"Nora's Mirror"
Don't miss De Elizabeth's story: A spooky dare ripped two best friends apart. But seven years later...
Hannah says:
I feel like I blinked and suddenly it’s almost November. Where did the time go? Halloween is this weekend, and to celebrate, we have an eerie, angsty queer love story starring a pair of estranged best friends and set in a very possibly haunted house. It’s by De Elizabeth, a journalist and author whose work has appeared in Bustle, Teen Vogue, Huff Post, and Netflix among other places. Every line radiates unrequited longing and sexual tension — it’s a real treat.
“Nora’s Mirror” kicks off Heartbeat’s holiday lineup! Over the next few weeks, check back for stories themed around Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve. Think of it as our gift to you, or a constant holiday party in your inbox. Happy reading!
“Nora’s Mirror”
The extra hot pumpkin spice latte was a bad idea.
Nora Fox fans herself with a glossy pamphlet, thighs sticking to the plastic chair beneath her while listening to her mother rattle off the rules surrounding political signage on front lawns. It has to be a zillion degrees inside the Willow Run clubhouse, and the conference room is stuffed with neighbors whose names she can’t recall.
She’d rather be anywhere else—in bed and asleep, preferably—but her mother had basically demanded her presence. You haven’t been home since graduation, she’d lobbied on the drive back from the airport last night. The least you could do is come watch your little old mother in action.
Even after several years, Nora’s mom still knew exactly which buttons to press in order to draw out a guilt-ridden sigh from her. Okay. Sure. Whatever.
All of which is how Nora has ended up at a Willow Run HOA meeting at 8 a.m., jet-lagged and hungover as hell after her seven-hour flight from London to Boston. Head pounding. Throat dry. And ears filled with her mother’s voice, billowing down from the podium.
“No, Mr. Sykes, unfortunately, as the HOA president, I cannot permit you to put inflatable replicas of your chosen presidential candidate on your front lawn,” she’s saying now, voice tight in a way that barely masks the laugh she’s biting back.
“He’ll do it anyway,” hisses the elderly woman to Nora’s right. “You should see his yard at Christmas.”
Nora throws her a small smile while tugging at the knit material of her black sweater. A bead of sweat rolls down her sternum, and she reaches for the elastic on her wrist to whisk her layered brown hair into a ponytail, blowing a puff of air at her eyebrow-skimming bangs. It’s October, it should be Gilmore Girls weather in New England. The kind of brisk chill that’s meant for oversized turtlenecks and scarves, hot apple cider and fingerless gloves. She shouldn’t be sweating her ass off in leggings and boots just before Halloween.
“Now, if there are no further questions about campaign signs, we’ll move onto the next item in our agenda.” Nora’s mother clicks the remote curled into her fist. “The annual Willow Run costume party.” A grin pulls at her lips. “I know you all recognize this building.”
Nora’s latte splashes over the plastic lid and onto her hand.
But she barely registers the hot liquid, staring instead at the image projected on the wall.
The old house at the end of Crane Street.
It was boarded up for most of her childhood, having been the site of a murder-suicide in the ‘80s. The one thing Nora’s hometown has ever been known for: a headline-making bloodbath, starring the Boyd family, who once lived inside the towering Victorian house at 417 Crane Street.
And, according to neighborhood legend, they never really left.
The kids in the community always double-dog-dared each other to break in, silently doubting that anyone could be brave enough. It was essentially an empty challenge, the elusive final boss of all Truth or Dare games: Sneak into the Crane House at midnight. Take the center stairwell. Go through the last door at the end of the hall.
That’s the room where it happened.
There’s a mirror in there.
Nora swallows over a sudden ache at the back of her throat. She hasn’t let herself think about the Crane House in years. But seeing the picture now—the shuttered windows covered in planks of wood, the curved walkway strewn with overgrown plants—all she can think of is that night, right before high school graduation. Memories seem to dislodge themselves from the corner of her mind…
The bleak shadows drifting through the large bedroom.
The murky shapes of antique furniture covered by white cloth.
The warm press of Peyton’s hand in hers as they tiptoed across creaking floorboards on a dare they couldn’t turn down.
Peyton Birch. Nora’s best friend.
Or rather. Ex-best friend.
