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“Finally, when I was in high school, she met Richard.” His tone shifts, complicated emotions playing across his face. “He was... different. Actually had a job and treated her better than the others. He even bought me my first good drum set.”
“He sounds nice,” I venture carefully.
“He was. Is, I guess.” Nate runs a hand through his hair. “But he lived in Seattle. Had some corporate job here. And Mom, she wanted us all to move out here. Start fresh.”
“But you didn’t want to?”
He shakes his head. “I had other plans. Dreams. And I couldn’t—“ His voice breaks slightly. “I couldn’t handle another move. Another change. Another man deciding where home should be.”
Understanding washes over me. All these months, I’ve wondered about the contradiction that is Nate Stone—the manwho carefully builds his wealth but seems almost afraid to enjoy it, who creates a beautiful home but keeps it pristinely empty—who always seems to hold part of himself back.
“So you stayed,” I whisper.
“I stayed. She left.” His fingers tighten around mine. “She calls sometimes. Sends birthday cards. But I just... I can’t...”
I shift closer, tucking myself against his side. “Can’t what?”
“Can’t forget how it felt. Watching her choose someone else. Again.” He closes his eyes. “Even if it was the right choice this time, and even if Richard turned out to be a good guy. I just...”
“You were just a teenager, a kid,” I murmur. “A kid who’d already lost too much.”
He turns to me then, and the vulnerability in his eyes makes my heart ache. “Is that fucked up? That I’m still angry? That I can’t bring myself to answer her calls or visit, even though she’s happy now? Even though she’s finally stable?”
I cup his face in my hands. “There’s no timeline on healing, Nate. No rulebook for how to process that kind of pain.”
A raindrop trails down the window behind us, and I watch his reflection fragment and reform.
“But maybe,” I continue softly, “it’s time to make peace with it. Not for her, but for you.”
He leans into my touch, and I feel some of the tension leave his body. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“See right through me. Make everything feel—easier.”
I smile, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Because I care for you. All of you. Even the parts you try to keep locked away.”
His breath catches, and suddenly, he’s pulling me closer, burying his face in my neck. I hold him, feeling the tremors that run through his body, understanding so much more about this quiet, private man.
The Seattle rain continues to fall, painting shadows across the room, but here, in this moment, he’s given me something precious—his vulnerability, his trust—it’s a gift.
His arms tighten around me, and for several long moments, we just sit there, the sound of rain creating a cocoon around us. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are darker and more intense, but the tension in his broad shoulders seems to have lessened.
“Come on, let’s go out. Get something to eat.”
An hour later, I’m wearing a simple blue dress, watching Nate adjust his collar in the mirror. The restaurant is intimate, all exposed brick and candlelight, with a view of the market’s famous sign glowing red through the rain.
Nate orders wine—expensive wine—but his hand trembles slightly as he lifts the glass. I know he’s thinking about her, wondering if his mother ever walks past these windows, if she’d recognize the man he’s become.
Under the table, I slip my hand into his.
“Tell me about her,” I say softly. “The good parts.”
He stares into his wine for a long moment. “She used to sing. All the time. In the kitchen, doing laundry, driving...” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “She used to love to dance around the living room. That’s where I got my first taste of music. She’d play these old records—Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin, Phil Collins—the apartment was always filled with music.”
“Is that why you started drums?”
“Sort of.” He lets out a breath. “After Dad left, it was the only thing that helped—just... hitting things. Making noise. She never complained, even when we got threatened with eviction notices because of the noise violations.”