He opens it.
The surprise on his face barely flickers before it hardens into that same distant neutrality.He stands in the doorway, blocking the room behind him, like even the space he occupies is off-limits.
“Jake, can we talk?—”
“Not now.”
Not harsh.
Not emotional.
Just closed off.
Before I can say anything else, he shuts the door.Not a slam—he’s too controlled for that.Just a firm, deliberate click that feels louder than a shout.
I stand there staring at the wood grain, the finality of it sinking into my chest.He didn’t even give me his eyes.Not even that.
And the worst part?
I can’t tell if he’s avoiding me because he’s angry or because letting himself feel anything toward me would break something he can’t afford to lose.
In my old room, everything waits for me exactly as it was.Bones, my stuffed toy, perched on my pillow like a guardian.I don’t know when Lydia managed to sneak my bags up stairs without me noticing but I open my bag to get my laptop and that’s when I see it—a CD labeled in Nate’s handwriting:Nora’s Mixtape #18.
Exhaustion presses down on me, and I curl onto the bed, grabbing my old discman and slipping on my headphones.I press play.The first song isFive String Serenadeby Mazzy Star.
I close my eyes and I’m back in Malaga, watching him coax music out of nothing but air and strings, his fingers moving with reverence, precision, and all the quiet tenderness he keeps for me.
The song feels suspended, like underwater motion slowed to its most beautiful, most fragile pace.It carries every note of longing, every memory of touch, every moment of love and ache that we created together.
And just like that, I’m caught between wanting to wait for him and wanting to forget him.I’m suspended between hope and heartbreak, the pendulum swinging back and forth in the spaces between memory and presence.
Somehow, I’m learning that love can live there too—in the quiet spaces, in the pauses, in the songs we carry long after the person is gone.
CHAPTER10
PEOPLE LIKE US
NATE
The leather givesbeneath my fists with that deep, dull thud that rattles straight up my arms.It’s the only sound steady enough to quiet the noise in my head.Sweat is running down my jaw, stinging the cut where I split my lip earlier, but I barely feel it.Physical pain I can work with.It has rules.It stays where you put it.
Three days since Nora walked out of this place, and somehow everything in here still smells like her.
My sheets.
My shirts.
Hell, even my own skin feels wrong without her hands on it.
“If you hit that bag any harder, you’ll send it through the wall,” Javier calls out from somewhere behind me, voice rough and amused.
I ignore him and keep going—jab, cross, hook—because stopping means thinking.And thinking means remembering.And remembering means wanting something I don’t have the right to want.
“Nate.”His tone changes.“You’ve got someone waiting inside.”
My hands go still mid-combo.The bag swings lazily.For a second—an insane, stupid second—my chest tightens like I’m about to see her walk through the door.I already know it won’t be.
Hope’s a dumb thing.