Nora exhales through puffed cheeks, willing her mother to change the slide. The blown-up image of the Crane House might as well be a picture of Peyton. Might as well be her senior year photo, ash blond hair flat in bobby pins on either side of her center part. Because it’s impossible to think of the Crane House without thinking about Peyton Birch; they’re basically one and the same to her now. Inexplicably woven together in a blur of Octobers and midnights, a web of shattered glass and even more unspoken words.
It would be easier, Nora thinks, if she could forget that day ever happened at all.
“As you know, 417 Crane was recently renovated,” Nora’s mother says as she finally skips ahead in her PowerPoint, revealing a new version of the crumbling house. “It’s on the market, but due to its…sordid history, it’ll likely take quite some time to sell. Which makes it the perfect site for this year’s annual community Halloween party.”
The crowd vibrates in a hum of approval, but Nora’s stomach flips at her mother’s words.
She can’t go back there. Not after what happened that night senior year. Not after she avoided all of Peyton’s calls for the rest of the summer, hoping that a plane ride across time zones would erase the gnawing ache inside her. Realizing somewhere over the Atlantic that nothing ever really would.
Her mother adjourns the meeting and the crowd begins to buzz with talk of costumes. Sucking in a breath, Nora stands and stalks toward the front of the room, black coffin-shaped nails scraping the sides of her coffee cup.
“Mom,” she exhales as she reaches the podium. “Mom, listen, I can’t go to that party. I just remembered that—”
“Nora!” her mother chirps, slinging her laptop bag over her shoulder. “So glad you came. What did you think? Did I—what is it that you young people say? Did I slay?”
Nora scrunches her nose. “No—Mom, ugh—literally no one says that. I just wanted to tell you th—”
“I’m going to need your help setting up for the Halloween party,” her mother continues, scanning the thinning crowd. “I already have someone assigned, but she needs backup. And she thought—”
“Mom!” Nora flutters her lashes. “That’s what I’m trying to talk to you about. I—”
“I know you haven’t seen each other in some time,” she adds, lifting a hand to wave across the room. “And when I mentioned that you were coming h—”
She follows her mother’s perfectly manicured fingers, zeroing in on the blond girl weaving through the conference room. Nora’s throat tightens at the familiar cadence of her walk, the casual way she adjusts her messenger bag at her hip.
Whatever protest Nora was about to conjure completely dies on her lips as she registers the fact that Peyton Birch is suddenly feet away, glaring at her over the podium.
Peyton, with the same berry-tinted lips. The same sharp, angular features.
The same loaded stare as the last time they spoke, seven years ago.
Anxiety sparks in Nora’s veins. This town is small—one strip of Main Street and a diner where everyone’s a regular. That kind of small. She knew running into Peyton was a possibility, but didn’t think it would be this soon, didn’t think it would be less than twelve hours after she touched down from the sky. She pulls in air through her teeth.
“What perfect timing!” Nora’s mother exclaims. “Peyton, of course you remember my daughter, Nora. I was just telling her about how she can help you plan the Halloween party.”
And without a single word, the half-full, too-hot pumpkin spice latte slips from Nora’s grasp to explode in a creamy, frothy, fucking mess at her feet.
♥
The Crane House is nothing like Nora remembers.
She stands at the leaf-covered walkway later that afternoon, peering up at the new gray exterior and white window panes. Gone are the rotting planks of wood, the swirls of black mold. No, these front steps are sparkling stone, with a wrought-iron railing instead of the rickety wooden one she once held.
Purrrrowwww.
Nora glances down to find a small black cat curling around her lace-up combat boots. She frowns, but bends to pet it anyway—just in time for the front door to open with Peyton at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, you found Luce,” Peyton says as she makes her descent, green Converse sneakers hitting the steps in little rhythmic patters.
Nora arches a brow. “Luce?”
“Short for Lucifer.” Peyton crouches in the leaves to scoop the cat into her arms.
“The cat’s name is Lucifer?”
“Why not?” Peyton straightens, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “Cinderella did it.”
“Cinderella had mice.”
Peyton blinks. “Yeah. And a cat.”
“No….” Nora tilts her head. “The cat belonged to Cinderella’s step-mother and it was always trying to eat the mice.”
“I don’t remember that part.”
“It’s like, half the movie!” Nora exclaims. “We watched it a million times when—”
She immediately swallows the words. We watched it a million times when we were actually friends. Irritation stutters inside her at how even after all this time, Peyton Birch can have her standing in a pile of dead leaves and arguing about something as mundane as Cinderella in thirty seconds flat.
