Chapter 36 Connor James
CONNOR JAMES
NORA
It’s been a few hours since Nate was released from the hospital, and I haven’t heard from him. Jay gives me vague updates when I call—“He’s fine,” “He’s sleeping right now,” “He just needs time”—but I can hear the lie in his voice.
It’s the same tone people use when they’re protecting someone from a truth they’re not ready to face.
It feels like déjà vu—like last year when he vanished after my accident—but this time it’s different. This time it feels like he’s not just hiding from the world.
He’s trying to disappear from it completely.
I’m sitting on my bed, phone clutched in my hand, when Jay finally calls back. His voice is strained, sharp with panic.
“Nora, I fucked up. He’s gone.”
My heart stumbles.
“What do you mean he’s gone?”
I’m already reaching for my keys.
“I just stepped out to grab food for us. I wasn’t gone longer than ten minutes. When I got back—he was gone.”
I’m halfway down the stairs.
“Where could he have gone?”
“I called Nick. He’s not with him. I doubt he’s suddenly gone for a run, so I thought maybe he came to see you.”
“He didn’t. I haven’t seen or heard from him since—”
“Fuck,” Jay cuts in. “If he’s not with Nick or you, then I really hope I’m wrong about where I think he might be.”
My chest tightens.
“He wouldn’t… would he?”
“He’s not in a good space, Nora. I’m heading over to you now.”
The warehouse is exactly what I expect—pulsing bass shaking the walls, strobe lights cutting through thick smoke, the air heavy with sweat, alcohol, and something chemical underneath it all. It smells like rust, spilled beer, and regret.
Jay pushes through the crowd beside me.
“You see him anywhere?”
I shake my head, scanning the chaos. The people here don’t look real—faces lit red and blue by the lights, eyes glassy, movements slow and unnatural. We shove through another wall of bodies.
“Nate!” I call, but my voice is swallowed by the music.
Jay’s jaw is tight. “He could be anywhere in here.”
“Then we split up.”
Jay grabs my wrist. “No. Stay close.”
We keep searching—through the haze, the heat, the pounding rhythm that feels like it’s shaking my ribs apart. Jay stops to question people, shouting over the music.
“Have you seen Nate Sullivan?”
The woman frowns, shaking her head. I’m about to turn away when a voice cuts in—sharp, female, confident.
“Did you say Nate Sullivan?”
We both turn and a girl with glitter on her cheeks and smeared lipstick leans against the wall, drink in hand. Her eyes flick between us before landing on me.
“Yeah. You seen him?” Jay asks.
“He’s downstairs in the basement.”
Her gaze trails down my clothes, slow and judgmental, and I feel exposed—like she’s peeling me open just by looking. I cross my arms instinctively, stepping back.
Jay doesn’t waste a second.
“Come on.” He grabs my arm and pulls me through the crowd.
The stairs are narrow and steep, the air growing thicker with every step. The bass from above fades into a dull, suffocating throb. The smell changes too—sour sweat, smoke, and something metallic. By the time we reach the bottom, I’m dizzy.
The walls are concrete, stained and damp with people scattered along the corridor, slumped against walls, passing bottles and lighters, their faces half-lit by flickering bulbs.
Jay starts opening doors.
“Nate!” he yells. “You down here?”
I follow his lead, pulling open one door after another—each scene worse than the last. In one, two people are bent over a table, snorting lines of white powder. In another, a couple tangled together on a mattress, oblivious to the world.
My stomach churns, all of a sudden the air feels too hot, it’s suffocating.
“Nate, please,” I whisper, voice cracking as I open the next door.
Empty.
And then—the last one.
The door creaks open, and my heart stops.
He’s there.
Slumped against the wall beside a narrow bed, head lolling to one side.
His arm dangles loosely beside him, a used syringe still stuck in the crook of his elbow.
There’s blood on his forearm, smeared where the needle slipped.
His lips are tinted blue, his skin pale and clammy under the flickering light.
His chest rises, barely.
For a terrifying moment, I think he’s already gone.
“Oh my God, Nate.”
My voice breaks as I drop to my knees beside him.
“Nate, wake up!” I shake his shoulders.
He doesn’t respond.
His breathing is shallow—ragged, wet-sounding.
His pulse is faint, skipping beats.
My vision tunnels and the world shrinks to the sound of that fragile, uneven breath.
“Oh fuck.” I hear the voice, I recognise it, but I’m too in shock to turn around or respond.
“Here, let me help.”
Before I can make sense of what’s happening, Connor James crouches down beside me, disposing of the needle in Nate’s arm and slinging it over his shoulder, trying to lift him.
“I need you to grab him on the other side, he’s going to be dead weight.”
I do as I’m told, not questioning why he’d even think about helping after everything that happened last summer. For a second, I think I’m imagining him—the arrogant smirk replaced with something I don’t recognize.
Concern.
My voice trembles, my hands shaking. “I think… he’s overdosed.”
Connor’s expression hardens, but not with anger—with focus.
“Come on. Let’s get him to my car.”
I blink at him, stunned. There’s no time for questions right now. Connor moves fast, crouching beside me, and together we try to lift Nate. His body is heavy and limp and my arms strain trying to hold him up.
“Here, I’ve got him,” Jay’s voice cuts through the chaos.
He rushes in, grabbing Nate’s other arm. Connor and Jay haul him up while I clear the path ahead, pushing through the crowd.
People stare, whispering, parting like we’re dragging death itself through the room. Outside, the air is warm and when I look back and Nate’s head rolls back, and for a horrifying moment, I think he’s stopped breathing again.
