Chapter 25
CONFESSIONS
NORA
“What about this one?” Nick asks.
I turn toward him and realise, somehow, we’ve wandered into the quietest corner of the gallery—one of those bright, echo-soft rooms where even your footsteps feel too loud.
The place smells like fresh paint and polished wood, that clean, curated kind of air that makes you stand up a little straighter, like you’re supposed to contemplate your existence instead of just look at things.
Nick stands in front of a watercolor, hands tucked into his pockets, brow furrowed in that thoughtful way he gets when he’s building something—an idea, a future, a home. It should feel strange, being here with him like this.
The man who is—technically, absurdly—my stepdad now. A title that sounds far too formal, too sudden, for someone who somehow feels like he’s been orbiting our family forever.
As if Mom didn’t just marry him a week ago but instead opened a door to reveal a person we’d been missing without knowing it.
He gestures toward the watercolor.
Soft-washed blues, honey-yellow light like morning drifting through sheer curtains.
“For the waiting room?” he asks.
I step closer, tipping my head, trying to imagine what someone might feel sitting beneath it—someone scared or hopeful or tired in that heavy way therapy waiting rooms make you tired. Waiting rooms are their own strange universe: fear, hope, resignation, tiny breaths of relief.
People come in bracing for impact or praying for change.
“It’s peaceful,” I say, letting the colors seep into me. “Like it reminds you the day doesn’t have to hurt.”
Nick nods, that quiet, steady warmth radiating off him, and something in me softens.
Watching him choose art for Mom’s clinic feels less like decorating and more like building a landing place for people learning to stand again. Like he’s been doing this—being part of us, caring for us—for a lot longer than the calendar says.
"I literally have no idea what I'm looking at right now. But if that's how it makes you feel then I trust your judgment."
I laugh at his brutal honesty.
Now that the summer is coming to a close, this sense of uncertainty is beginning to creep into the forefront of my mind.
I still haven't made a decision about going back to London.
I still haven't returned Liam's calls.
And I still haven't told Nate about the accident.
"Have you told Nate yet?" Nick asks, as if he’s reading my thoughts.
The question comes quietly, almost lost in the ambient gallery noise, but I hear the careful concern threaded through his words.
Not judgment, not pressure—just gentle worry.
"About the accident?"
My stomach clenches, that familiar tightness that comes whenever I think about the conversation I've been avoiding.
"Not yet," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "But I'm going to. I have to."
Nick stops walking and turns to face me.
"You don't have to do anything you're not ready for, Nora. But I do think the sooner you tell him, the better he will handle it."
The way he says my name catches me off guard, soft and protective, but that's just Nick. He's the guy who's walked into our chaos and somehow made it feel like home, who looks at our family and sees it as his own.
"That's just it," I say, looking at the painting again. "I think I've been ready for longer than I wanted to admit. I've been letting fear make my decisions, and that's not who I want to be anymore."
The words feel true as I speak them, like something I've been carrying without realizing it. I suppose that’s what growth looks like—not the dramatic revelation I've expected, but the quiet recognition that you've already become someone different than who you were before.
Nick squeezes my shoulder.
"I'm proud of you," he says simply, and something in his tone makes me believe he means it completely. "Your strength, it’s something else Nora."
We stand there for a moment, surrounded by other people's artistic interpretations of life, and I feel weirdly hopeful.
"Wait, this is the one," Nick decides, nodding toward the watercolor. "This is perfect for what your mom is trying to create. True?"
"True," I say with a smile.
He moves toward the front of the gallery to speak with someone about purchasing the piece, and I watch him go—this man who thinks about Mom's patients with the same careful attention he gives to everything else in her life.
I wander deeper into the space, letting the art wash over me like a meditation. There's something about galleries that reminds me of libraries—that same level of quiet, the same sense that you're surrounded by other people's attempts to make sense of the world.
Then I hear it.
A woman's voice, bright and professional, discussing framing options with what sounds like a client. The tone is pleasant, efficient, the kind of voice that belongs to someone who's learned to navigate difficult conversations with grace.
But there's something else.
Something that makes my skin prickle with recognition I can't quite place.
"We could do a simple black frame," the voice is saying, "or if you prefer something with more character, we have some beautiful vintage pieces that might complement the work better."
I find myself moving toward the sound, drawn by an instinct I don't understand. The woman is standing with her back to me, radiant blonde hair catching the gallery lights, her figure elegant in a way that speaks of careful attention to presentation.
She wears a pencil skirt and blouse that look professionally appropriate, the kind of outfit that suggests she's rebuilt her life with deliberate precision.
It's the scent that hits me.
Gardenia.
The world tilts. No, it fucking spirals.
Suddenly I'm not in a bright, clean gallery—I'm back in twisted metal, consciousness floating in and out like a broken radio signal. That heavy, sweet perfume cutting through blood and smoke.
"Oh, my God! Are they dead?"
"No. Fuck, it's you." Scott's voice, sharp with recognition and fear.
"Should we call an ambulance?" At least she wanted to help.
"No. We need to go. Now."
"Do you know her?"
"Get in the car."
"We can't just leave her! She's still breathing."
"I said get in the fucking car now."