Peyton just shrugs, hitching Luce higher as he paws at the gold pendant hanging over her white thermal shirt. The material is tight and thin, like a second skin against Peyton’s curvy frame, and Nora swings her gaze away, trying not to notice.
“Why’d you bring a cat here anyway?” Nora continues, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “We’re supposed to be decorating.”
“Luce isn’t my cat,” Peyton finally explains. “He belongs to the neighborhood. He comes and goes as he pleases. You’d know these things if you came back more often. London must be fun.”
Peyton’s words are flat, matter-of-fact, but they sting anyway. In the white afternoon light, her hazel eyes look more green than brown, and the intensity of her stare seems to carry the weight of too many unanswered questions. Unwelcome discomfort pools inside Nora, and she pushes past Peyton to march up the steps.
“Are you coming or what?” she calls over her shoulder before stepping through the front door of the Crane House.
The interior smells like fresh paint and stained wood, and the center hall staircase that was once crooked and decaying is now sleek and dark. A glittering chandelier hangs from the high ceiling above, and the sitting room off to the side is filled with a pristine, cream-colored sectional with oversized pillows and matching armchairs.
“Looks like a catalog, right?” Peyton says, still holding onto Luce. “Most boring room I’ve ever seen.”
“If this place is as haunted as people say it is, nothing is going to piss off a bunch of ghosts more than turning their house into a Raymour & Flanigan’s.”
“If it’s haunted?” Peyton echoes, and Nora whips her gaze to hers.
Neither of them need to say a word for Nora to know they’re both thinking about that night. She can easily conjure the exact shape of the twisted corridor enveloped in shadows, the warm spill of Peyton’s breath against her ear.
And judging by the way Peyton’s cheeks have suddenly turned pink, Nora doesn’t doubt she’s remembering the same things: The tangle of their fingers as they tiptoed toward the room at the end of the hall. How Peyton snaked an arm around Nora’s waist when her teeth started chattering in the cold.
The way being in the dark together was suddenly terrifying for a million new reasons that weren’t there the day before.
“Nora—”
“We probably shouldn’t have guests in this room,” Nora rushes to say, turning. “Someone will get wine on all that beige.”
Nora makes her way into the kitchen with Peyton at her heels. The marble countertops are lined with cardboard boxes. She peeks inside one, finding a coil of string lights nestled around an oversized fake spider. Party decorations.
“Ugh, shiplap,” Peyton mutters, gesturing to the backsplash. She sets Luce down on the hardwood floor. “Whoever designed this place watches way too much HGTV.” She holds up a square-shaped placard reading Some call it chaos, we call it family. “Oh yeah, the ghosts are definitely peeved about this.”
“Can we just get to work? I don’t want to talk about ghosts anymore.” Nora drops her bag on the counter with a clatter and yanks one of the boxes. She can feel the heat from Peyton’s stare, but she refuses to look at her as she digs through a cluster of fake cobwebs. “I can take the kitchen if you want to do the front hall.”
“What about upstairs?” Peyton asks, and Nora’s hand freezes around a box of candles.
“No one’s gonna be up there.”
“Right.”
Peyton makes her way to the other side of the island, pulling out a handful of Ouija planchette-shaped coasters. Nora half-watches her hands, studying the silver rings around her fingers, her short, neon-painted nails. Her gaze drifts, registering the gap of pale skin between Peyton’s cropped shirt and high-rise jeans, and before she can stomp out the thought, she’s imagining what Peyton might feel like if she touched her.
Nora flips her stare back down to the cardboard, heat rising in her cheeks.
An uncomfortable silence widens between them, marked only by the sound of items being tugged from boxes, and the occasional prrrooowww from Luce below. Finally, Peyton clears her throat and says—
“So, you’re really back. It’s been, what? Five, six years since you’ve been home?”
Nora arches a brow. There’s something careful about the way Peyton lobbed those numbers, like she got it wrong on purpose.
“Seven,” Nora corrects, willing her brain not to register how close they’re suddenly standing. Or the light, floral smell of Peyton’s perfume. Daisy by Marc Jacobs. Just like before.
