I still haven't returned Liam's calls.
And I still haven't told Nate about the accident.
"Have you told Nate yet?"Nick asks, as if he’s reading my thoughts.
The question comes quietly, almost lost in the ambient gallery noise, but I hear the careful concern threaded through his words.
Not judgment, not pressure—just gentle worry.
"About the accident?"
My stomach clenches, that familiar tightness that comes whenever I think about the conversation I've been avoiding.
"Not yet," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper."But I'm going to.I have to."
Nick stops walking and turns to face me.
"You don't have to do anything you're not ready for, Nora.But I do think the sooner you tell him, the better he will handle it."
The way he says my name catches me off guard, soft and protective, but that's just Nick.He's the guy who's walked into our chaos and somehow made it feel like home, who looks at our family and sees it as his own.
"That's just it," I say, looking at the painting again."I think I've been ready for longer than I wanted to admit.I've been letting fear make my decisions, and that's not who I want to be anymore."
The words feel true as I speak them, like something I've been carrying without realizing it.I suppose that’s what growth looks like—not the dramatic revelation I've expected, but the quiet recognition that you've already become someone different than who you were before.
Nick squeezes my shoulder.
"I'm proud of you," he says simply, and something in his tone makes me believe he means it completely."Your strength, it’s something else Nora."
We stand there for a moment, surrounded by other people's artistic interpretations of life, and I feel weirdly hopeful.
"Wait, this is the one," Nick decides, nodding toward the watercolor."This is perfect for what your mom is trying to create.True?"
"True," I say with a smile.
He moves toward the front of the gallery to speak with someone about purchasing the piece, and I watch him go—this man who thinks about Mom's patients with the same careful attention he gives to everything else in her life.
I wander deeper into the space, letting the art wash over me like a meditation.There's something about galleries that reminds me of libraries—that same level of quiet, the same sense that you're surrounded by other people's attempts to make sense of the world.
Then I hear it.
A woman's voice, bright and professional, discussing framing options with what sounds like a client.The tone is pleasant, efficient, the kind of voice that belongs to someone who's learned to navigate difficult conversations with grace.
But there's something else.
Something that makes my skin prickle with recognition I can't quite place.
"We could do a simple black frame," the voice is saying, "or if you prefer something with more character, we have some beautiful vintage pieces that might complement the work better."
I find myself moving toward the sound, drawn by an instinct I don't understand.The woman is standing with her back to me, radiant blonde hair catching the gallery lights, her figure elegant in a way that speaks of careful attention to presentation.
She wears a pencil skirt and blouse that look professionally appropriate, the kind of outfit that suggests she's rebuilt her life with deliberate precision.
It's the scent that hits me.
Gardenia.
The world tilts.No, it fucking spirals.
