11. Nora
NORA
The desk actually looks nice by the window.
That thought keeps distracting me while I sit there pretending to comparison-shop paint colors for Paxton’s room instead of staring at the front yard every five minutes like a lunatic.
Morning sunlight spills across the desk the guys assembled yesterday, catching on the tiny scratches in the wood while my laptop sits open beside twelve different shades of blue paint samples online.
Apparently there are six hundred versions of “soft sky.”
Who knew.
Paxton’s room tab stays open untouched beside them.
Technically it isn’t Paxton’s room yet. Technically it’s still mine. I haven’t done anything except move the old twin mattress out and measure the walls for shelves. But mentally I already know it’ll become his eventually because there is absolutely no way I’m touching Valentina’s room.
I still haven’t gone back inside it.
Not fully.
Every time I think about opening that door again, something inside me immediately redirects toward safer tasks. Cleaning the kitchen. Organizing paperwork. Looking up paint colors for a room I haven’t even started yet.
Avoidance with extra steps.
Paxton sits cross-legged in the living room floor nearby coloring dinosaurs while occasionally looking up to show me his progress. He’s wearing mismatched socks and yesterday’s dinosaur shirt because I haven’t managed to unpack all our laundry yet.
This dinosaur is eating the bad dinosaur, he signs seriously.
I nod solemnly. That seems justified.
He grins immediately before going back to coloring.
The house feels quieter today. Too quiet maybe. Which is stupid.
Objectively stupid, right?
I do not care that the guys haven’t shown up yet. I absolutely do not keep glancing toward the driveway expecting motorcycles. I do not notice that nobody texted this morning after practically living inside my house yesterday.
I don’t. Probably.
A loud honk cuts through the quiet outside suddenly.
I jerk hard enough to nearly spill coffee across the desk while Paxton startles visually at my movement before immediately looking toward the front windows. He obviously doesn’t hear the horn, but he notices me standing instantly.
He tries to race towards the door, but I grab his collar stopping him.
I automatically sign, Shoes first.
Paxton huffs dramatically before scrambling for his sneakers near the couch. I follow slower, still expecting maybe a delivery truck or neighbor or something normal. Still trying not to let myself hope that it’s the guys. Instead I open the front door and freeze.
A sparkling dark gray Subaru sits in the driveway looking so painfully new compared to my dead SUV that it almost feels rude.
Sunlight glints off spotless windows while Axel climbs out from the driver’s side wearing another grease-stained shirt and the exact same unimpressed expression he always seems to have.
His motorcycle is strapped to a small trailer behind the car. My jaw actually drops. Axel notices immediately.
“That reaction good or bad?” he asks dryly.
“What is that?”
“That,” he says while slamming the car door shut, “is a Subaru.”
“I know it’s a Subaru.”
“Good start then.”
Paxton flies past me down the porch stairs before stopping abruptly beside the driveway. He stares at the car with wide eyes before looking back toward me immediately asking for permission.
Axel notices the silent check-in too.
“Smart kid.”
Can I go look at it? Paxton signs quickly.
I hesitate. Because this makes absolutely no sense. Then again, nothing involving these men has ever made sense.
You can look at it, I sign carefully before adding, but it is not ours right now.
Paxton nods immediately before hurrying toward the car anyway. Axel watches him for a second before glancing back at me.
“So. You like it?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously. “But I’m also confused why it’s sitting in my driveway.”
He shrugs one shoulder like this conversation bores him already. “Needed a reliable car.”
“How exactly do you expect me to pay for a reliable car?”
That question finally gets a reaction.
“It’s handled,” he responds slowly with a shrug.
“By who?”
Another shrug.
My eyes narrow automatically. “Axel.”
“What?”
“Who paid for this?”
“Some people.”
“Three specific people?”
He looks toward the sky dramatically, like maybe divine intervention will save him from this conversation. Unfortunately for him, I spent years surviving New York landlords and customer service hotlines. I can outlast anybody.
“Axel.”
“Nora.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He sighs heavily. “Look, the old car was one pothole away from exploding. This one isn’t.”
“That still doesn’t explain?—”
Axel abruptly turns away from me, and entirely toward Paxton, whose rapt attention is fixated between him and the bike. Perfect avoidance tactic.
“Hey kid,” he calls. “Wanna see the bike?”
Paxton practically vibrates with excitement before immediately looking toward me again. I swear motherhood is just becoming a permanent translator between your child and the rest of the world.