Peyton makes a soft hmm sound under her breath, scooping an armful of orange-colored string lights and plastic hooks. Her elbow brushes Nora’s as she does it, sending an unexpected scatter of electricity through her joints. “That’s a long time. How come?”
“Caught up in work, I guess,” Nora says, and the lie sounds empty even to her own ear.
“What’s it like, anyway?” Peyton asks, heading for the hall. “Being a personal assistant to a rockstar, I mean.”
The question was innocent enough, but a flutter of warmth drifts through Nora’s stomach at the concrete awareness that Peyton’s been keeping tabs. This whole time, they haven’t talked, haven’t even been Instagram mutuals. And yet Peyton seems to know what she does for work, has been counting the years since she moved away.
But then again, Nora could also rattle off the name of the restaurant where Peyton became sous chef last year, or her top three favorite coffee shops downtown. Her cheeks burn again as she recalls far too many evenings with her phone in one hand and a wine glass in the other, scrolling through Peyton’s Instagram until the screen would become a kaleidoscope of mirror selfies and pouting lips.
Perhaps, she can’t help but think, Peyton has been doing the same thing.
“My job’s not as glamorous as you’d imagine,” Nora finally works out, bending to loop a chain of faux cobwebs from the edge of the kitchen island.
“No?” Peyton quips as she reaches overhead to attach the string lights to the wall. Twisting her voice in a British accent, she adds, “Doesn’t the smashing Oliver get you into all the VIP clubs? Gotta be a wee bit glam, innit?”
Nora snorts a laugh in spite of herself. Oliver Charm is easily one of the most followed people on social media, the most thirsted-after celebrity. He’s been on Vogue covers, toured worldwide—people have called him the modern-day David Bowie.
But to Nora, he’s just her boss. A lucky gig she landed fresh out of college. Right place, right time.
And, perhaps most importantly, the perfect excuse to stay far away from Willow Run to avoid scenarios exactly like this one.
“It sure beats living in Boston suburbia forever,” Peyton continues without looking down. “Endless winter and Dunkin’ Donuts as far as the eye can see. Exciting stuff.”
“Why don’t you just leave then?” Nora asks. She can feel the strike of Peyton’s response before she even says it.
“Oh, like you did?” Her hazel eyes harden.
“Peyton—”
“Are we gonna address the elephant in the room, or what, Nor?” she says, leaning against the wall.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answers, pulse quickening at the easy way her nickname spills from Peyton’s mouth.
“Bullshit.” Peyton releases a harsh laugh. “We’re standing in the exact place we were the last time you spoke to me. You’ve been sweating since we walked in.” She narrows her eyes. “I tried calling and texting that whole summer. You never answered. Not even once.”
Nora slides her gaze to the floor, studying the loosened laces of her black Doc Martens, the cuff of her gray socks—looking pretty much anywhere but Peyton’s probing glare. Because she doesn’t need to be reminded of all the ways she was a terrible friend, all the ways she’s completely unforgivable. She could do plenty of that on her own.
“What happened that night?” Peyton probes. “What did you see in that mirror that made you stop talking to me?”
Nora pulls in a breath between her teeth.
“It was just a stupid game!” Peyton continues, unrelenting now. “A dare from the idiot Pike brothers! You let those dumbasses get in your head so badly that it blew up our friendship for almost a whole decade?”
When Nora still doesn’t reply, Peyton descends the ladder, sneakers smacking the tiled floor as she marches across the room to stand in front of her.
“We could go up there right now,” she adds, and her breath is warm against Nora’s skin. “Have a do-over.”
Just like when they were younger, Peyton still has inches on her. Nora can’t hold back the flood of memories that follow: pastel sidewalk chalk in elementary school; late-night phone conversations in 7th grade; that endless summer after freshman year when Nora came out as bisexual and Peyton was the first one she told.
But up close now, Nora can see all the tiny lines near Peyton’s eyes that weren’t there before, the little silver ring through her septum that’s also new. Markings of time, years they once thought they’d spend with their lives intertwined, but never did.
“What do you think?” Peyton continues, voice dropping in volume.
Nora darts her gaze toward the staircase.
It’s all too easy to remember the climb to the top that night, the way the steps seemed to sway beneath their feet. The corridor had felt endless, with broken picture frames at odd angles on the peeling walls. Nora couldn’t help but visualize tiny eyes embedded in the paint. As though the whole house was breathing and watching, ready to consume them whole.
