Chapter 150: Glitter Glue and Neon Bands

The drive to the Joneses’ house felt like crossing an invisible border, leaving the heavy stone corridors of Alverstone and the wreckage of my parents’ world far behind us. The farther we got from campus, the easier it was to breathe, like the air wasn’t pressing down on my ribs anymore.

Nate kept one hand on the steering wheel, his thumb tracing my knuckles where our hands rested between the seats. He didn’t mention the looming board meeting, and he didn’t bring up the photographs of Duane. He didn’t try to fill the silence or fix it. His quiet presence in the car was a steady anchor against the hum of the heater, keeping the rising panic in my chest at bay. Every time his thumb brushed my skin, the tension in my shoulders eased just a little.

When we pulled up to the small bungalow, the front window was already fogged from the warmth inside, glowing softly against the evening chill. The porch light flickered once, the way it always had, like it was greeting us.

Before we even reached the porch, the front door swung open. Nine‑year‑old Grace came barreling out first, followed closely by six‑year‑old Zoe, who was clutching a plastic unicorn so tightly its horn pressed straight into her chest.

“Mila!” Grace shouted, throwing her arms around my waist before grinning up at Nate, who stood a half‑step behind me.

Zoe marched right past her, stopping dead in front of Nate with her hands planted firmly on her hips. She tilted her head all the way back, eyeing him with severe, pint‑sized inspection. “Hey, the tall man is back,” she announced, before thrusting the toy forward. “Can you hold my unicorn? Its leg is broken again.”

“Consider it guarded,” Nate said, taking the plastic toy with a solemnity that made my throat tighten. He held it like it was something fragile, something important, and Zoe nodded approvingly before darting back inside.

Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon tea and old paper. Mrs. Jones met us in the hallway, pulling me into a warm, flour‑dusted hug before turning a welcoming smile on Nate. Mr. Jones clapped a heavy hand onto Nate’s shoulder by the coat rack, greeting him like an old family member rather than a guest. The familiarity of it made something in my chest loosen.

“Glad you brought him along, Mil,” Eliza said, walking out of the kitchen with a stack of poster board balanced against her hip. She caught my eye, offering a subtle, knowing look that spoke volumes. She didn’t say anything about the photos or the whispers. She didn’t have to.

Dinner was a loud, chaotic blur of clinking silverware and Zoe talking a mile a minute about a stray dog she had seen down the street. Nate fit right in at the crowded laminate table, passing the butter to Mr. Jones and laughing when Grace knocked her water glass over, catching it before a single drop hit the tablecloth. He didn’t act like a man who spent his days running multi‑million‑dollar boardrooms or fighting high‑stakes institutional battles; he just acted like someone who belonged right here in the chaos. Watching him there, surrounded by mismatched plates and the hum of family noise, made something warm settle in my chest.

By eight o’clock, the living room floor had turned into a complete disaster zone of school supplies.

Grace knelt on the rug, surrounded by colored construction paper, styrofoam balls, and a half‑built model of the solar system. “The wire won’t stay in the sun,” she groaned, poking at a piece of frayed copper wire that kept drooping toward Mercury like a wilted stem. “Mr. Harrison is going to take points off if it’s crooked.”

Nate rolled up his sleeves, dropping cross‑legged onto the carpet right beside her without a second thought.

“Let me see,” he said, taking the stubborn wire from her small hands. “If we loop it through the base twice like this, tension does the work for you.”

Grace watched as Saturn clicked securely into place. “You’re really good at this. Did you use to build things when you were little?”

“Sometimes,” Nate muttered, a faint shadow crossing his features before he looked back down at the project. I wondered what “sometimes” meant for him—what his childhood had looked like, what he had learned to fix because no one else would.

Before he could say more, Zoe crept up behind him like a small, determined pirate. She had raided her toy basket for a fistful of neon pink and yellow hair ties. Before Nate could even turn around, she scrambled up onto the back of the sofa, her small knees bracketing his broad shoulders.

“Hold still,” Zoe commanded, gathering a thick handful of his dark hair at the nape of his neck.

Nate froze, glancing sideways at me with an expression of comical helplessness that made Eliza choke on her tea across the room.

“Don’t move or the unicorn gets it,” Zoe whispered fiercely, already weaving the rubber bands through his hair with chaotic, enthusiastic energy.

I sat back against the arm of the sofa, a mug of tea warming my palms, and just watched.

Nate didn’t flinch as Zoe yanked a little too hard on a strand. He adjusted his posture to give her better access, his hands steady as he continued to help Grace glue the rings onto her planet. He fit into the messy warmth of this room in a way Mark Stone never had.

My father had never moved through our childhood like that. He and our mother had been ghosts in the hallways, trading our upbringing for long hours behind locked study doors and the endless excuse of always working. But knowing the ugly truth now—knowing what those closed doors and constant absences were actually hiding—made the stark contrast hurt even worse. He had never sat on a carpet covered in glitter glue. He had never let anyone tie up his hair with neon plastic bands to hear a six‑year‑old giggle.

Nate turned his head slightly, wincing as Zoe secured a particularly aggressive ponytail right at the crown of his head. His dark eyes found mine across the room. The lamplight caught the absolute gentleness written in his gaze as he looked at me through the tangle of my sister’s handiwork.

My chest ached—a sharp, sudden squeeze of pure, domestic peace that felt terrifyingly fragile.

This was the calm. The safe space carved out of noise and light. Because somewhere out there in the cold, the board members were whispering, the Alverstone hallways were waiting, and the shadow of those photographs was still hanging over my head, ticking down like a bomb.