"Than not having you in my life.”
I stop myself, pull back from the edge of admitting too much.
“It hurts less than the alternative. Less than cutting you out completely. Less than pretending you don't exist."
Silence settles between us, and his breathing in the darkness.
"I tried that," I continue quietly. "For seven years, But then I came back here and?—"
My voice breaks.
"And I realized I've been lying to myself this whole time."
"Nora—"
"I don't want to hate you," I whisper. "Even though it would make sense. I just... I can't."
I pause, exhaustion making me brave in ways sobriety never could.
"How I feel about you doesn't make sense. It should have faded by now. And I don't know what to do with that."
I’ve definitely said too much and it’s the sangria talking now.
But then his voice comes through the darkness, soft and certain. "I guess sometimes logic doesn't understand chemistry."
The words land like a key turning in a lock, and something in my chest both breaks and heals simultaneously.
My eyes are closing now, exhaustion and alcohol and emotion finally winning. Sleep is pulling me under, and I'm too tired to fight it anymore.
In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, I think I hear him speak again. His voice so soft I'm not sure if it's real or if I'm already gone.
"I'm glad you can't hate me, Len. Because I could never hate you either."
CHAPTER 29
TEMPTING FATE
NATE
She's finally asleep.
Her breathing has evened out, deep and steady, her face relaxed in a way it hasn't been since she arrived. The tension she carries in her jaw has softened. Her hand, which was curled into a fist against the pillow, has opened slowly, fingers unfurling like she's finally let go of whatever she was holding onto.
A smart man with any sense of self-preservation would extract himself from this bed, from this cabin, from this entire situation before it crosses the line from honorable to catastrophic.
I've never claimed to be smart when it comes to her.
So instead, I just lie here in the dark, watching her dream, knowing with absolute certainty that I'm completely fucked.
Wes might be a cheating bastard who deserves significantly worse than internet exposure, but she hasn't officially ended it. And here I am, lying in her bed, having just held her half-naked in a shower while she fell apart.
The way I feel about you doesn't make sense.
Her words echo in my head, mixing with the memory of her body pressed against mine under the water.
Showers have become a theme. An ongoing, torturous theme.
First mine—her standing outside the bathroom door in pajama shorts while I was mid-fantasy about doing exactly what I'm trying not to think about right now.