You can look at the motorcycle, I sign. But you cannot touch anything unless Axel says yes.
Paxton nods enthusiastically.
Axel starts unstrapping the motorcycle from the trailer while Paxton circles nearby with absolute awe written across his face. The second the bike rolls down the ramp, Paxton lets out one of those happy involuntary little vocal sounds that always sneaks out when he gets excited enough.
Axel notices immediately. His expression softens slightly in a way that still looks strange on his face.
“Cool, huh?”
Paxton looks toward me quickly.
It is the coolest motorcycle I have ever seen.
I laugh softly before translating aloud. “He says it’s the coolest motorcycle he’s ever seen.”
“Kid’s got taste.”
Meanwhile I’m still standing there staring at the Subaru like it might disappear if I blink wrong because this is insane. Nobody buys someone a car after reconnecting for forty-eight hours. Especially not someone they slept with once six years ago.
My stomach twists strangely at that thought. Because technically that’s true. But it also doesn’t feel true anymore somehow. It doesn’t feel like that is our only connection.
Not after watching them with Paxton yesterday. Not after Stryker ripped apart my hallway floor because my son scraped his knee. Not after Blade stayed crouched beside Paxton signing reassurances until he stopped crying.
People don’t do those things casually.
Axel eventually straps the bike back onto the trailer while Paxton continues orbiting around him asking endless signed questions that I keep translating out loud.
How fast does it go?
“Too fast.” Axel smacks his hands together sliding one forward as a zoom.
Did you build it yourself?
“Mostly.” He wobbles one hand back and forth.
Can I have a motorcycle someday?
“Ask your mom.” he points at me as he says it and shrugs.
Absolutely not, I think immediately
I don’t even bother saying it aloud or signing it. My expression apparently communicates enough because Axel snorts quietly.
Then suddenly he’s climbing back into the truck.
“That’s it?” I ask. “You’re just dropping off a car and disappearing?”
“Pretty much.”
“Axel—”
He points at the Subaru keys hanging from one finger. “It’s registered. Insured. Full tank of gas. Don’t overthink it.”
Too late. He tosses me the keys before I can argue again. I barely catch them.
Then he’s already climbing into the vehicle while I stand there holding keys to a car I absolutely cannot afford. Paxton waves enthusiastically while Axel pulls away.
The second the truck disappears down the street, silence settles over the yard again. I stare at the Subaru. Then at the keys, and then back at the Subaru.
Paxton races across the grass making tire screeching motions with his hands while pretending to drive already.
This car is amazing.
I rub one hand over my forehead slowly. Amazing isn’t exactly the word I’d use. Because gifts like this create expectations whether people admit it or not. My phone buzzes in my pocket before I can spiral much further. Unknown group chat. I open it cautiously.
Viper:
No take backs.
A second text appears immediately after.
Stryker:
Enjoy the car. Check your email too. The school should’ve reached out.
Then another message pops up beneath theirs.
Blade:
[gif of woman screaming and crying over new car]
I stare at the messages for a long second. Idiots. My chest still feels strangely tight though.
Because nobody has ever taken care of me like this without expecting ownership afterward. Every instinct I have says this should come with strings attached eventually.
But another quieter part of me remembers the way the three of them looked at Paxton yesterday. Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift my phone and snap a picture through the yard window.
Paxton stands beside the Subaru with one hand resting dramatically against the hood while sunlight warms his face. His eyes are closed toward the sky, messy blond curls glowing gold at the edges.
He looks happy. Openly happy. I send the picture before reconsidering it.
He says thank you.
Three typing bubbles appear instantly. I panic, mute my phone, and shove the thing face down onto the desk. Absolutely not. I am not emotionally prepared for whatever responses are coming.
Instead I walk toward the front door where Paxton’s still circling the car like it personally descended from heaven.
Go get your booster seat from the kitchen, I sign.
He pauses immediately. Why?
I hold up the keys and then sign, Because we are going to Home Depot.
Paxton’s entire body jerks with excitement before he bolts for the house at full speed.
“Slow down!” I shout automatically while signing the same thing after him.
Too late.
He disappears inside already. I look back at the Subaru one more time. Then down at the phone still buzzing with incoming texts behind me.
My life in New York was carefully controlled chaos. Every problem had predictable boundaries. Work. Bills. Exhaustion. Routine.
This feels different, like something bigger quietly rearranging itself around us whether I’m ready or not.