The dare was simple: Go into the bedroom where the Boyd family died. Pull the sheet off the big mirror above the dust-covered vanity. Chant “Bloody Mary” three times while staring into the glass.
But their version of the game was different from the well-known urban legend.
Because the woman who died in that very bed, blood soaked into every inch of the floorboards—
Her name just happened to be Mary Boyd.
Mary’s ghost will appear in the mirror after you call her, Tommy Pike had said after Nora and Peyton lost a round of beer pong in his backyard, subjecting themselves to a dare. If she likes you, she’ll show you the best part of your future.
If she doesn’t, she’ll show you how you’re going to die.
Nora hadn’t expected to see anything in the mirror when she entered the Crane House with Peyton that night. It was just a story, just something the neighborhood kids made up on an ordinary afternoon to add a scrape of color to their otherwise dreadfully boring suburban purgatory.
But still, her pulse seemed to vibrate in her veins as she pressed her shoulder into Peyton’s, sweat gathering between their palms. And when they finally stood in front of the mirror, all of her certainty that it was just a story somehow felt less secure. As though little pinpricks of doubt had been sliced into her confidence.
Just in time for her to look into the glass and find a decaying woman in a blood-soaked gown staring back.
“Nora.”
Peyton bites down on her name now, the two syllables carrying both ancient history and a new question at once. “Why—”
“We’re here to set up for the party, not take a trip down memory lane,” Nora snaps, not oblivious to the flash of hurt that scatters through Peyton’s eyes. “And do-overs don’t exist in real life. Just hand me those string lights.”
Peyton stares at her for a moment, and in her silence, Nora almost expects her to argue. Expects her to grab her hand and pull her toward the stairs, make her look at the mirror again in broad daylight.
Make her confront the real reason why they stopped talking.
But Peyton doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, she shoves a tangle of string lights into Nora’s arms and pushes past her, back to the boxes.
More words buried, sealed up, forgotten.
They work the rest of the afternoon in silence.
♥
Nora tugs at her black latex catsuit as she stands awkwardly in the kitchen at the Crane House later that night.
Cobwebs drip from every corner; thick candles line the counters; string lights illuminate the room in a dusty orange. She sips red wine from a plastic goblet with a skeleton hand around the stem, surveying the crowd of neighbors from beneath her bangs. Every inch of her skin itches in the too-tight Catwoman costume she snagged last minute at the Halloween store downtown, and she’s sure that one wrong move will send the stretchy material into crevices where it does not belong.
“…did a wonderful job!” her mother is saying as Nora tunes back into her words beneath the din of voices and music. “You somehow turned this house back into a haunted one!”
“I’ll say,” Nora mutters as she flicks her eyes over the kitchen. She’s not looking for Peyton. But it would be better to know if she’s here. Nora can’t be caught off guard.
Again.
“When Peyton suggested you work together on the decorations, I wasn’t sure you’d say yes,” Nora’s mother says, gesturing with her wine glass. “You go to parties all the time in London, so our little get-together seemed—”
“Hold on,” Nora interrupts. Adrenaline jolts through her, brain flashing with awareness. “Peyton suggested we work together?”
“She did. I ran into her during a morning jog a few weeks ago. She was out with her mother, the poor dear. I mentioned that you were coming home around Halloween, and, well, the rest is history, I suppose.” Nora’s mother narrows her eyes. “Whatever happened between you two, anyway, Nor? She used to come to our house all the time.”
Nora grinds her teeth, all this new information twisting together in a blurry mess.
Then, her eyebrows bunch as she turns over her mother’s words.
“Wait. What did you mean about Peyton’s mom?”
Her mother cuts her a funny look.
“Bethany Birch has stage four ovarian cancer,” she says. “Didn’t Peyton tell you? That’s why she’s living at Willow Run again. She has a place in Boston, but she moved back in with her mom this summer.”
Nora closes her eyes, snippets of her earlier conversation with Peyton spilling back into her consciousness. Why don’t you just leave?
“Fuck,” she mutters. All those years of scrolling through Peyton’s brunch photos and beachside selfies. And she never had a clue.
“Pardon?”
“I have to go.”
“Nora—”
Nora sets her half-finished skeleton goblet on the counter and weaves through the costumed guests, eyes darting from person to person, but none of the vampires or cowgirls or witches in the kitchen are Peyton.
