32. Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
Nate
The second I step into the room, I know.
The fucking cameras.
The crew is moving around, angling for the best shot, positioning themselves like vultures waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
I told them—I told them Family First was off-limits.
My chest tightens as I scan the room, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The kids—my kids—are laughing, smiling, oblivious to the bullshit happening around them.
And then I see her—Lacey.
She’s kneeling on the floor beside Danny, a soft smile on her lips as he strums a few hesitant notes on the guitar. She’s glowing, completely in her element, and for a split second, it almost knocks the breath out of me.
But then she looks up—And everything changes.
Her smile falters. Her brown eyes widen, darken, flicking between me and the cameras.
And I see it.
The instant she realizes I’m furious.
Heat rises in my chest, coiling tight and sharp. I clench my fists, inhale through my nose, try to breathe, and stay calm, but it’s a losing battle because of this. This feels like a fucking betrayal.
I barely register the kids rushing toward me, arms outstretched, excited voices calling my name.
I force my expression to soften—for them.
I crouch down, ruffling a few heads, my voice steadier than I feel. “What’s up, guys?”
They erupt into excited chatter, but my attention is still locked onto Lacey.
She stands slowly, brushing invisible lint off her slacks like she needs something—anything—to do with her hands.
I straighten, exhaling sharply before glancing down at the boy nearest to me. “Hey, bud,” I murmur, jerking my chin toward the instruments. “Why don’t you guys show me what you’ve been working on?”
Danny beams. “Really?”
“Really.”
They don’t hesitate, scattering toward the music corner, leaving me and Lacey standing in the center of the room. Emily disappears to talk to Rachel, but I couldn’t care less right now.
I let the silence stretch, let the weight of it settle. But I can feel Lacey’s eyes on me, and I can sense her hurt and confusion.
Good. Let her be confused. Let her feel a fraction of what these kids must have felt, being turned into props for her career.
She shifts on her feet. “Nate—“
“Not here.”
Her lips part, but she snaps them shut, nodding quickly.
I take a deep breath, shaking off the worst of my anger before I walk toward the kids, plastering on a grin that feels like a goddamn lie, because under it?
I am fucking seething.
And the second we’re alone, she’s going to hear it. Everyone’s going to hear it.
I keep my back to the cameras, to Lacey, as I kneel beside Danny, adjusting his grip on the guitar. My hands move automatically, muscle memory kicking in as I guide his fingers into place.
But my mind?
It’s a fucking storm.
Every second the cameras are here, every flash of a lens catching this moment, my moment with these kids—it burns.
Because I told them, I told Rachel. I told Emily. I told Lacey what this place means to me.
That this place isn’t for PR, it isn’t a goddamn photo op.
It’s supposed to be real.
I force myself to focus on Danny as he plays a few hesitant notes, nodding in encouragement. “That’s it. Now try it again, but slower.”
He grins, determination lighting up his face as he follows my lead. The moment should feel good—it usually does—but the weight of the cameras pressing in around us makes my skin crawl.
Lacey is still watching me. I can feel it.
And the longer I ignore her, the tenser the air between us gets.
After twenty minutes of going through scales with Danny and helping some of the other kids with their drums, Rachel finally steps in, her voice carrying across the room.
“Alright, I think we got some great footage! Thank you so much to Family First for letting us be here today.”
I grind my teeth so hard I swear I feel something crack.
The kids barely notice when the crew starts packing up. They’re still too wrapped up in the instruments, too excited about the time they just spent learning new notes and rhythms.
I let out a slow breath, my fists flexing at my sides, waiting—waiting—until the last camera disappears through the front doors.
Only then do I turn—and let myself look at her.
Lacey stands by the piano, arms wrapped around herself. She knows what’s coming.
Good. Because I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry with her before.
She starts to speak, but I shake my head sharply. “Outside.”
Her brows pull together. “Nate, let me just—“
“Now, Lacey.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to.
Her face pales as she swallows, then nods once.
Without another word, I turn and walk out the back door into the open-air courtyard behind the facility. The moment she steps out after me, I run a hand through my hair, exhaling hard.
“You knew.” My voice is low, rough, and barely contained. “You know how I feel about this place. What it means to me.”
Lacey flinches, but she squares her shoulders. “Rachel said it would be good press for the organization, Nate. She said it would bring in—“
“I don’t give a shit what Rachel said!”
My voice echoes against the walls, sharp and furious.
She sucks in a breath, eyes flashing. “I do! This wasn’t just for me, Nate—it was for the kids! For the foundation you represent! It could help them get—“
“They already get what they need.” My jaw tightens, my breath heavy. “You think a couple of cameras will make a difference?”
She crosses her arms. “Not everyone has millions to donate at the snap of their fingers, Nate. I thought I was helping.”
That hits deep, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I take a step closer, my voice quieter now but no less sharp. “What I do for this place, for these kids—it’s real, Lacey. It’s personal. I don’t need a fucking camera crew to prove that.”
