Chapter 13 The Fears We Don’t Face
THE FEARS WE DON’T FACE
NORA
The leather seats in Camilla's Mercedes are sticky against my thighs as we drive through Eden's streets.
It's actually warm today and the air con isn't doing much.
Three days since Nate got back, and we're basically acting like teenagers sneaking around—stolen kisses when no one's looking, holding hands under the dinner table like we're fourteen.
We don't want to make Kat and Nick's wedding about us, plus Jake looked like he wanted to murder someone at the engagement dinner, so we're keeping it quiet for now.
The wedding planning is chaos.
Lydia's been running around with clipboards and color-coded schedules, but in the best way. Like she's finally figured out she's actually good at this stuff without needing someone to tell her every five minutes.
"Right," Camilla says, drumming her nails on the steering wheel at a red light. "How are you doing? Like, actually."
I look at her properly. She's got that look—the one that means she's not buying whatever bullshit I'm about to feed her.
"I'm good," I say, and I mostly mean it. "Really."
The light goes green but she doesn't move.
"The nightmares?"
"Haven't had any," I lie, then immediately cave because I'm rubbish at lying to her. "Actually, that's a lie. Being back here hasn’t helped. But they’re not getting alarmingly worse. That’s got to count for something, right?"
"Are you still seeing Dr. Henshaw?"
"Cam, I'm fine. Sleeping better too, it's just some nights they come back."
Which is true, I am sleeping better but only because Nate's been sneaking into my room most nights. And the nights he’s not there, that’s when they start to resurface again.
Not that I'm telling her that.
"You're going red."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"It's boiling in here."
She does this thing where she raises her eyebrow and tilts her head like she knows exactly what I'm thinking. Which she probably does.
She knows about Nate, I mean of course she does. The CIA couldn’t get anything past her. But instead of grilling me, she just squeezes my hand before the car behind us starts having a meltdown with their horn.
"I'm here if you need to talk, okay?"
The boutique is one of those places where you feel like you should whisper and definitely shouldn't touch anything.
All white walls and lighting that makes you look like you're in some fancy magazine.
There's Valentino and Saint Laurent everywhere—the kind of stuff that costs more than most people's cars.
We've barely walked in when Marcus appears from behind the evening gowns like he's been waiting for his moment.
"Ladies, your fairy godmother has arrived."
The whole energy shifts when he shows up—suddenly it's less stuffy shop and more like we're about to have the best afternoon ever.
"Marcus! What are you doing here?" I'm grinning as I hug him, breathing in his ridiculously expensive cologne.
"Did you think I'd miss the chance to dress my girls?
" He pulls back, hands still on my shoulders, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Plus I was meant to be here ages ago but someone just got made head stylist at Maison Delacroix.
" His smile is massive. "And I need to make sure you don't all turn up looking like a unicorn exploded. We want elegant, not tragic."
The next few hours are basically a movie montage. Marcus has this weird superpower where he just looks at you and knows exactly what will work.
For Camilla, he pulls this emerald Bottega Veneta thing that's as sharp as she is.
For Mia—who arrives twenty minutes late and out of breath because of course—something coral and flowy that just screams 'Mia.'
For me, he chooses this midnight blue Gabriela Hearst dress that moves like water.
"It's the color of depth," he says as I'm turning in the mirror. "Gorgeous on the surface, but there's a whole lot of mystery going on underneath."
He winks and I can't help laughing.
I mean, he's not wrong.
Walking back to the car with our bags, I catch myself checking over my shoulder. Looking for someone who shouldn't be there but somehow feels like they might be. It's mental, the paranoia.
There was a period of time, where I used to get these missed calls but never answered them and never told anyone. I still don't know if it was Scott checking if I'd crack. It could've been anyone, really, but your brain doesn't care about logic when you're scared.
Fear makes you see threats everywhere.
Dr. Henshaw explained it once—trauma rewires your brain, making survival the only priority.
Happiness?
Optional.
Safety?
Optional.
Fear is meant to protect you, but sometimes it can’t tell the difference between real danger and a quiet Tuesday afternoon in a boutique district.
When you’ve been scared longer than you’ve been normal, fear stops being occasional. It becomes a shadow that follows you everywhere, even when logic whispers that you’re fine.
Even when everything should feel safe.
By the time we get back, the afternoon's gone all golden and the house feels different. I can hear Lydia and mom in the kitchen, probably going over the seating chart for the millionth time, and Nick's voice from somewhere in the living room.
I should probably go help with whatever wedding crisis has definitely happened while we were gone. But instead, I find myself walking toward the lake as the sun starts setting. The wedding's in five days and Nate and I still haven't properly talked about anything.
