Chapter 12 Mending What’s Broken
MENDING WHAT’S brOKEN
NATE
"Ready?" Nick asks as we watch the flight information update on the departures board.
I think about the question seriously, running my thumb over the edge of my passport.
"Want me to lie or tell the truth?"
Nick grins and claps me on the shoulder. "I'm right here."
The flight from Spain to Eden feels both endless and far too short.
I spend most of it staring out the window at clouds that look like cotton balls against an impossibly blue sky, listening to the songs from Nora's mixtape she made me on repeat, trying to prepare myself for the reality of being home.
By the time the plane touches down, my nerves are stretched taut as guitar strings. The familiar landscape unfolds below us as we descend—rolling hills, the glint of the lake in the distance, the small town sprawl that holds every memory of my childhood, both beautiful and fucking terrible.
"Welcome home," Nick says, the words should feel comforting, but right now they’re anything but.
The drive through town is surreal.
Everything looks smaller than I remembered, but also more vivid somehow. We pass Sonder, the sight makes something warm unfurl in my chest—pride, maybe, or just the simple pleasure of seeing something I helped build thriving in my absence.
"Want to see your mom first, or..." Nick trails off, and I know what he's really asking.
"Yeah, take me to the lake house," I say without hesitation. "If she's there."
The lake house looks exactly the same as it did the day I left—imposing and beautiful, with its wraparound porch and floor-to-ceiling windows that reflect the late afternoon sun.
But as we pull up the circular drive, I can see movement through those windows, and my heart starts hammering against my ribs.
"You want me to come in?" Nick asks as he puts the car in park.
I shake my head, grabbing my single duffel bag from the back seat.
"I can do this one alone." Before I close the car door, I lean in the window, “Thanks. For everything, really.”
He nods, understanding. "I'll be at my place when you're ready."
I watch him drive away, leaving me alone at the bottom of the porch steps.
For a moment, I just stand there, breathing in the familiar scent of lake water and pine trees, letting the reality of being home settle into my bones.
Then I climb the steps and knock on the door.
Footsteps approach from inside, and I can hear voices—Mom's laugh, and underneath it, another voice that makes my entire nervous system freeze.
Jake's.
The door opens, and the look on Mom's face is like she's seen a ghost. One she's happy to see. Her face lights up and arms are thrown around me.
"Oh my god, you're home!" She pulls me into a hug and I let myself sink into it for just a moment. "I wasn't sure you'd come," she whispers in my ear, and I can hear tears in her voice.
"Neither was I," I admit, pulling back to look at her.
My eyes find Jake over Mom's shoulder, and even with space between us I can feel the anger, the hurt, the betrayal in some way.
"I can’t believe you’re here, both of you," Mom says, squeezing my hand once before disappearing toward the kitchen.
"I'm leaving." Jake says abruptly.
"Jacob," Mom says in a tone that I recognize is equal parts sadness, hurt and underlying sense of fear. The fear in her voice is similar to how she used to address me.
Funny how roles can reverse.
"I'll see you at the party." He says without looking at her, instead grabbing his jacket off the staircase railing and brushing past me as if I'm barely there. The front door slams shut.
"He’s mad," I say to Mom, placing my bags on the staircase.
"He’s just under a lot of stress," she starts, then stops, wrapping her arms around herself like she's cold despite the warm evening air filtering through the screen door. "I don’t know why he's working with Scott now."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "You know why Mom."
"He’s so convinced it's a good experience, that it'll look good on his applications." Her voice breaks slightly. "But I‘m worried about him, you know how Scott operates.”
Yeah, I fucking do know. I know how he controls people, manipulates them until they don't even recognize themselves anymore.
I can see it so clearly—Jake, walking into that sterile office with its leather chairs and mahogany desk, thinking he's proving something. And Scott, with his perfectly pressed suits and calculated charm, seeing an opportunity to get his hooks into his son to turn him into some fucked up protege that’s fuelled by revenge.
"I’ll try talking to him" I start, but she's already shaking her head.
