Not convinced, but willing to try and that’s enough.
“We’re fixing this,” I say.“Together.”
The sunlight hits him then—soft, golden, gentle.It makes him look a little less broken.
“Start from the beginning.”
And he does.
Word by word.
Wound by wound.
Truth by truth.
And for the first time in years, as the sun climbs higher and the petals below us catch the light, I think—I might actually get my brother back.
CHAPTER25
CONFESSIONS
NORA
“What about this one?”Nick asks.
I turn toward him and realise, somehow, we’ve wandered into the quietest corner of the gallery—one of those bright, echo-soft rooms where even your footsteps feel too loud.
The place smells like fresh paint and polished wood, that clean, curated kind of air that makes you stand up a little straighter, like you’re supposed to contemplate your existence instead of just look at things.
Nick stands in front of a watercolor, hands tucked into his pockets, brow furrowed in that thoughtful way he gets when he’s building something—an idea, a future, a home.It should feel strange, being here with him like this.
The man who is—technically, absurdly—my stepdad now.A title that sounds far too formal, too sudden, for someone who somehow feels like he’s been orbiting our family forever.
As if Mom didn’t just marry him a week ago but instead opened a door to reveal a person we’d been missing without knowing it.
He gestures toward the watercolor.
Soft-washed blues, honey-yellow light like morning drifting through sheer curtains.
“For the waiting room?”he asks.
I step closer, tipping my head, trying to imagine what someone might feel sitting beneath it—someone scared or hopeful or tired in that heavy way therapy waiting rooms make you tired.Waiting rooms are their own strange universe: fear, hope, resignation, tiny breaths of relief.
People come in bracing for impact or praying for change.
“It’s peaceful,” I say, letting the colors seep into me.“Like it reminds you the day doesn’t have to hurt.”
Nick nods, that quiet, steady warmth radiating off him, and something in me softens.
Watching him choose art for Mom’s clinic feels less like decorating and more like building a landing place for people learning to stand again.Like he’s been doing this—being part of us, caring for us—for a lot longer than the calendar says.
"I literally have no idea what I'm looking at right now.But if that's how it makes you feel then I trust your judgment."
I laugh at his brutal honesty.
Now that the summer is coming to a close, this sense of uncertainty is beginning to creep into the forefront of my mind.
I still haven't made a decision about going back to London.
