Chapter 12 Mending What’s Broken #2
I start walking toward her without conscious thought, my feet carrying me across the polished floor like I'm being pulled by gravity. People are talking around us, the party continuing in its bubble of champagne and small talk, but none of it matters.
None of it exists.
"Hi," I say quietly when I reach her, and my voice sounds rough even to my own ears.
"Hi," she whispers back. "You came."
"I did."
She smiles and it’s like she's rewiring my entire nervous system just by existing in the same space. "I thought you weren't coming back."
"Told you," I say, my voice soft but carrying perfectly in the space between us, "never a goodbye. Just see you soon."
I'm about to kiss her—right here in front of everyone, consequences be fucking damned—when arms wrap around me from behind in a bear hug that lifts me off the ground.
"Holy shit, you’re fucking back!"
Of course it's Jay.
I turn in his grip, laughing despite myself, and hug him back.
"Jesus, have you been working out?"
"Someone had to keep Sonder running while you were off finding yourself in the hills of Europe," he grins, but there's genuine emotion in his eyes before it turns to concern. “Shit, I just interrupted a moment, didn’t I?”
“It’s okay.” Nora says with a smirk.
I’ll be sure to make up for the interruption later.
"I don’t want to be all sappy and shit, but I missed you, brother."
The word hit a soft spot. Brother. Not by blood, not by law, but by choice.
"Missed you too man," I say, and mean it.
"Oh, see now the band really is back together!"
I turn to see Ollie, Mia, and Camilla approaching, their faces bright with genuine happiness. Ollie claps me on the back while Mia goes straight for a hug, and Camilla just grins at me like she knows secrets I don’t want her to know.
"Welcome home, stranger," Ollie says.
"It’s nice to be back," I admit, glancing at Nora, who's watching this reunion with soft eyes.
As I look around at their faces—Jay with his easy grin, Ollie with his steady presence, Mia with her quiet strength, Camilla with her fierce loyalty—something clicks into place.
These people, standing here in their fancy clothes at this ridiculous party, they're the ones who never gave up on me.
Not when I was at my worst, not when I gave them every reason to walk away.
The realization flashes like a neon sign in front of me: most of the people who actually gave a shit about me aren't blood.
They're chosen family, the kind you find when you're broken and they help you find the pieces so you, yourself can put the pieces back together.
But even as I'm surrounded by warmth and laughter, I can feel eyes on me from across the room. I look up to see Jake standing near the bar, a rocks glass in his hand that definitely doesn't contain Coke. His eyes burn into me with an intensity that makes my chest tight.
Eighteen years old and drinking scotch like it's going to solve his problems.
The party continues around us, but I can't shake the image of Jake's face—the anger, yes, but underneath it something that looks dangerously close to desperation. I excuse myself from the group and go looking for him.
I find him on the terrace, leaning against the stone railing with his back to the party. The glass in his hand is nearly empty now, and there's a tension in his shoulders that I recognize.
"Jake."
He doesn't turn around. "What do you want?"
"To talk."
"Well, I don't." He drains the glass and sets it on the railing with more force than necessary. "I have nothing to say to you. Not now, not tomorrow, not next week."
I step closer, close enough to see the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw is clenched. "Jake, please, give me—"
"Let's just stay out of each other's way for the remainder of this summer," he continues, finally turning to face me.
The anger in his voice is surface-level, but underneath it I can hear exhaustion.
"I'll go back to New York, you can go back to wherever it is you want to escape to next, and when Mom wants us together again for Thanksgiving or Christmas, we'll put on the same show. "
The words are designed to hurt, and they kind of do.
But more than that, they worry me. Jake looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. There's a stress in his face that seems too heavy for him to carry, and he won't meet my eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.
I recognize the signs because I've lived them—the internal beat-down that happens when someone you're supposed to trust uses your hopes against you.
"What's he got you doing?" I ask quietly.
His laugh is bitter.
"Don’t act like you fucking care."
"I do, actually. Because I've been where you are, Jake. I know what it feels like when he gets his hooks in you."
Jake lets out a sinister laugh.
“Of course. Of course you’d make it about you.” He closes the space between us to the point where I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
"You don't know shit about where I am," he snaps, but there's a tremor in his voice that gives him away. "You left. Now you don't get to come back and play concerned big brother now."
The accusation hits its mark, and I feel something crack open in my chest.
Because he's right. I did leave.
I ran away when things got too hard, too complicated, too painful to bear. And in doing so, I left him alone with Mom's fears and Scott's manipulation.
"You're right," I say, and the admission seems to surprise him. "I did leave. I abandoned you both when you needed me most."
“I didn’t and don’t need you Nate. Get that through your fucking head.”
For a moment, his mask slips, and I see the hurt underneath the anger.
The kid who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms, who looked at me like I hung the moon and could fix anything that was broken.
But then the walls go back up, and he's stepping away from me, putting distance between us like I'm something dangerous.
"I don't need your guilt or your apologies. I'm doing fine on my own. Better even." He says as he skulls the last drop of liquid in the glass he’s holding.
He's not fine, anyone with eyes can see that. But I also know that right now, at this moment, there's nothing I can say that will make him believe me. The trust between us is too broken, the hurt too fresh.
"Jake," I try once more, but he's already walking away.
I stand there on the terrace for a long time after he's gone, the sound of laughter and music drifting out from inside. The summer air is warm against my skin, but I feel cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
I'm sorry I abandoned you too, I think, the words echoing in the space between us that feels wider than an ocean. I'm sorry I left you to figure it out alone.
But sorry isn't enough.
Nick was right—actions matter more than words, more than promises, more than good intentions. I close my eyes and make a promise to the night air: I won't leave again. Not this time. Not even if it kills me to stay.
When I finally go back inside, Nora is waiting for me by the entrance to the terrace, concern written across her beautiful face.
"How did that go?" she asks softly.
"A snowball has a better chance in hell," I admit, running a hand through my hair. "But at least now I know what I'm dealing with."
She slips her hand into mine, her fingers warm and steady. "What do you need?"
The question is simple, but it undoes me a little. Because she's not asking what I want or what I think I should do. She's asking what I need, and the difference matters.
"Time," I say finally. "And maybe a really good plan."
Her smile is small but fierce.
"Well, I’m here when you need help with either."
Looking at her, surrounded by the warmth and light of the party, I realise the hard work is just beginning. But for the first time in a long time, I'm not running away from it.
I'm running toward it.