Chapter 97

The One With Memories

(Old And New)

A R I E L L E

As I enter Nate ‘s house, a flurry of emotions hits me. A flash of memories filled with love and laughter that part of me wants to ignore but the other part of me feels as though I need to experience in order to help move past my grief. To find some sort of closure.

The first thing I notice is how dirty his place is. When he last left here, his house had been ransacked. Ezra’s people had basically destroyed his house, short of lighting the fucking thing on fire. They knocked over furniture, cut holes in cushions and paintings, tore the felt on his pool table, plates are still smashed to the flooring, and the television lays with a cracked screen where it was ripped from the wall. And that’s only some of the mess. If I were to describe it all, I’d be here forever.

All of it is now covered in a layer of both cobwebs and dust. Belongings that hold so many memories of us and of the story of us. I know they’re only materialistic things, but I still see flashes of him in everything.

In the billiards table, I see some of our first moments together. Of the flirting. The intense connection I felt to him instantly. Of his teasing nature that I fell in love with quickly. Him bending me over the felt and fucking me in a way that made me crave him. He was the best I ever had. So in tune with me that it made my toes curl and my breath catch in the most incredible way. I felt sparks every time we touched.

When I spot the PS4 controller smashed to bits on the ground, I see another memory of the two of us. Of Nate and I smoking weed and then him proceeding to finger fuck me. And then I took his cock between my lips, between my tits, and finally, between my thighs. It was one of the first times after fucking that we were almost domestic afterwards. Where we decided to order pizza and nachos. It was the first time I realized how compatible we were outside of the bedroom too—in the way we could chill playing video games, getting high, and talking about life.

The pool and hot tub—now filled with algae-stained water and some stray leaves—makes me think of the time he made me margaritas. They were so good. He’d set up the backyard for my arrival, hanging some outdoor lights up around the fence, dug out fresh and clean towels, and rolled a joint for the two of us. He was always so thoughtful, doing little things like that. Many people didn’t notice it, but I did. We swam that night. In the pool and the hot tub and Nate was frustrated the entire time because I’d only just gotten my nipples pierced and he was pouting that he couldn’t play with them. I loved his playful side.

I walk deeper in the house and the sight of his overturned bed makes me think of many things. Most of it’s fucking—which was a large part of our intimacy and love language, considering I’m a very sexual person, as was he. But it’s also so much more than that. It represents mornings I’d wake in his arms. The safety and feeling of home I felt laying in this bed. Of laughs and late night discussions about everything under the sun. The I love yous that were shared, along with the movies that, in our stoned and half asleep states, made us question everything in life.

The bedroom seems too intense for me. Perhaps it’s because we spend so much of our lives in bed sleeping. Especially someone like Nate, who was the furthest thing from a morning person you could ever imagine. Between sleeping and fucking, that’s a lot of time spent in a single room. When I inhale, it even still smells like him after all these months. Maybe it’s my brain tricking me. Playing some cruel, twisted game. Or maybe it’s just because he’d spray himself with his cologne in here and now it’s layered in the paint.

Whichever it is, I don’t stick around to think about it. It brings far too much ache to my chest.

As I saunter into the kitchen, it reminds me of the night we made pizza together for dinner. He’d bought me pizza and brownie kits for my birthday and we went shopping to get all of the toppings. Chase and Zara joined us, where Chase began referring to Nate as Daddy Smurf—because of the freshly-dyed blue colour of his hair. Nate was super touchy-feely with me that night, but he usually was. Placing his hands on my hips, pulling me to him, kissing the back of my neck, interlacing our fingers—he always made sure I knew he was there and that he was thinking of me and I loved that about him.

Glancing around what used to be his home, I can’t help but imagine what the future would’ve been like had shit been different. If he was still here with me, there’s a good chance that I would’ve moved in here. Considering before the accident he was living with me, I think after we would’ve cleaned up this place and I would’ve been interested in moving in with him. It was the natural order of things.

We’d had a discussion or two about spending the rest of our lives together. I had no issues with that. He’d talked about potentially marrying me and I had my reservations about it—only because my parents were married and Vivien ended up cheating on, and ultimately, murdering my dad. The institution of marriage scared me because of that very fact.

I’m not sure if I feel the same anymore. After the loss of Nate, it feels like a situation where now that I don’t have it, I’m more interested in it. The loss of Nate has made me realize that my hang ups on marriage were—I wouldn’t stay stupid or without validity—but maybe small in the scope of everything else. They ultimately became fucking irrelevant.

I never denied that I wanted to spend forever with Nate. So why was I so hung up on the idea of a ring? I’m literally still wearing the thundercloud ring he gave me, so what’s the difference, really? Marriage isn’t all that much more than a ring, a piece of paper, and a ceremony. It’s not like the day after we would’ve gotten married, all the sudden I would’ve felt differently about him or our relationship. It would’ve just been another day as a couple.

I do wonder how deeply I hurt him on my comments about marriage. He seemed rather serious about it. Even though he came from a broken marriage as well—except his mum happily remarried and had more children—he had a good view of marriage. He seemed to understand where I was coming from on my views. In fact, he was very understanding and I appreciated it greatly.

But did it hurt him when I said those things?

There was a time when I had a slight inkling that he maybe wanted to propose to me. I don’t know what brought about the feelings, but I remember being scared of the idea. I absolutely, without a single doubt in my mind, was not ready for it. If he would’ve asked, I would’ve said no. I didn’t want to commit to anybody in that way in that particular moment of my life. When he’d asked me about marriage around that time, I did my best to scare him off it in the kindest way possible.