But because he did it publicly. Because he humiliated her. Because while she's here, dealing with Alfie's death, he was out there making a mockery of their entire relationship.
I'd stood in that bathroom, phone in hand, knuckles white from gripping the sink, breathing hard, trying to talk myself down from doing something incredibly stupid.
Like driving to LA tonight and finding him, making sure he understood exactly what happens to men who hurt her.
Instead, I'd splashed cold water on my face, shoved my phone in my pocket, and walked back out to the table.
And now I'm driving to the lake house, hands still gripping the steering wheel too tight, trying to push away the images of the way he probably smiled at Nora when he proposed while already planning to cheat on her. If he hadn’t already been. The timeline doesn't matter—the betrayal is the same.
My jaw aches from clenching it.I force myself to breathe.
She needs support right now. Not my rage. Not my opinions about what Wes deserves.
Whatever she wants, I’ll give it to her. Even if what I really want is to put that asshole through a wall.
My phone goes off.
Camilla
She's on the dock.
She's sad, Nate.
I get out of the car, follow the path around the house past the porch to where the dock stretches out over the water.
And there’s Nora, sitting at the edge with her legs dangling, wine glass in hand, staring out at the lake as the sun sets in shades of amber and rose.
She's wearing a white sundress that catches the fading light, hair down and moving slightly in the breeze, feet bare. She looksbeautiful and sad and judging by the way she’s slowly swaying, slightly drunk.
She turns when she hears my footsteps on the wooden planks, and her face lights up in a way that makes everything else fade.
"You came," she says, and there's relief in her voice. Like she wasn't sure I would.
"Of course.” I move closer, hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "You okay?"
She laughs. "Define okay."
I sit beside her, our legs hanging over the edge, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Near enough that her perfume surrounds me and somehow I feel intoxicated.
"You want to talk about it?"
"Not really." She takes another sip of wine, then sets the glass down beside her. "I want to sit here with you and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist for a little while. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, Len," I say softly. "That's okay."
We sit in silence, the water lapping gently against the dock posts, the last light of day painting everything gold. Distant laughter from the house, music playing faintly, the world continuing on while we sit here suspended in this moment.
After a beat, she speaks quietly.
"You know what's fucked up?"
"What?"
"I wasn't even mad."
I glance at her. She shakes her head, staring out at the water.
"I wasn't mad at him. When I saw the photos Camilla sent me—I wasn't angry. I was relieved."
