26. Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
Lacey
The Seattle skyline emerges through sheets of rain, the Space Needle a ghostly silhouette against steel-gray clouds. Nate’s rented BMW hugs the wet curves of I-5, and I watch his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
He’s been quieter with each mile marker, retreating into himself like the tide pulling away from the shore. At first, I thought I was imagining it—we’d had such a perfect couple of days together, stealing moments between shows, making the tour bus feel like our private sanctuary. But now the silence feels heavy, weighted with things unsaid.
When we finally reach the hotel, the valet takes our car, and Nate’s hand finds mine—but it feels different. Less like an intimate gesture and more like he’s anchoring himself.
Our suite overlooks the city, with floor-to-ceiling windows and modern luxury. Any other time, I’d want to admire the view of the city. But right now, all I can focus on is the way Nate stands at the window, his reflection fragmenting in the rain-streaked glass.
“Hey.” I approach slowly, wrapping my arms around him from behind. His muscles are rigid under my touch. “Talk to me.”
He lets out a breath but doesn’t turn around. “It’s nothing.”
“Nate.” I press my cheek against his back, feeling his heartbeat. “I know you better than that.”
Minutes tick by, marked only by raindrops racing down the window. Finally, he speaks.
“My mother lives here.”
The words fall like stones into still water. I wait, giving him space to continue.
I turn to face him, though his eyes remain fixed on the city below. “What happened?”
He swallows hard. “What didn’t happen?” Finally, he meets my gaze, and the pain there catches in my chest. “I told you about my father—how he left when I was twelve. Just walked out one day. No warning, no goodbye. Just gone.”
“Nate...” I reach over and squeeze his hand.
“That’s not even the worst part.” His jaw clenches. “It was what came after. Mom, she... she couldn’t handle being alone. She started bringing home these guys, one after another. Some were okay, but most weren’t. We never had enough money, never stayed in one place too long.”
I take his hand, leading him to the plush sofa. He follows, but his body remains tense, coiled like a spring.
“Finally, when I was in high school, she met Richard.” His tone shifts, complicated emotions playing across his face. “He was... different. Actually had a job and treated her better than the others. He even bought me my first good drum set.”
“He sounds nice,” I venture carefully.
“He was. Is, I guess.” Nate runs a hand through his hair. “But he lived in Seattle. Had some corporate job here. And Mom, she wanted us all to move out here. Start fresh.”
“But you didn’t want to?”
He shakes his head. “I had other plans. Dreams. And I couldn’t—“ His voice breaks slightly. “I couldn’t handle another move. Another change. Another man deciding where home should be.”
Understanding washes over me. All these months, I’ve wondered about the contradiction that is Nate Stone—the man who carefully builds his wealth but seems almost afraid to enjoy it, who creates a beautiful home but keeps it pristinely empty—who always seems to hold part of himself back.
“So you stayed,” I whisper.
“I stayed. She left.” His fingers tighten around mine. “She calls sometimes. Sends birthday cards. But I just... I can’t...”
I shift closer, tucking myself against his side. “Can’t what?”
“Can’t forget how it felt. Watching her choose someone else. Again.” He closes his eyes. “Even if it was the right choice this time, and even if Richard turned out to be a good guy. I just...”
“You were just a teenager, a kid,” I murmur. “A kid who’d already lost too much.”
He turns to me then, and the vulnerability in his eyes makes my heart ache. “Is that fucked up? That I’m still angry? That I can’t bring myself to answer her calls or visit, even though she’s happy now? Even though she’s finally stable?”
I cup his face in my hands. “There’s no timeline on healing, Nate. No rulebook for how to process that kind of pain.”
A raindrop trails down the window behind us, and I watch his reflection fragment and reform.
“But maybe,” I continue softly, “it’s time to make peace with it. Not for her, but for you.”
He leans into my touch, and I feel some of the tension leave his body. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“See right through me. Make everything feel—easier.”
I smile, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Because I care for you. All of you. Even the parts you try to keep locked away.”
His breath catches, and suddenly, he’s pulling me closer, burying his face in my neck. I hold him, feeling the tremors that run through his body, understanding so much more about this quiet, private man.
The Seattle rain continues to fall, painting shadows across the room, but here, in this moment, he’s given me something precious—his vulnerability, his trust—it’s a gift.
His arms tighten around me, and for several long moments, we just sit there, the sound of rain creating a cocoon around us. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are darker and more intense, but the tension in his broad shoulders seems to have lessened.
“Come on, let’s go out. Get something to eat.”
An hour later, I’m wearing a simple blue dress, watching Nate adjust his collar in the mirror. The restaurant is intimate, all exposed brick and candlelight, with a view of the market’s famous sign glowing red through the rain.
Nate orders wine—expensive wine—but his hand trembles slightly as he lifts the glass. I know he’s thinking about her, wondering if his mother ever walks past these windows, if she’d recognize the man he’s become.
Under the table, I slip my hand into his.
“Tell me about her,” I say softly. “The good parts.”
