Chapter Eleven Nora #2
My jaw has been clenched for so long that I have forgotten what it feels like to relax it.
The muscles are tight. The hinges ache. I try to let go, to soften, to let my mouth rest in a neutral position.
But the moment I relax, the tension returns.
My jaw clenches again. The habit is deeper than muscle.
Dinner tables were never safe for me.
A shifted tone in my father’s voice meant the storm was already brewing. Every movement was a potential mistake. Reaching for the salt could be seen as greed. Chewing too loud could be seen as disrespect. Lifting my eyes from my plate could be seen as a challenge.
Every meal was a silent performance. Every bite was swallowed alongside dread.
Later, dinners with Julian’s family were also quiet, but in a different key.
Calm. Polished. The silverware matched. The napkins were folded.
Julian and his parents discussed work, investments, and social circles I was not part of.
I sat in my chair like a well-placed accessory, eating with precise, silent movements, speaking only when a polite, empty question was directed my way.
How are you, Nora?
Fine, thank you.
And the house?
Fine, thank you.
And the garden?
Fine, thank you.
Our dinners alone were also quiet.
Predictable.
He would talk, narrating his day, dissecting office politics or a colleague’s misstep. His voice filled the space between us. He would ask for my opinion, and for years, I believed that meant he valued my thoughts. I would offer them carefully.
But after I saw him with her, I understood.
He didn’t crave my perspective; he craved an echo. Briana’s thoughts must have aligned with his own ambitions; mine were just background noise. So I stopped giving them. I retreated into quiet nods and murmured agreements at the appropriate moments.
Now he never failed to ask about my day at the very end, a question that had become as automatic as breathing.
How was your day, Nora?
My answer was always the same: a brief, empty report of chores and errands.
Fine. I went to the store. I made dinner. I did the laundry.
He asked because that was what husbands did. I answered because that was what wives did.
That was the noise I knew. The bad kind. The kind that made me shrink.
This—Maeve’s enormous family crammed around a long table, voices colliding in the air, jokes volleying like a friendly sport—is something I’ve never seen.
I watch them. I listen. I try to learn.
They lean back. They sprawl. They drape their arms across the backs of neighboring chairs and kick their feet out under the table. Their bodies are loose, unguarded, the bodies of people who have never learned that furniture can be a weapon, that a chair can be thrown, that a table can be flipped.
I perch on the very edge of my chair and try to relax. Try to become like them. Comfortable.
Someone shouts from the other end, “Uncle Mike, you stole my chair, you old thief!”
My body flinches.
The flinch is small. Almost invisible. A tightening of the shoulders, a quickening of the breath, a subtle shift of weight toward the door.
No one notices. No one ever notices. But I feel it in every nerve, every muscle, every cell that still remembers the sound of my father’s voice rising before his hand did.
Disappointment floods through me. My nervous system hasn’t learned this new, beautiful language yet. It still translates every raised voice as a threat.
I’m still trying to find my footing in the noise when a teenage girl slides into the seat directly across from me, her eyes sparkling with playful challenge.
She appears out of nowhere. Dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She plants her elbows on the table and leans forward, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers.
“Would you rather,” she announces, “have no phone for a year, or no electricity for a month?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I blink. I have never been asked a “would you rather” question. I have seen them on television, in movies.
I don’t hesitate.
“No phone,” I say.
She stares, surprised. “You didn’t even have to think about it.”
I offer a small shrug. “You can survive without a phone. You can’t survive a month in the dark.”
The girl’s expression shifts from playful to genuinely curious. She tilts her head.
“Okay,” she says, leaning in closer. “Next one. Would you rather be invisible for a day, or fly for a day?”
Invisible.
The answer is immediate, instinctive. The freedom of true unseenness. To move through the world without being watched, without being judged, without being a target. To exist without the weight of other people’s eyes.
But I can’t say it that fast.
It would sound too eager.
So I pretend to think. I press my lips together. I look at the ceiling. I let the silence stretch, just long enough to seem thoughtful.
“Invisible,” I say softly. The word comes out quiet, almost a whisper. “Flying would draw every eye to you. Being seen… isn’t always a good thing.”