But when her search takes her to the bottom of the main staircase, Nora realizes that she already knows where to find her.
♥
Upstairs, Nora holds her breath as she pushes open the door of the haunted bedroom.
Like last time, the large, open space is engulfed in shadows. In the dark, she can almost imagine that the furniture is still draped in white sheets, each chair and bureau its own misshapen apparition. The wooden floorboards creak beneath her boots, and she swallows over an unexpected wave of fear.
Even with all of its renovations and modern decor, the Crane House still feels like it’s watching her.
The party music drifts behind her, muffled and faint. When her eyes finally adjust to the shadows, she zeroes right in on the cushioned windowsill, where Peyton is poised with her legs tucked to her chest.
“Holy sh—” Nora mutters, startled. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
In the dim light, Peyton’s glare still cuts like a blade.
“I’m not exactly in the partying mood.”
Nora takes a step closer, eyes flicking over her costume. Peyton is dressed like some kind of faerie. Prosthetic pointed ears. A pale green dress that dips dramatically low in front. Shimmering makeup that catches the only sliver of light in the room.
“Did you come up here to say more mean things to me?” Peyton asks, voice sharp with hurt. “Because I’ve had enough of your shit from earlier t—”
“I saw us.”
Peyton’s gaze snaps to Nora’s.
“What?”
“In the mirror.” Nora chews her lip, as if it could help make the words any easier to dislodge. “That’s what I saw.”
A small silence widens between them.
“You saw…our reflections?” Peyton finally asks, incredulous. An annoyed sound grinds out of her. “Obviously! It was a mirror. What did you think y—”
“No.” Nora sits on the windowsill next to her, scrambling to ignore the way her heart is pounding beneath her tight costume. “Do you remember what Tommy said? If Mary likes you, she shows you your future. If she doesn’t—”
“She shows you how you’re going to die,” Peyton finishes. “But it was just a story. I didn’t see anything.”
“It wasn’t just a story.” Nora swallows, all too aware of the closeness of their limbs, the press of Peyton’s knees against hers. “Mary must have liked me.”
Peyton narrows her lashes. “What are you saying?”
“I saw us in that mirror, Peyton,” Nora confesses. “Together. Happy. And not just as friends.”
Her breath rushes out. “What?”
“I didn’t think I was going to see anything,” she explains. “It was just a dare, right?” Nora darts a glance at the mirror. “But it looked so real. We were in an apartment. There were Christmas lights and picture frames. A black cat—I think we lived there. We were cooking dinner, drinking wine. Laughing.” She drags her gaze back to Peyton’s and works out the next part. “Kissing.”
Peyton just quirks a brow in response.
“At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Too much cheap beer, maybe.” Nora’s chest tightens at the memory, throat dry and burning. “And then I realized that it didn’t even matter if what I was seeing was real or not, because I wanted it to happen. And that—well, that terrified the shit out of me.”
“I’m not following,” Peyton sighs, leaning back on her hands.
“I got scared!” The words swell together as Nora pushes a hand through her hair. “I almost wish that stupid mirror showed me something bloody, because this was somehow way worse. You were my best friend. The person I told everything to.” She flattens her palms on her knees, only half-realizing that her hands are shaking. “You’re not supposed to want to kiss your best friend.”
“Says who?” Peyton whips back.
Nora flexes her fingers, dropping her head. “What would have happened if we dated and then split up? Where does all that history go? All the secrets? Does it just get tossed away like any other ordinary breakup?” She corkscrews a breath, air thinning in her lungs. “I didn’t know the answers to any of that. And I was too chicken-shit to find out.”
She finally dares to look at Peyton, finding her staring back in the shadows, unblinking.
“So you....” Peyton pulls her lip between her teeth, eyes fluttering toward the ceiling in annoyance. “You just stopped talking to me?! Ghosted me? Moved across the fucking ocean?! Why—to end our friendship before any breakup had the chance?”
“It was stupid!” Nora’s pulse thrums with the admission. “I was stupid.”
“Yeah,” Peyton agrees, “you were.”
But her words aren’t edged with cruelty. There’s something else there. Something raw and new and inexplicably, achingly familiar all at once.
“I’m sorry,” Nora finally offers. “That’s what I wanted to say when I came up here. I’m sorry for shutting you out. For being a bitch earlier today. For everything—god—everything that’s happening with your mom. I didn’t know.”