He stares into his wine for a long moment. “She used to sing. All the time. In the kitchen, doing laundry, driving...” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “She used to love to dance around the living room. That’s where I got my first taste of music. She’d play these old records—Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin, Phil Collins—the apartment was always filled with music.”
“Is that why you started drums?”
“Sort of.” He lets out a breath. “After Dad left, it was the only thing that helped—just... hitting things. Making noise. She never complained, even when we got threatened with eviction notices because of the noise violations.”
The waiter brings our food, and I watch Nate push his pasta around his plate.
“You know what’s crazy?” he says finally. “Part of me still wants to make her proud, even after everything. Even though I haven’t spoken to her in years, sometimes I’ll be on stage and think: I wonder if she’s seen the videos. If she knows what the band has become.”
“She knows,” I say quietly. “You’re kind of hard to miss these days.”
His laugh is rough. “Yeah, well...”
“Have you ever thought about what you’d say? If you saw her?”
“About a million times.” He takes another sip of wine. “But it never comes out right in my head. How do you tell someone you’re still angry but miss them? That you understand now, as an adult, why she did what she did, but the kid in you still feels abandoned?”
“Maybe you start with hello.”
His eyes meet mine across the candlelight, and something shifts in them. Something that looks a lot like hope.
“Maybe,” he murmurs. Then his phone buzzes—Emily, probably about tomorrow’s show setup.
The moment breaks, but something has changed. I can feel it in how he holds himself, like some of the weight has been lifted.
Later, as we walk back to the hotel through the misty rain, he pulls me close. I turn in his arms, rain dampening my face as I look up at him. His kiss tastes like wine, and as the Seattle rain falls around us, I realize that sometimes healing doesn’t need grand gestures or perfect words.
Sometimes, you just need someone to care and hold your hand while you face your ghosts.
The morning sun spills soft golden light over the crumpled sheets. Nate is still asleep, his face half-buried in the pillow, dark hair tousled, his strong shoulders rising and falling in deep, even breaths.
I don’t wake him. Not yet.
Instead, I slip out of bed and move to the desk where my phone rests, my fingers hovering over the screen.
The address is already pulled up.
I found it last night after we returned from dinner, after Nate opened up in a way I never expected him to. It wasn’t hard to track down. His mother still lives in Seattle, in the same neighborhood she moved to with her new husband all those years ago.
I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. But I do know he won’t do it unless he’s ready.
When I finally hear movement behind me, I turn.
Nate sits up slowly, running a hand down his face before scrubbing it over his jaw. His blue eyes are still a little heavy with sleep, but there’s something else in them, too. Like he knows I’ve been thinking about his admission from last night.
I don’t give him a chance to back out.
Instead, I cross the room, slipping a folded piece of paper onto the nightstand beside him.
He frowns, picking it up and unfolding it. His gaze flickers over the address. Then, slowly, his jaw tightens.
“Lacey…” His voice is low, unreadable.
I sit on the edge of the bed beside him, tucking my legs under me. “It’s her address.”
His fingers tighten around the paper. “I know.”
I reach out, tracing my fingers lightly over his forearm. “I think you should go.”
He lets out a slow breath, staring down at the address like it’s something alive, something dangerous. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t.” I meet his gaze. “But I think you want to. I think you’re ready, or you wouldn’t have told me all that last night if you weren’t.”
A long silence stretches between us.
Finally, he exhales, tossing the covers off and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s at least drive by.”
The car ride is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable.
Nate keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His jaw is tight, and his blue eyes are focused straight ahead, but I can see the tension in the set of his shoulders.
He’s nervous. Not that he’d ever admit that.
I glance out the window, watching the city pass by. Seattle is different from Los Angeles. There’s a weight to it, a heaviness that clings to the misty air. It suits Nate in a way I didn’t expect—brooding, stormy, and deep.
Twenty minutes later, we turn onto a quiet street lined with modest houses, most of them old but well cared for. I glance at him, watching his fingers tighten around the wheel.
“Nate…”
His jaw flexes. “I got it.”
We pull up in front of a small blue house with a wraparound porch and potted flowers hanging from the railings. It looks lived-in and comfortable, like someone has put time and love into it.
Nate doesn’t move.
For a long moment, he just sits there, staring at the house.
I reach over, lacing my fingers with his. “You don’t have to do this.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Yeah, I do.”
Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he opens the door and steps out.
I don’t follow him. This is his moment.
From the car, I watch as he walks up the steps, shoulders tense but strong. He hesitates at the door, exhaling slowly before lifting his hand and knocking.
There’s a long pause. Then, the door creaks open.
And the woman standing there—tall, dark-haired, a little older but still undeniably his mother—lets out a soft, breathless sound.
“Nathan…”
Nate doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t move.
“Hi, Mom.”
Then, after a moment that stretches on forever, his mother steps forward—slowly at first, as if she’s afraid he’ll disappear.
Then, in one swift motion, she throws her arms around him.
I furiously blink back the tears in my eyes, not wanting to miss this heart-melting reunion.
The moment that Nate hugs her back—
Only then do I allow the tears in my eyes to spill silently down my cheeks.