She sings along, loud and off-key and completely unself-conscious.
Throws her hands up, lets the wind catch her voice and carry it into the night.
And I can't look away.
I should be watching the road. Should be focused on driving.
But she's having a whole concert in my passenger seat, and I'm completely transfixed.
The way she looks right now should be studied.
How can someone look this beautiful just existing? Hair wildfrom the wind, skin flushed from alcohol and laughter, eyes closed like she's feeling every note in her bones.
Completely free. Completely herself.
This version of her—uninhibited, joyful, present—is the Nora I remember from before.
Before LA. Before Wes. Before she learned to make herself smaller to fit into someone else's life. Before we were nothing but two people finding each other in storms, saving each other.
This is who she's supposed to be.
Wild and free and taking up all the space she wants.
Because a woman like her was never meant to be tamed—she was meant to be loved exactly as she is, in all her chaotic, beautiful, impossible glory. And watching her remember that, watching her come back to herself, is worth every year I've spent wanting her.
"Eyes on the road, Nathaniel," she teases, catching me staring.
"Hard to when you're over there having a whole concert."
"You love it."
I don't deny it because it’s true. I force my attention back to the road even though every instinct I have wants to keep watching her.
The next verse plays out—lyrics about being young and naive and full of hope—and I see something shift in her expression.
The joy dims slightly. The lightness fades.
"Don't know why though," she says, quieter now.
"What do you mean?"
She tilts her head to look at me properly.
"I am a fucking disaster, Nate. No need to be nice about it. Everything about my life right now is a complete mess and—" She looks away, as if she’s embarrassed for even admitting something like that. To me, of all people.
The worst part is, she actually believes that. And I know exactly who taught her to think that way.
Wes.
The thing I hate most about that asshole isn't the cheating.Isn't even the way he grabbed her arm this morning. It's how he made her feel small.
How he took this vibrant, extraordinary person and convinced her she was only valuable because of what he did for her. How he made her doubt herself, second-guess her instincts, apologize for taking up space.
Lenora Wells was never meant to be small.
"You really want to know what I see?" There's more intensity in my voice than I intend.
But I can't help it. I can't let her sit there believing she's anything less than extraordinary.