Her face softens, but I shake my head, stepping back before I let myself fall for it.
“You should’ve told me.” My voice is raw, rough. “You should’ve told me, Lacey.”
She presses her lips together, her hands clenching at her sides. “I tried. I texted you—“
“A vague ass text. You should have known I’d never agree to this. Instead, you let Rachel push you into it anyway.”
She exhales sharply, her frustration bubbling over. “Why do you have to make everything so black and white, Nate? Why can’t you see that this—“ She gestures back toward the building. “This—wasn’t a betrayal? That I was trying to do something good?”
I stare at her.
At the way her chest rises and falls. At the way her eyes darken when she’s frustrated, at the way she believes what she’s saying.
And that’s what hurts me the most.
She actually thought she was doing the right thing.
But all I can see is that she didn’t know me well enough to know that I would oppose this.
I shake my head, the fight draining out of me. “You don’t get it.”
Her expression twists. “Then make me understand!”
I drag a hand down my face, my pulse still hammering. “You can’t understand, Lacey. You don’t know what it’s like growing up the way these kids do—knowing that no one’s coming to save you. No one’s coming to fix your life. And the last thing they need is a bunch of people with cameras pretending to give a damn when they’ll all be gone tomorrow.”
Her face falls, her lips slightly parting like she wants to say something—but nothing comes. Instead, her chin trembles just enough for me to notice before she presses her mouth into a thin line, rapidly blinking as if trying to keep herself together.
I try never to talk about this—Not with anyone. How it felt never to have enough…
But it’s out now. The anger, the exhaustion, the reason why Family First is the one place I never wanted turned into a PR stunt.
For a second, she just stands there.
Then—softly, carefully—she steps forward.
“Nate...”
I exhale, shaking my head, my jaw tight, and my pulse a steady drumbeat in my ears.
“I need space right now, Lacey.” The words come out rough, quieter than before, but no less final. My hands clench at my sides, the urge to reach for her battling with the anger still boiling inside me.
I see the flicker of hurt cross her face, her lips parting as if to protest, but I turn away before she can say anything. If I stay, I might say something I’ll regret.
Her breath catches. “What?”
I take another step back, the space between us stretching. “I just... I need time to cool off.”
Her eyes search mine, a flicker of something uncertain crossing her face.
Even though I can see the hurt in her expression, she nods.
I turn before I change my mind and storm to my car, barely registering the way my hands are shaking. The air feels thick, suffocating, pressing against my chest with every step. I yank the door open and slide inside, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. I don’t start the engine right away. I just sit there, breathing hard, staring straight ahead as the heat of the moment lingers in my veins.
And as I sit in the car, my stomach twists in a way I don’t like. I tell myself this is what I need—space, distance, a moment to breathe before I say something I can’t take back.
But deep down, another thought gnaws at me, sharp and relentless. What if this isn’t just space? What if this is the beginning of the end? What if when I finally cool off, we both realize the differences between us are just too big, too ingrained to ever really work?
What if this fight isn’t just a bump in the road but a sign of something bigger, something we can’t fix?
I slam the car into drive, my mind racing faster than the engine. Every instinct screams at me to go back, to fix this, but I can’t. Not when the betrayal sits this heavy in my chest.
The worst part? I get it. I get why she thought this was a good idea. Lacey lives in a world of cameras and publicity, where every good deed needs to be documented, shared, proven. She probably thought she was helping—bringing attention to a cause that matters to me.
But that’s the problem.
She doesn’t understand that some things need to stay pure, untouched by the artificial glare of the spotlight and fame. These kids have been through enough without becoming somebody’s feel-good story of the week.
I think about Danny’s face when he finally nailed that chord progression. About Charlie, who showed up three months ago barely speaking, and now won’t shut up about wanting to start a band.
These moments—these real, raw, beautiful moments—they’re not meant for public consumption.
My phone buzzes. Then again. And again.
I know it’s Lacey. Probably trying to explain, to apologize, to make things right.
But right now, every message feels like another camera flash, another intrusion into something that should have stayed sacred.
The steering wheel creaks under my grip as I take the corner a little too fast, hoping the speed might calm the storm in my head. It doesn’t. Instead, all I can think about is how different we are—Lacey and I. How she thrives in the spotlight while I’ve always preferred the shadows of my drums. How she sees opportunities where I see invasions. How she lives for the next big moment while I just want to keep the real ones safe.
I don’t look back. I can’t. But as I continue driving away, I feel it—her presence behind me, lingering, watching. My chest burning like I just finished a goddamn marathon. For a second, just one fleeting second, I wonder what would happen if I turned around. If I jumped out of the car and took her in my arms and let her explain—if I tried to find a way to forgive her for something she didn’t even mean as a betrayal. But I can’t do that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because for the first time since we started this whole fake engagement turned real mess—
I don’t know if we can bridge the distance between her world and mine. The gap feels too wide—too deep.