Chapter 9 #2
We move around each other for the rest of the day like we're made of glass—careful, fragile, pretending neither of us feels the crack forming.
He makes me coffee.
I book the flight.
He pretends not to watch me pack.
I pretend not to see the way his shoulders tense every time I zip something closed.
We sleep together that night, but not like before. Not urgently or hungrily. This time it feels like memorizing—hands lingering, breaths syncing, both of us silently terrified this might be the last time.
In the morning, he drives me to the airport without question. And suddenly, we’re here parked in his car outside Málaga airport, my suitcase in the backseat and my heart somewhere around my ankles.
"I should probably go through security," I finally say, though neither of us moves.
"Yeah." His voice is rough, like he's been swallowing glass.
His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles have gone white. The air conditioning hums between us, but it does nothing to cool the suffocating atmosphere of impending goodbye.
"Do you want me to come in with you?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I look at him—really look at him—memorizing the way the afternoon light catches the golden flecks in his eyes, the stubble along his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead.
"It's probably going to be easier to say goodbye here."
We both know I'm right, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.
I get out first, shouldering my carry-on bag. He meets me around my side, running his hands through his hair in that gesture I've come to recognize as his way of trying to hold himself together.
"Bye Nate," I say, the word feeling inadequate for everything we're leaving unsaid.
"It's never goodbye with us," he replies, stepping closer. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "Just see you soon."
He kisses me then, and it doesn't feel like a final kiss, but the uncertainty that surrounds us feels as heavy as any goodbye.
Some say it's painful to wait for someone.
Some say it's painful to forget someone.
But the worst pain comes when you don't know whether to wait or forget.
The security lines move slowly, deliberately, like the universe is testing how much it can make my chest ache. Every step toward the gate feels heavier than the last, each footfall carrying a little piece of the morning we spent tangled together, his hands memorizing me as much as I memorized him.
I catch myself half-turning, half-expecting to see him leaning against the terminal wall, grinning that lopsided, infuriating grin that makes everything harder and softer at once.
I breathe, try to steady myself, but the image of his eyes—storm clouds and sunlight wrapped in one—won’t leave me. I clutch my boarding pass like a lifeline, yet every heartbeat seems to echo in the empty space where he should be.
By the time the plane lifts into the sky, I’m a fragile mix of excitement and dread. Spain falls away beneath me, the memory of him still vibrating through me.
Landing in Eden, the familiar smells and sounds of home are almost shocking after the intensity of Spain.
I don’t tell Mom I’m flying in early. I take a taxi straight from the airport to the lake house, my suitcase bumping along the road, my thoughts replaying the last morning with Nate over and over.
By the time the lake house appears through the trees, I’m braced for a mixture of relief and something heavier, something I can’t name.
Lydia is already there. She opens the door with arms wide, and I let myself fall into her embrace, letting the world soften around the edges for the first time in hours.
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m so happy you’re back,” she says, and I close my eyes, taking in her warmth.
“Your room is ready and waiting,” she continues, leading me inside. “But come, sit—I made tea, and there are cinnabons waiting in the kitchen.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to argue, tugging me gently toward the smells and sounds that have always felt like home. Somehow, no matter how much time passes, this place never changes.
“So,” she says, words tumbling over each other, “how are you? How was London? The internship? Your mom says they might publish your work? Honey, that’s amazing!”
Her eyes are bright, and I can tell she’s caught up in her own excitement, her joy spilling over. I see the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes and reach for her hand, a quiet tether.
“Lyds, I’m good. Really good. London has been great too.”
Her smile falters for a fraction of a second, and she laughs, a little breathless, like she can’t quite believe it. “Ugh, why am I already crying? I’m an emotional wreck these days.”
Makes two of us.
“So, you were with Nate in Spain? How’s my boy?” she asks, leaning forward, curious, but cautious too.
I bite my lip, thinking of him.
“He’s good. Thriving, actually. Spain’s become a second home for him.”
Lydia nods, satisfied but a little wistful. “I was really hoping he’d be here for the wedding. I guess he needs to do what’s right for him.”
I nod too, quietly agreeing.
“And you?” I ask softly. “How are you holding up?”
“Well, since your mom and Nick decided to surprise us with an engagement and a summer wedding, I’ve been consumed with making their day perfect,” she admits.
There’s pride and love in her voice, but a flicker of exhaustion too, almost invisible.