"I already tried to talk him out of it so many times, but he wouldn't listen.” She looks up at me with eyes that are too bright, too desperate. "I'm scared, Nate. I'm scared he's going to turn Jake into something he's not. Just like he tried to do with you."
The fear in her voice is raw, primal.
It's the same fear I heard in those late-night phone calls she used to make to Kat when she thought Jake and I were asleep. The same fear that lived in our house for years like another family member, quiet but always present.
I pull her against my chest, feeling how small she seems in my arms. Growing up, I'd watch her through doorways, this shadow of a woman I called Mom, and wonder why she didn't just leave. It wasn't the bruises that confused me—it was her staying.
I still don't know what to do with this anger that lives in my chest. It shows up every time I’m forced to watch her still walking on eggshells in her own home. I want to save her and shake her all at once.
But mostly, I just want to go back in time and hold that little boy who didn't understand that sometimes love and destruction wear the same face.
That's the weight I carry, knowing neither of us had the words for what was happening, and now we're both too tired to find them.
"It's going to be okay, Mom," I murmur into her hair, the words feeling both true and impossible. "I'll talk to him."
She pulls back to look at me.
"He's so angry, Nate. At me, at you, at everything. And I don't know what to do anymore."
"I know," I say, because I do. I've been that angry. Hell, part of me still is. "But he's not me, Mom. And he's not going to make the same mistakes I did."
The promise feels heavy on my tongue, because honestly? I'm not sure I can keep it. But looking at her face, seeing the way hope flickers there like a candle in the wind, I know I have to try.
Three hours later, I'm standing in Nick's bathroom, staring at my reflection and wondering if I should have stayed in Malaga.
The guy looking back at me doesn't look like someone who belongs here anymore.
My hair's too long, my tan too dark, and there's something in my eyes that feels too raw for polite society.
"You clean up alright," Nick says from the doorway, adjusting his shirt collar. "Ready for this?"
I think about lying, but Nick's seen me at my worst. There's no point in pretense.
"Walking into a room full of people on a good day is hard. Doing it after not seeing any of them for almost a year?" I shake my head. "I’d like to say, I’ll need a drink.”
But I don’t do that anymore either.
"I’ll be close, don’t worry. Just try to have a little fun tonight," he says, and the certainty in his voice grounds me. "We go in together and whatever happens, we handle it. Deal? "
“Deal.”
The drive to the country club is quiet except for the low hum of the radio.
The Verve’s ‘Rather Be’ plays in the background.
I watch the familiar streets blur past, thinking about how different everything looks when you've been away.
Everything's exactly where you left it, but somehow it all feels smaller, less significant.
"Hey," I say as we pull into the valet line, expensive cars gleaming under the evening lights. "Thank you. I honestly don't know if I'd still be here if it wasn't—"
"Stop." He cuts me off, his voice firm but not unkind. "You never have to thank me or apologize to me. Words are good, promises are great, but actions are even better."
He's right, and I know it. Nick's been there through everything and never asked for anything in return except that I keep trying.
The valet takes Nick's keys, and suddenly we're walking through the main entrance of the Eden Country Club, past the oil paintings of old white men and the crystal chandelier that probably costs more than most people make in a year.
The familiar smell of expensive cologne and fresh flowers hits me, along with the sound of polite laughter and clinking glasses.
For the first time in a long time, I feel genuinely nervous. Not the kind of nervousness that comes with worry or fear, but the kind that comes with not knowing how people will see you. The last time most of these people saw me, I was a walking fucking disaster.
We round the corner into the main ballroom where my downfall began at the end of last summer. The irony of being back in the place that started the spiral is comical once again. My heart starts to race, memories start to flood back and for a second I forget how to breathe and that's when I see her.
The world doesn't just stop—it corrects itself. Like everything that's been slightly off-kilter suddenly clicks into place. She's wearing a dress that's the color of deep sage, and when our eyes meet across the room, now I really forget how to breathe.
She looks ethereal, that's the only word for it.
The dress hugs her body like water, like my hands did that night when she let me worship every inch of her skin. Her hair catches the light from the chandeliers, and when she smiles—Christ, when she smiles, it's like the sun coming up after the longest night of my life.