We get him into the backseat of Connor’s car, I climb in beside him, cradling his head in my lap, my hands trembling so badly I can barely keep still.
“Nate, what have you done,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His skin is cold, slick with sweat. “Not like this… please, not like this.”
Then it dawns on me, tomorrow is Jake’s funeral. The thought rips through me like glass.
Connor drives fast but steady, glancing back in the mirror every few seconds. Jay’s in the passenger seat, silent, jaw clenched.
When we reach Connor’s house, everything feels surreal—the sleek walls, the spotless floors, the warm lights that don’t belong to a night like this.
“Go grab some clothes from my wardrobe,” Connor says, steering Nate toward the bathroom with Jay’s help. “We need to clean him up.”
I move on autopilot—find sweatpants, a t-shirt—and return to find Connor kneeling beside Nate, helping him out of the shower.
Together, Jay and I dress Nate and settle him in the guest room. His breathing is still shallow, but more even now. Some color has returned to his face. I tuck the blanket around him, smoothing his damp hair back.
Connor nods once. “I’ll grab some water and tablets for him. So he can take them as soon as he wakes up.”
When he leaves, I follow him downstairs.
The kitchen looks like something from a magazine—cold granite and glass. Connor’s pulling open cupboards, and for a second, he looks human in just jeans and a hoodie. Younger and softer even.
“He’s in a bad way,” he says quietly.
“I know.” My voice cracks.
He hands me a bottle of water.
“You can stay here tonight. All of you. It’s just me here anyway.”
“Oh, we’ll be gone early,” I murmur. “Tomorrow’s—”
“The funeral,” he finishes for me.
I nod, staring at the counter. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to get him there.”
“I can give you a lift wherever you need in the morning,” he says simply. “But to be honest, I don’t think he’ll be in any shape to go.”
The word slips out before I can stop it. “Fuck.”
The weight of it all hits me at once. Jake’s gone. Nate almost followed. I’m standing in Connor James’ kitchen, the same boy who once hurt me, who’s now the reason Nate’s still breathing.
“Why’d you help us tonight?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a long moment while his fingers tap the counter.
“Because seeing you try to drag a guy three times your size out of a warehouse would have been painful to watch.”
I huff a dry laugh, but he doesn’t smile instead, his eyes are distant.
“I have a little sister,” he says out of nowhere. “Well… had.”
My breath catches.
“She was in the UK at boarding school. Last year, some guy…” He swallows hard, eyes glistening. “He hurt her. Badly. So badly she couldn’t live with it.”
The silence between us is heavy.
“Jesus, Connor,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
He nods, blinking fast. “I know that doesn’t excuse what I did last summer, but—” He runs a hand through his hair, voice breaking.
“I was angry. At the world, at myself. I became the kind of guy I swore I’d never be.
I became the kind of guy who hurt my sister.
And I hate that. I hate who I was.” His voice trembles. “I’m sorry, Nora. For all of it.”
The apology hangs in the air, fragile and real.
He’s not the guy I remember. Not the smirking, careless flirt. This is someone broken but trying. I reach across the counter, placing my hand over his and he almost flinches at the touch.
“I’m really sorry about your sister, Connor,” I say softly. “And for what it’s worth, I forgive you.”
He looks up, startled. His expression cracks—something raw and grateful flickering across it.
“I do believe there’s good in you,” I add. “You just need to start believing that too. Tonight was a pretty good start.”
He nods slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
Upstairs, Nate is curled on his side, breathing steady now. I slip into bed beside him, wrapping my arms around him from behind. He’s warm again which means he’s still alive.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and shame.
I press a kiss to his shoulder.
“I know you are.”
The next morning, dawn seeps through the curtains. Connor drives us back to Jay’s, quiet and careful. Nick’s already waiting outside when we pull up, eyes shadowed, worry carved into his face.
He doesn’t say anything—just helps Jay get Nate inside. They decide to stay with him, just in case and I don’t argue.
I know Nate won’t be leaving that bed anytime soon.
Nobody knows what to do when a young person dies. The world stops, but it also keeps spinning, cruelly indifferent. At the chapel, I sit between Mom and Ollie, Mia beside him. Jake’s casket gleams at the front, surrounded by white lilies.
Scott sits in the front row, not beside Lydia.
Rage burns hot in my chest at the audacity of this man. If he hadn’t dragged Jake into his own vendetta against Nate, none of this would’ve happened.
There’s an empty seat beside Lydia—Nate’s seat.
When Ollie stands to speak, his voice trembles but doesn’t break.
“Jake was the kind of person who made you believe in magic,” he says. “The real kind—the kind that happens when someone cares enough to make you believe you can conquer anything.”
People laugh softly when he mentions Jake’s awful pancakes, his useless trivia, the way he could brighten a room simply by existing.
“He believed in second chances,” Ollie continues, his voice splintering. “He’d want us to remember that love isn’t about the good times. It’s about showing up when everything falls apart.”
Then his eyes find mine—steady, knowing, hurting.
“He’d want us to hold on,” he says. “Even when it hurts.”
The service ends and people drift out, murmuring condolences that dissolve into the air as they go.
By the time I’m standing at his grave, the sun is sinking low, washing the cemetery in gold that feels too beautiful for today.
I kneel, press my fingertips to the freshly turned earth that shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have his name above it.
“I love you, Jake,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. For all the things you won’t get to finish and for all the things I didn’t say.”
A breath catches in my chest, sharp and painful.
“But I promise—I’ll carry you with me. Even into the parts of my life you won’t get to see.”
The wind shifts, soft as a hand on my shoulder and for the first time since everything shattered, I let myself cry.