I didn’t mean to say that last part. It slipped out. I wasn’t paying attention, and the words came out before I could stop them.
She studies me, her playful smirk fading into a more thoughtful expression. “…Yeah,” she says quietly. “I get that.”
She shifts in her chair, her focus now completely on me. “Last one,” she declares. “Would you rather live one day with no rules, or one day with all the rules?”
I look down at the table.
The wood is scarred. The grain is dark. Someone has carved a small heart into the surface near my elbow, the initials inside too faded to read.
A day with no rules is a day of unleashed, unpredictable power. It’s the world my father lived in. A world where there were no consequences, no boundaries, no limits. A world where the strongest did what they wanted, and the weakest endured.
A day with all the rules?
Rules are a map. They tell you where the dangers are. They create a structure you can hide within. Rules are walls. Rules are shelter. Rules are the difference between chaos and order, between the storm and the cellar where you wait for it to pass.
I meet her eyes.
“A day with all the rules,” I answer. “It’s safer to know exactly what is forbidden than to live in a world where anything is possible.”
The girl doesn’t move.
She holds my gaze. Her mouth is slightly open. Her eyes are wide. Then, a slow, genuine smile spreads across her face, one of unexpected respect.
“You’re really smart,” she states, simple and certain.
And before I can process the compliment, she’s up and gone, disappearing into the crowd of cousins and aunts and uncles, her pink sweater swallowed by the noise.
I sit there, frozen.
Smart.
The word echoes in a hollow place inside me.
Five letters. But it feels enormous, too large to fit inside the small, careful space where I keep myself.
No one has ever called me that before.
Not my mother, who looked at me with love and care and said you’re so good and you’re so patient and you’re so strong. Not Julian, who looked at me with approval and said you’re so kind and you’re so thoughtful and you’re so understanding.
Smart.
The word does not fit. I have never been called that before. I don’t know how to accept it. I do not know if I am allowed to believe it.
But the girl said it like it was obvious. Like she had seen something in me that I had never seen in myself.
I stare at the space where the girl had been, a faint, unfamiliar warmth settling in my chest.
The warmth is small. Tentative. I don’t fully trust it. It feels new, and new things have always been dangerous. But it is there, and I cannot make it go away.
Someone pulls out the chair beside me.
I turn.
It’s Kieran.
He is wearing a yellow sweater. His hair falls across his forehead, one stubborn piece that won’t stay where it belongs. Someone says something across the room and he laughs before he even sits down.
He nudges his chair a few inches to the side, widening the space between us.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, genuinely surprised. “I thought this was a family dinner.”
He grimaces a little, sheepish. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah… it is. Maeve and I are cousins.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised.
It makes sense now. They’re relaxed with each other at the café. They finish each other’s sentences. They tease. They move around one another like old friends who grew up together.
“Her parents own the café. They retired and handed it over to Maeve. The staff doesn’t know about me, though.” He rubs the back of his neck again. “We kept it that way because if people knew, they’d think I got the job because she’s family, or that she goes easy on me.”
I tilt my head. “But you do have one of the easier jobs.”
The words come out before I can stop them. They are not mean. They are not an accusation. They are just… true. A statement of fact. He works the register—smiling, chatting, tapping the screen. It seems lighter than hauling trash or scrubbing toilets or cleaning the bathrooms.
Kieran’s jaw drops slightly. His mouth opens. His eyes widen. For a moment, I think I have offended him.
Then he lets out a loud, genuine laugh.
His shoulders shake. His eyes water. He has to wipe them with the back of his hand. For a moment, he just sits there, catching his breath, still smiling.
“Wow,” he chuckles, shaking his head. The laugh is still in his voice, warm and easy. “Ouch. Damn, Nora.”
I frown. “Why are you laughing?”
He looks at me, his laughter fading into a softer, more thoughtful expression. “Because it was funny,” he says, his gaze steady and sincere. “You’re funny.”
I go completely still.
Funny.
The word lands in my chest next to smart. They sit there, side by side, two small, unfamiliar things that I don’t know what to do with.
Smart.
Funny.
They feel like clothes from someone else’s wardrobe. Beautiful, but I don’t know how to wear them. I don’t know if they fit. I don’t know if I trust the mirror.