The gardenia scent grows stronger as footsteps approach, and more pieces surface—fragments I'd forgotten. The woman kneeling over Scott’s shoulder, her voice shaking as she whispers something about calling her sister, about how this wasn't supposed to happen.
Scott's voice cutting through her panic, threatening her entire life if she breathes a word.
The sound of her sobbing as she realizes she's trapped.
"This is wrong," the woman whispers, and I feel the weight of her presence. "This is so wrong."
"Kelly, we're leaving. Now."
"But—"
"If you ever mention this to anyone, you'll regret it. Do you understand me?"
And then the gardenia scent fades, leaving me alone with the growing wail of sirens and the taste of my own blood.
"Nora? Hey, Nora!"
Nick's voice cuts through the memory like a lifeline, and I realize I'm standing frozen in the middle of the gallery, staring at the blonde woman with an intensity that probably looks unhinged. My hands are shaking, and my breathing has gone shallow and quick.
"Gardenia," I whisper, the word falling from my lips like a curse as I stare at the woman who was part victim, part accomplice to Scott.
Nick is beside me instantly, his hand on my shoulder. I watch him shift from confusion to understanding to protective fury as he puts the pieces together. But even in his anger, his first concern is me.
"Are you okay? You've gone pale," he says quietly, his voice pitched low so only I can hear. "Do you need to sit down?"
I shake my head, unable to look away from the woman.
"It's her. The woman from the night of the accident."
Understanding dawns in Nick's eyes, followed by fierce protection that reminds me why Mom has fallen for this man. He steps slightly in front of me, not blocking my view but positioning himself like a shield against potential harm.
"Stay here," he says quietly, still somehow tempered by his concern for me. "I'm going to talk to her, but I want you where I can see you, okay?"
The woman—Kelly—is still talking to her client, oblivious to the fact that her carefully constructed professional life is about to shatter.
She gestures toward a frame, her movements graceful and practiced, and I find myself studying her face in profile, searching for traces of the person who'd wanted to help me that night.
Nick approaches her with the kind of controlled calm that suggests he's working very hard not to do something dramatic. I can't hear what he says, but I watch Kelly's face change as she turns to look at me, watch recognition dawn in her eyes followed immediately by something that looks like panic.
She takes a step back, her hand going to her throat in a gesture that screams flight, and that movement breaks whatever spell has been holding me in place. If she runs, if she disappears back into whatever life she's built after leaving me bleeding in that car, I might never get justice.
I move toward her, my legs feeling unsteady but determined.
"I remember you," I say, my voice carrying across the gallery with more strength than I expect.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies, but her voice is shaking, and she's looking toward the exit like she's calculating distances.
"You were there that night." The words come out measured, deliberate, like I'm trying to build a bridge between past and present with careful precision. "You wanted to help, but he wouldn't let you."
Kelly's composure cracks like ice, and tears start flowing down her cheeks.
"Look, I don't know who you think I am—"
"You wanted to help."
"Stop." Her voice breaks. "Just stop."
"You told him it was wrong to leave me there."
"He said he'd take my son." Kelly's words come tumbling out now, fast and desperate. "My little boy. He's only eight. They threatened to have him taken from me and said I'd never see him again if I talked."
"Kelly." I say her name and watch her crumble completely.
"How do you—oh God, oh God." She's sobbing now, backing away from me. "I wanted to help you. I swear I did."
"Wait, who's 'they'?"
Nick steps forward, his voice sharp but not unkind.
"Scott and his mother," Kelly says through her tears.
"She came to my workplace the next morning with a check—it was more money than I'd ever seen.
But I didn't want it. I told her to keep it.
That's when she started listing things. My address.
Tommy's school. My sister's name. She knew about my past, my addiction.
Said one phone call and child services would take him. "
"You were scared," I say, and I mean it.
"Terrified." Kelly wipes her face with shaking hands. "You have to understand—I've fought so hard to get clean, to build a life for us. She knew exactly where to hit. Knew I'd do anything to protect him."
"You never cashed the check?"
"Never. I’ve been trying to make an honest living.
But every night I still see your face and it haunts me.
" Kelly looks at me with desperate hope.
"I'll confess everything if I have to—what I saw, what she said, all of it.
I know it won't fix what I did, but maybe—maybe it's not too late to do the right thing. "
"Thank you," I say, and the words feel inadequate for what she's offering.
She hands me her phone number on a piece of paper.
“I really am glad you’re okay.”
I turn to Nick, who has been watching this entire exchange with quiet intensity. His presence has been steady throughout, reminding me that I'm not facing this alone. He nods and we make our way to the front door.
"I need to talk to mom," I say, hearing the determination in my own voice. "I need to start taking control of this narrative."
Nick's smile is proud and fierce. "Your mom will be okay. Whatever comes next, we're all going to face it together."
Nick holds the gallery door open as we step into the afternoon sunlight, and I realize something fundamental about the man who's become my stepfather.
He doesn't just love Mom—he loves all of us, in all our broken complexity. He sees our family's pain and chooses to step into it, to help carry it, to transform it into something that looks like healing.
For months, I've been carrying the weight of what happened like a burden meant for me alone. But maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the point is learning that even in the darkest moments, there are people who want to do the right thing, who are just waiting for someone to give them permission to be brave.
We always have more power than we realize.
We just have to be brave enough to use it.