pearl offices
8ème arrondissement
a
After my dad's funeral, Nate stopped by my hotel to check in on me. He told me he took care of everything after the service, he helped make sure there aren't any pictures that could be leaked, it's all wrapped up nice and tidy.
I told him he could go home if he wanted, and get some rest. I couldn't even imagine how much stress he'd been under at that exact same time. Taking care of me, of his job, the funeral, you name it he helped me handle it.
He asked if it was okay for him to hang back for a bit. In a way I should've known I guess he didn't want to leave me alone on a night like that.
He must've taken in the scene. The mini bar I raided and the emptied bottle of champagne I ordered up to my room. Not a plate of picked over food in sight and he was watching me like a hawk at Arlo's house during the service, he knew I didn't eat anything there either.
He asked me if I was okay. I didn't answer. I just asked if he could take me to his place instead. I needed to get away from the suffocating hotel room and the isolation I'd enter once he left my room.
I was desperate for even a hint of something that felt like a home.
Not some sterile and too clean environment where everything is just a prop.
We laid in his bed at his new town house that was still only half furnished. And we remained fully clothed, above the duvet, laying on our sides and facing each other.
And I was actually able to get a bit of sleep that night, knowing that he was there. If I had a nightmare, he'd be there to wake me up. If I cried in my sleep, he'd be there to comfort me until I stopped.
But finally, it didn't happen.
I slept for a few hours completely undisturbed.
When I opened my eyes in the blue light of the early morning, Nate was still awake. Sleepy, but awake, watching me. He hadn't slept a wink.
When we locked eyes again, Nate reached out and moved hair away from my face.
He didn't speak. He didn't ask me if I could talk about my feelings. Didn't tell me to try. He allowed me to just be what I was, a mess.
That's when I felt the change. The affection I had for him deepened that much further. He'd seen the ugliest parts of me and refused to turn away.
He's the only one who's never looked away.
I don't remember the first time I ever met Nate, that's how long I've known him.
He's just always been there, in the background of my memories. A steady and constant pillar holding my fondest memories up.
It's flashes. It's the feeling of bare feet on freshly cut grass and chasing him underneath the trees. The back of his head and the sun shining on his brown hair. Sticky palms and dirty fingernails and small hands holding each other. Forts in the woods. Loud giggles. Sandwiches cut in triangles for two. Shared bullies. Inside jokes. Hiding under the table at Thanksgiving.
Running through house and school hallways together. Through the halls of the P.P offices. Pastel clothes and tea parties. Teaching me how to slow dance in the gardens of his grandparents Greenwich estate so I wouldn't embarrass myself at a middle school dance. He'd pull my hair at the last second so photographers would capture my face at the exact moment. He was the first person I ever got into a fistfight with. And for.
