After dessert—Mom’s signature chocolate torte, of course—she stands and starts clearing plates, waving off any offers to help.
“I’m just happy you’re here,” she says. “All of you.”
Later, as Nora and I slip on our shoes and say our goodbyes, she pulls me into another hug and whispers in my ear.
“She’s special, Max. Don’t screw this up.”
“I know,” I whisper back. “I won’t.”
We wave to Grandpa Sid and step out into the warm night, the Manhattan sky tinged lavender-gray, city lights flickering to life one by one. Nora wraps her arms around herself, even though it’s not cold. Probably just reflex—she’s been a little quiet since dessert. Thoughtful.
I reach out and lace my fingers through hers as we head down the block. She gives me a small smile, but it’s distracted.
“You okay?” I ask, bumping her shoulder gently.
She hesitates. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
That earns me a faint laugh, but it fades fast.
“I’m a little behind with the fundraiser planning,” she says quietly. “With the tour and everything, I dropped a few balls. I was supposed to finalize some signage, check the sound setup, figure out the table placements—basically all the things I told myself I could handle remotely and then… didn’t.”
I stop walking, tug her closer. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because it’s my event. For my job. You already have a million things on your plate.”
“None of which are as important as you.”
She bites her lip, gaze flicking down to our joined hands. “I just hate asking for help.”
“Then don’t ask.” I grin, lean in. “I’m offering.”
She raises one brow. “Are you sure?”
“Nora, I’ve played seventy-two hours of Uno on a bus with Lucas. I can handle tablecloth logistics.”
She laughs again, fuller this time, and the tension finally starts to leave her shoulders.
I nudge her with my elbow. “Come on. Let’s go to the library. You show me what’s left to do, and we’ll knock it out together.”
She blinks. “Now?”
“Sure. You’ve got the keys. I’ve got zero plans beyond making out with you somewhere inappropriate, but I can delay that for a few spreadsheets and folding chairs.”
Nora flushes, her smile blooming in the streetlight. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m resourceful. And mildly turned on by clipboards.”
“Oh my God.” She shakes her head, laughing, and tugs me forward. “Come on, Mr. Rockstar. Let’s go prep a fundraiser.”
I follow her, grinning like a maniac.
***
The library smells like old paper and lavender cleaning spray, a combination that’s weirdly comforting. It’s quiet inside—of course it is—but not the kind of quiet that makes you feel alone. It’s the kind that settles in your bones, the kind that lets your shoulders drop, your breath slow. Nora’s kind of quiet.
She unlocks the front doors, flicks on the lights one row at a time. The place glows soft and golden, like it’s waking up just for us. She moves through the space like she belongs here—because she does. Her hair’s twisted into a messy knot, keys looped around one finger, sleeves shoved past her elbows.
