Chapter 45
Nolan
Andi: Hey, I hope everything is going well with the packing. I know how busy you are so I wanted to let you know that you don’t have to come to the gala if things are too busy, or if you’re just not up to it.
Andi: Also, I was hoping we could talk soon. Maybe tomorrow after the gala? Let me know.
I grumble down at my phone. I can’t tell if she’s simply being nice, or if it’s a big fat hint that she doesn’t want me there.
I’d still planned to go, regardless of my headspace.
My mind is still a jumbled mess, but all I want to do at this point is see her.
I need to see her, almost as badly as I need air.
At the same time, I don’t know if it would be fair.
Not while my head is still a complete shitstorm.
It’s been a crap few days, to put it mildly, especially after Cody.
Tomorrow is officially moving day, and nearly everything is packed, aside from the essentials.
With everything going on, I’m starting to wonder whether Denmark is the right call after all.
At least in Denmark, I wouldn’t have to feel this kind of pain.
Thankfully, today Mom seems to be in decent spirits.
“Think you’ll miss the house?” I ask her. We’re sitting in the grass at the edge of the lawn next to her garden, which is where she’s most at peace, away from the chaos of moving boxes inside.
The sun casts a long shadow over the lawn, the rickety deck I hated when I first moved in, the overgrown gardens, which are more weeds than flowers.
Two months ago, this was the last place I wanted to be, here with my mom.
All I craved were those long, adrenaline-filled days on the road, nights alone, never knowing where I’d be next.
And now, the prospect of leaving, of leaving her, fills me with dread.
“Yes. But it’s okay,” she says, pulling a weed. “I want to go. Well, that’s an overstatement. No one wants to live in a facility where you’re locked down, forced to eat and do what they want, when they want.”
“That’s fair,” I say, the pit expanding in my stomach.
“But it’s the right thing to do. I keep having these accidents and I don’t want you giving your life up to take care of me like Em did for so long. I can’t stand the thought of being a burden on anyone, not anymore at least.”
My heart pinches. “Mom, you are not a burden.”
She shrugs, her gaze still focused on the weeds. “I’m not sure you would have said the same a couple months ago.”
I bow my head, because she’s entirely right. Coming back here felt like a massive burden, like I’d put my career on pause. “I’m sorry. I feel like shit for the way I handled things with you. Not just moving back, but since you were first diagnosed.”
Her eyes find mine, and the line between her brows intensifies. “What do you mean, how you handled things?”
“When I found out about your diagnosis, I was angry. Not because of how the disease would affect you, but because it meant I couldn’t tell you how I really felt about everything that happened back then.
And I knew it meant we needed to take care of you.
I hate myself for saying that, for ever thinking it.
I didn’t want to move home when Em left. I was angry about it because—”
“I was never there for you when you were younger,” she finishes.
It takes me off guard, because she’s never officially acknowledged that before.
I always thought she lived in an alternate reality.
One where she never abandoned us, where she was never a bad mom.
I didn’t know she was ever capable of acknowledging the truth.
That surprises me. I always thought Emma was too soft on her.
That she wiped the slate clean with Mom and just brushed over the past. “You have every right to hate me,” she says, her eyes welling with tears.
A brick drops heavily on my chest. “I never hated you, Mom. Especially as a kid. All I wanted was for you to come home. And by the time my anger manifested, I’d already gone into the military.”
“It’s the biggest regret of my life. I wasted so much time. And when you said you’d come back, I thought maybe it could be an opportunity to rebuild my relationship with you. Not that I deserve it.” She lowers her head, her voice thick with emotion.
“You do. Of course you do.” I lean forward, catching her gaze.
“And for what it’s worth, I’ve loved being here with you.
I didn’t expect to, but I did. I want to help.
And believe it or not, I like hanging out with you.
I’d keep doing this forever if we could.
” I say it with my whole chest, because there’s nothing I’d rather do.
She looks up, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Well, I like hanging out with you, too, honey. But living with your mother isn’t very conducive to dating, is it?”
“Neither is leaving for months at a time,” I admit.
“I’m shocked your bags aren’t already packed,” she says, her smile turning wry.
I shake my head.
“I take it you haven’t made a decision about Denmark yet?” I’d told her and Emma about it briefly, dodging giving a firm answer every time they asked.
“I don’t want to leave you. I want to be able to visit whenever I want, go for our walks.
” I pause, faltering a little. For the first time in my life, Mom and I have a relationship.
A proper relationship. And if I go to Denmark, I won’t be able to visit her in person.
And by the time I’m finally able to come back, I’m terrified she won’t even remember me anymore.
She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Please don’t second-guess this on my account. I’m going to be fine. Em is here,” she says firmly. “Besides, you were so excited about the prospect of going somewhere else. I thought you’d always live that way. Always on the move.”
