Well, fuck me.
19
NORA
Ten Toothbrushes
By the time I get to Max’s building, I’ve gone over the speech in my head a dozen times.
Calm. Direct. No crying.
I knock.
A few seconds pass. Then the door swings open.
Max is there, in sweatpants and a black T-shirt, barefoot, hair mussed like he’s been dragging his hands through it all night. His eyes land on me, and everything in his face softens—then tightens.
“Nora.”
“Hi,” I say. My voice is steady. That surprises me. “Can we talk?”
He steps back immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”
I walk in, and Melody meows at me from the couch like I’m late for something important. She always did have opinions.
“I read the article,” I say, not bothering to dance around it.
He nods, jaw tight. “Figured you did.”
I turn to face him. “Is it true?”
Max blows out a breath, scrubs a hand down his face. “Yeah. It’s true.”
My chest tightens. I knew the answer already, of course. But something about hearing him say it aloud makes it real in a way headlines never could.
“I figured it had to be,” I say softly. “Jake Armstrong isn’t subtle, but he’s not exactly known for publishing fiction.”
Max lets out a bitter huff. “No. You’re right. That’s why everything he writes feels especially cruel.”
I shift closer to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He’s quiet for a second. Then: “Because my dad was basically a non-entity for most of my life.”
My brows lift.
Max shifts slightly beside me, and I feel him exhale. One of those long, tired breaths you let out when you’ve been carrying something too heavy for too long.
“My mom raised me on her own,” he says quietly.
I turn to face him, giving him my full attention. His eyes are distant, like he’s looking at a version of himself that still lives somewhere else.
“She was nineteen when she had me,” he says. “Fresh out of music school, full of big dreams and jazz records. Then Lawrence Westwood happened.” His mouth curves—not into a smile, but something bitter and worn. “It wasn’t some tragic love story. He used her. She got pregnant. He disappeared.”
My heart clenches. “He didn’t offer support?”
Max shakes his head. “Not a dime. No phone calls. No check-ins. Just… radio silence. It was like we didn’t exist.”
I don’t know what to say, so I take his hand. He lets me.
