and I to move everything in and then he and Dylan are gone, and I can hear the front door creak open behind me.
I don’t turn to look, but I know she’s standing there—close enough that I can feel the weight of her presence, but far enough that it feels like a distance I’ll never be able to bridge.
The air continues to shift the farther inside she steps.
I never thought I’d see her again like this, never thought I’d see her again in general.
But under my roof? The woman I could’ve had, should’ve had, is a different level of fucked.
I brace myself for the inevitable—for her to hurl unpleasant words at me, for her to throw herself at me and beat my chest in frustration and fury, but instead she quietly shifts from foot to foot, letting the silence continue to hang between us.
“I didn’t want to stay,” she says, as if I didn’t already know that. I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady as I avoid saying all of the things that I should’ve said years ago. But I can’t.
“I know,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper.
“But you’re here now. And I’ll…I’ll stay out of your way.
” It’s all I can offer her and it feels like a promise I don’t know I’ll be able to keep, but for her, I’ll try.
“Let me show you to your room and then I can show you where everything else is and how it works. That’s the furthest you’ll have to deal with me. ”
She hesitates, her weight shifting again, and I catch a glimpse of her face in my peripheral vision.
This is the first time I’m really noticing the evident fatigue etched onto her face.
Her eyes are heavy with more than just exhaustion though.
I still don’t know the full story but I’m starting to fill in some of the gaps from what I’ve observed over the last few hours.
I know better than to pry, especially when we have our own problems settled between us.
“Lead the way,” she finally says, her voice clipped.
I nod, my throat tight, and turn toward the hallway.
The house, as big as it felt with just me, now feels entirely too small, the walls closing in with the weight of her presence.
I can hear the soft tread of her footsteps behind me.
“There are three bedrooms total, you can have your pick between two of them. The one at the end of the hall is mine. The guest bathroom is just past the second door on the right, but that room also happens to be the smaller of the two. This one…” I stop in front of one on the left, the one right next to my own.
“Is the bigger one. It also lets in more natural light being on this side of the house.” My voice is steadier than I feel, though I’m not sure she’ll miss the hesitation beneath my words.
A part of me desperately wants her to pick the room next to mine just as much as I hope she chooses the smaller of the two.
Being so close to her that only a wall separates us…
feels like an invitation to chaos. One I’m not sure either of us would walk away from.
It’s enough just being under the same roof.
“Natural light sounds nice,” she whispers, and I can see everything she’s not saying, as if she wants me to know she’s been living in the dark for too long.
I push open the door for her, stepping aside to let her pass.
“It’s not much, but it’s clean and the sheets are new.
In case you get cold or anything there are also extra blankets in the closet.
Pillows, too, if you need more.” She steps inside, her gaze sweeping the room, observing the queen sized bed, lounge chair in the corner, and desk that’s against the wall.
She doesn’t say anything else for a long moment, and I can taste the tension between us.
“It’s fine,” she says eventually. I linger in the doorway, unsure if I should leave or if there’s more I’m supposed to say.
But she doesn’t look at me, so I take that as my cue to walk away.
If anything, I’ll help carry her stuff down the hall for her.
As I bend to pick up a duffel bag and one of the boxes, I hear the sudden sharp clack of her footsteps in the hallway.
When I straighten out, she’s standing in front of me with her arms crossed. “What are you doing?”
I blink, caught off guard by the fire in her eyes. “I’m just bringing your stuff—”
“No.” She cuts me off, her hand darting to the strap of the duffel, her knuckles brushing mine as she yanks it out of my grasp before grabbing for the box. “I can handle it. I don’t need you doing that for me.”
I let go instinctively, but my confusion lingers. I know she isn’t exactly happy about this arrangement, but the sudden change in her behavior still surprises me. “It’s not a big deal,” I say carefully, trying to temper the direction this conversation is headed.
“It is a big deal,” she bites back, clutching the bag to her chest as if it’s some kind of shield. “I didn’t come here for…for charity or pity or whatever it is that you think this is.”
“It’s not pity, Thea. I offered because I wanted to help.” But I know even as the words leave my lips that wasn’t the only reason I offered.
Her laugh is bitter, almost a bark, and I know she probably realizes that isn’t my only motivation either. “Help? By carrying my things like I’m incapable? Like I’m some…broken thing.”
“I wasn’t implying that,” I counter, stepping back to give her space even though every instinct wants me to stand my ground. “I just thought—”
“That’s the problem,” she snaps, cutting me off again.
“You’re always thinking. Always trying to fix things, trying to make them better.
But you never seem to get it. Some things can’t be fixed.
” Her voice cracks just a little, the anger not fully masking the hurt that lingers underneath after all of these years.
I swallow, the words I want to say caught in my throat, and I’m suddenly keenly aware this isn’t just about me helping her with her stuff.
The weight of her brother’s death still lingers between us.
“I didn’t mean to…” I begin, but I don’t finish the sentence.
What is there to say? It’s been too long since the accident, but I still don’t know how to explain my side of it without reopening old wounds.
She shakes her head sharply, her eyes avoiding mine now as if she’s aware of the vulnerability she let show.
“You don’t have to apologize. I don’t need that from you. I don’t want it.”
“I’m just trying to be here for you, Thea.” But apparently that wasn’t the right thing to say either because her grip tightens even further.
She tilts her head to the ceiling before blowing out a breath. “I definitely don’t need that from you, either. This is only a temporary arrangement.”
I want to argue, to tell her that’s not true, that everyone needs someone.
But that wouldn’t matter; she has Dylan and Fletcher.
So instead, I nod again, stepping toward the kitchen.
“Alright, I’ll let you handle it.” It feels wrong, leaving her like that, yet I don’t know how to help without somehow making it all worse.