About what we're doing.
About what happens after summer.
About whether this is real or just nostalgia and good timing.
There's something awful about knowing something has an expiration date. Every kiss feels borrowed, every moment weighted with the knowledge that it might end.
I find Nate at the end of the dock, legs dangling in the water, looking like he's thinking about something heavy. He's different since Spain—calmer, maybe. Like someone's sanded down his edges. But he's still got that intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"Mind if I sit?" I ask, already settling next to him.
He looks at me and his whole face changes—softer, like he's just remembered something good.
"Always room for you."
We sit there quietly, watching the water move against the dock. It's peaceful in that way that makes you want to hold your breath so you don't break it.
"Weird," I say eventually, "how everything feels completely different but also exactly the same."
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I keep expecting everything to be unrecognizable. But it's all still here."
"We're different though," I say, studying his profile.
He turns to look at me properly, and there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before. Like he's made peace with whatever was eating at him.
"You seem steadier," he says. "More... I don't know, sure of yourself."
I think about the girl who left Eden almost a year ago—scared, traumatized, running from everything that hurt.
"Being away taught me stuff about myself I didn't know I needed to learn. Like the difference between being alone and being lonely. Between healing and just not dying."
He laughs, but it's not really funny.
"Spain taught me that running away doesn't fix anything. It just puts off the hard conversations."
The water keeps moving against the dock. I should tell him about that night, about what I saw, about how being back here has cracked open things I thought were healed. But every time I try, my throat closes up.
There's this part of you that'll do anything to protect the bit that's been hurt, even if it means lying to the people you love.
His hand finds mine and squeezes, and it's like an anchor.
"Hey," he says carefully. "You alright?"
Simple question, but suddenly my heart's going mental, that familiar panic when someone gets too close to stuff you're not ready to share. I know it's Nate, I know he's safe, but there's this other part of my brain that remembers when honesty was dangerous.
Especially when this particular truth would destroy him.
It's mad how the simple moments are always the ones that trigger everything else.
Basic question, catastrophic answer.
"I'm good," I say, but my smile's all wrong.
He studies my face for ages, and I can see him weighing what to say. Old Nate would've pushed, demanded answers. This Nate just nods.
"Alright," he says. "But I'm here. If you need to tell me anything." He cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek, and just as he's about to kiss me, guilt hits me like a brick.
"I've been having nightmares again," I blurt out. "About the accident."
He pulls back to look at me properly, concern spreading across his face. Then he takes my hand in both of his like it's something precious.
"How bad?" he asks, and I can hear he gets it.
"Not as bad as they were when I started seeing..." I pause, realizing I never told him about therapy. "My therapist. But being back here, it's like my brain can't tell what's real and what's memory."
"I don't know what it's like for you after the accident," he says, tracing circles on my hand with his thumb. We both watch him do it, hypnotized. "But I know what it's like when your own head feels like the enemy."
"How do you make it stop?" I ask quietly.
He's quiet for ages, still doing those circles.
"I don't know that you can," he says finally. "You just learn to live with it. Your mind thinks it's protecting you, even when it's doing a shit job. Eventually you find ways to make the noise a little less loud."
We sit in this different kind of silence. Heavier but somehow lighter too.
"Can I ask you something?" he says. "Because it's been doing my head in."
"Yeah."
"What do you want?" he asks. "For us. For after."
Instead of words, I look at him, lean in, and kiss him.
That's my answer.
When I pull back, he's smiling—not his usual smirk, but something real.
"I want this," I say, gesturing between us. "I know we need to figure stuff out—"
He cuts me off with another kiss, cupping my face. This one's different—deeper, like a promise. When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine.
"I want that too," he says.
The sun's almost gone now, the sky is amber and pink. Something about how still it is, feels like what we're doing—learning to wait, to trust that the right moment will come.
"What?" Nate asks with that smirk, because I'm obviously staring at him like an idiot.
"You ever have those moments where everything feels like..." I search for words. "Like you're in the eye of a storm. Like the world's holding its breath."
He pulls me close so my head's on his shoulder, arm tight around me. I can feel his cheek against my hair, and for a second everything else disappears.
"We're going to make it this time," I whisper into his shoulder.
Nate doesn't answer, just holds me tighter.
Something about his silence doesn't feel like agreement, and I don't know what to do with that. I try to let it go, focus on his arms around me and the water lapping against the dock, but doubt's already there.
Some conversations end with words.
Others end with what you don't say.
As the sun disappears, I close my eyes and try to believe that silence doesn't always mean something's wrong.
Sometimes it just means the story isn't ready yet.