“On the move?”
She nods. “I think you’ve been desperate to run, to leave before you can get hurt, like I hurt you every time I left when you were a kid.”
Her words hit me like a gut punch. I’ve always wondered why I’ve had the overwhelming urge to be on the move.
To avoid settling anywhere for too long.
I always used the excuse that I wanted to travel, see the world.
That was probably a small part of it, but if I’m being honest, seeing new, far-off places gets old after a while, especially when I don’t get to slow down and enjoy them.
That’s why I threw myself into work. All I wanted was to keep busy, too busy to fully invest in a relationship.
Too busy to care about someone on a deep level.
If I was too busy to fall in love, I would never get hurt. I’d never get left behind again.
I look at her, the sadness in her eyes reflecting back at me, and I realize she’s right. She’s been holding on to her own guilt, just like I’ve been running from my own fear.
“Look, I may not have all my marbles for much longer. So let me share some wisdom. It’s not about where you are, Nolan. It’s about who you’re sharing your life with. You two get to write all your own rules.”
I nod, the heaviness gathering in my throat. “It’s scary. The idea of staying in one place long enough to give life a chance. To get hurt. What if she gets bored of me? What if I give up my life and she decides she doesn’t want to be with me?”
“Love, that big, passionate love worth having, can’t be found living a safe, comfortable life, sweetie.”
“Why not?” I manage.
“A safe life might look good on the outside, but it’s empty beneath it all.
True love, or anything that makes life worth living, is worth the discomfort.
It’s about how bravely and passionately you put your heart into it.
Into the people in your life, instead of hiding away and being small because you’re scared. ”
Maybe she’s right.
· · ·
The one positive among the shitstorm is all the time Em, Mom, and I have gotten together over the past few days.
I can’t even remember the last time the three of us were together.
For our last night before Mom’s official move, we spend it in the empty living room, eating bacon for dinner. Mom’s idea.
After a movie and some music, Mom retires to bed early, leaving Emma and me on the floor to do some last-minute packing. We still have the house for a couple days after tomorrow before the closing date, which gives me some buffer time to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.
As I clear away the bacon-greased paper plates, I catch Em’s screen as she scrolls through listings, amazed by how much we got for this place compared to some of the list prices. In a flash, I spot a yellow house.
“Wait, stop. Go back.”
She scrolls back up and there it is. The yellow house. Holy shit.
“Hey, isn’t that the house that was on Grandma’s street?” she asks, squinting closer.
“It is.” Frantic, I tap over her shoulder to enlarge the listing.
It’s definitely the house, covered in flowers, some of which are starting to wilt, marking the end of a hot summer. According to the listing, it’s only been on the market for a day.
I think back to all those chilly, frosty Ottawa evenings, when the sparkly dusting of snowflakes crunched under my feet as I walked back to my grandma’s, my breath forming little puffs of white.
I think about how I’d gaze longingly into those warm, glowing windows, wishing I could just stay there.
Wishing I didn’t have to move or switch schools again. Wishing Mom would come home for good.
My mind rewinds back to the night Andi and I went to see the house.
When I took her hand and led her down that tree-lined trail to the ravine.
How I imagined us sitting in that gazebo on crisp autumn mornings, watching the leaves fall, and then bundled up with frothy mugs of hot chocolate during winter.
Waking up each morning to the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, the birds chirping.
I didn’t realize it in the moment, but it was the first time I’d ever pictured my future with someone.
The first time I imagined myself happy, in one place.
It’s strange, actually seeing what it looks like inside after so many years of wondering and imagining.
The house itself is cozy—two bedrooms and a single bathroom.
The hardwood floors are weathered and could use some refinishing.
Wooden beams that match the floors stretch across the ceilings, adding some character.
The stone fireplace stands tall in the living room, its mantel adorned with family photos representing a lifetime of memories, all in that little house.
The kitchen, with its farmhouse charm, boasts a massive window that frames the view of the forest and gazebo in the backyard.
It’s undeniably old and has seen its share of life, which is exactly why it’s so charming.
“I can’t believe it’s for sale. And it’s honestly a really good price for this market,” Emma says, scrolling through the photos. “Someone will probably scoop it up, quick.”
For the next hour as we watch some random murder documentary on Netflix, I barely pay attention.
I’m too preoccupied with scrolling through the listing on my phone.
A strange sensation thrums through me as I tap through the pictures, read every word, even the fine print.
I’m not the kind of person who believes in signs, but I can’t ignore this.
It’s like fate or destiny is tugging me in a clear direction.
A direction I’ve known deep down was the only one that made sense.
“Em?” I nudge her, my tone urgent.
She pulls her gaze from the screen and turns. “Yeah?”
“Can you call the Realtor to set up a showing?”