Peyton falls quiet again. For a moment, Nora thinks she isn’t going to say anything at all. That her apology might be too late. That what she said in the kitchen earlier is entirely, painfully true: Do-overs aren’t real.
But then Peyton whispers a question, barely audible.
“Did you ever think that I might feel the same way about you?”
And before Nora can contemplate what’s happening, before she can assess or debate or decide, Peyton closes the space between them and presses her lips to hers.
She can’t hold back the gasp at the taste of her—cinnamon and wine and sugar. But it’s only a second until Peyton slides away, eyes searching hers in the dark. Her breath spills into Nora’s, warm and hesitant, and a new dare seems to hover between their mouths.
Tangling her fingers in Peyton’s hair, Nora pulls her back in.
This kiss isn’t questioning; it’s confident and sure, infused with all the words that got lost over the years. Peyton’s lips part against hers, and the first brush of her tongue puts a swell of smoke in Nora’s stomach. She rests a palm at the base of Peyton’s neck, thumb sweeping over her fluttering pulse while their mouths find a rhythm. As though this is something they’ve done a hundred, thousand, million times before. Nora arches closer, and the room seems to turn to static when Peyton’s hands map a steady path down her sides.
Peyton’s teeth sink into Nora’s bottom lip, drawing a whimper from her, and she smirks into their kiss. “Be honest,” she whispers against Nora’s mouth, soothing the sting with her tongue, “how many times have you thought about this?”
“Too many,” she manages.
“Were you thinking about it this afternoon?” Peyton teases, a hand dropping to the outer slope of her thigh.
Nora nods, letting her own hand grow daring enough to slide down from Peyton’s neck, tracing a line along her curves through the thin fabric of her dress. A warmth of satisfaction curls inside her at the low sound Peyton releases into her mouth, and something sparks behind her eyes when one of Peyton’s knees slips between hers.
“I thought about you every day,” Peyton confesses, her other hand curling over Nora’s throat, into her hair. “Every day you didn’t talk to me, I still wanted you.” She breathes through the admission, lips burning against hers. “I’ve always wanted you.”
Nora pulls back just enough to stare at her. The room seems to spin. Adrenaline simmers in her veins.
It’s the same fight or flight sensation as last time. The nagging, aching voice, warning of all the ways she could fuck this up. Wouldn’t it be cleaner, neater to never begin at all?
As if reading her mind, Peyton leans back in. Her kiss is softer this time, like she’s working to slow all of Nora’s racing thoughts, easing her heartbeat back to a normal rate.
Maybe, Nora reasons, she will fuck it up. Maybe they both will. Maybe people fuck up all the time and keep going anyway. Maybe history doesn’t get lost or burned in heartbreak.
Maybe history hardens, haunting rooms and floorboards and bones, fusing itself into everything that comes after.
A crash from the floor below slices into their kiss, and Peyton pulls back with a laugh, skirting her gaze to the side.
“Think that was a ghost?” she asks, eyes glimmering.
Nora’s gloss-smudged lips tip in a grin. “Ten bucks says there’s gonna be something absolutely demonic carved into the shiplap.”
“Do you want me to go find out?” Peyton says, standing.
In the tiny pause that follows, Nora doesn’t worry about the future. Doesn’t worry about what comes next.
Because there’s only now, this shadowed room, the echoes of a summer from a long time ago.
And Peyton’s hand, just like that night, warm and a perfect fit in hers.
“No,” Nora replies. “Let’s go together.”
Next week on Heartbeat, get ready for a short story by yours truly!
Follow Heartbeat on Instagram at @storiesbyheartbeat for upcoming behind-the-scenes sneak peeks.
Three quick things from Hannah:
I really love this smart piece about the pressure placed upon single women (and in this case, Jewish women) to get married — and I’m not just saying that because it features Meant to Be Mine.
Also in that story? Authors Lynda Cohen Loigman (a former Heartbeat writer!) and Jean Meltzer. The three of us will be talking about our books, matchmaking, love, and Jewish culture at an event in Chappaqua, New York on November 17. Get your ticket here.
As a dating expert and romance author, take my word for it: It’s hot when guys go to therapy. Thoughts?
What did you think of this week’s story? Let us know in the comments below!
Loved this De!