I don't tell him that.
"A while back. I forgot how similar our taste in books was," I say quietly, because apparently I'm determined to make this moment even more loaded. "We both seem to enjoy reading things that hurt."
"Remember that summer you made me readThe History of Love? I didn't sleep for two days after finishing it." His voice is soft.
I do remember. I remember him lying in bed reading while I watched the way his expression changed with each page, the way he'd look up and tell me about passages that gutted him, the way we'd stay up talking about love and loss and whether anything truly permanent exists.
"That was a good summer," I say, because what else is there to say?
"Yeah." He sets the book down carefully, like it might break. "It was."
The silence that follows is heavy with memory, with all the summers we shared and all the ways we thought we'd have more time.
"Sounds like a perfect night actually," I finally manage, gesturing vaguely at the book.
He walks me to the door, and in the small space of the cabin that means we're close again.
"Nora." My name on his lips stops me at the threshold.
I turn back.
"Yeah?"
He hesitates, and I watch him war with something internally before he just shakes his head.
"Sleep well."
"You too."
I make myself walk back to my cabin, make myself not look back even though I want to, make myself close my door and lean against it and try to process what just happened.
And just as I walk through the door, my phone buzzes on the counter.
Wes
Enough of this. When are you coming home?
I stare at it for a long moment and decide not to respond.
Instead, I lie down in bed that smells like clean sheets and try not to think about what happened tonight. But I know—with absolute, terrifying certainty—that I'm in trouble.
The kind of trouble that doesn't have easy solutions.
CHAPTER 23
TRUTH OR DARE?
NATE
I watchfrom my cabin window as Nora laces up her running shoes on her small deck.
6:45 AM.
She's consistent, I'll give her that. Same time every morning for the past week she's been here.
She stretches—hamstrings, quads, that thing where she pulls her ankle behind her and I definitely don't stare at the curve of her leg—and then she's off, heading down the path that leads to the main road.
I give her five minutes to make sure she's really gone, not just forgot something and turning back.