“Honestly, it’s the one thing keeping me sane while the rest of life feels like it’s unraveling.”
Her shoulders sag just a little as she pours tea, and I see her carefully maintained cheerfulness slipping. She tells me about her divorce proceedings, the endless court dates, the weight of a family’s dysfunction, the patterns she tried to outrun and couldn’t. Her voice is low, weary.
“I was young. Alone. Abandoned by my own alcoholic parents,” she says, staring into her cup as if the porcelain might hold answers.
“If it wasn’t for your mom, I wouldn’t have made it through high school—or past twenty-five.
That’s why I want her day to be everything she could dream of.
Second only to her wedding with your dad. ”
Part of me wants to feel betrayed that Mom’s happiness doesn’t erase Dad’s absence. But the larger, quieter part knows love isn’t finite—Nate’s absence, Mom’s new joy, Dad’s memory—they can all exist at once.
“I’m sorry, this isn’t tea talk,” Lydia says, catching herself.
“No, it’s fine,” I tell her. “It’s good to just listen.”
She continues, telling me about toxic love, fairy-tale beginnings gone wrong, the Sullivans, her mother in-law, Moira’s venom, and how she’s tried and failed to protect her own.
I listen, letting her words sink into the quiet spaces in my chest, reminding me that every heart carries invisible scars, even Nate’s.
“You know,” she says finally, her grip firming on my hand, “Nate’s capacity to love people who hurt him—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Strength and vulnerability at the same time. I don’t know where he gets it from.”
“You,” I whisper. “He gets it from you.”
She gives my hand a light squeeze, and for a moment, the weight of everything feels lighter.
“Okay, let’s talk wedding,” she says, straightening.
Before Lydia can launch into her wedding-planning tangent, the front door opens and closes with a muted thump.
Jake walks in carrying two grocery bags. His shoulders tense the second he sees me at the kitchen table. It’s barely perceptible, but I feel it like a gust of cold air.
“I got everything you needed,” he says, directing the words strictly at Lydia. He sets the bags on the counter—carefully, but with a stiffness that betrays how tightly he’s holding himself together.
“Thanks, honey. Come sit, Nora just got here—”
“I’ve got things to do.”
Short. Final.
He doesn’t even pretend to glance my way.
He’s gone an instant later, leaving the room feeling oddly hollow, like he took something with him. Or maybe just left something unresolved behind.
Lydia exhales, weary. “He hasn’t been the same since he started working for Scott. I hope being here reminds him who he is.”
But I know some of the distance in him has nothing to do with Scott.
Later, after circling the hallway twice trying to work up the courage, I knock on his bedroom door. The sound feels too loud in the quiet house.
He opens it.
The surprise on his face barely flickers before it hardens into that same distant neutrality. He stands in the doorway, blocking the room behind him, like even the space he occupies is off-limits.
“Jake, can we talk—”
“Not now.”
Not harsh.
Not emotional.
Just closed off.
Before I can say anything else, he shuts the door. Not a slam—he’s too controlled for that. Just a firm, deliberate click that feels louder than a shout.
I stand there staring at the wood grain, the finality of it sinking into my chest. He didn’t even give me his eyes. Not even that.
And the worst part?
I can’t tell if he’s avoiding me because he’s angry or because letting himself feel anything toward me would break something he can’t afford to lose.
In my old room, everything waits for me exactly as it was.
Bones, my stuffed toy, perched on my pillow like a guardian.
I don’t know when Lydia managed to sneak my bags up stairs without me noticing but I open my bag to get my laptop and that’s when I see it—a CD labeled in Nate’s handwriting: Nora’s Mixtape #18.
Exhaustion presses down on me, and I curl onto the bed, grabbing my old discman and slipping on my headphones. I press play. The first song is Five String Serenade by Mazzy Star.
I close my eyes and I’m back in Malaga, watching him coax music out of nothing but air and strings, his fingers moving with reverence, precision, and all the quiet tenderness he keeps for me.
The song feels suspended, like underwater motion slowed to its most beautiful, most fragile pace. It carries every note of longing, every memory of touch, every moment of love and ache that we created together.
And just like that, I’m caught between wanting to wait for him and wanting to forget him. I’m suspended between hope and heartbreak, the pendulum swinging back and forth in the spaces between memory and presence.
Somehow, I’m learning that love can live there too—in the quiet spaces, in the pauses, in the songs we carry long after the person is gone.