This Is Us - English version

PROLOGUE - Where It All Began

I was just leaving the house to head to the bar when I heard my phone ring. I pulled it out of my bag and checked the notification as I locked the door and started down the stairs.
Nate.
Instinctively, I smiled. I hadn't heard from him in two weeks, but he was in Los Angeles recording the new album and I knew how busy he was, so I hadn't taken it personally. I was sure that as soon as he got a moment to breathe, he'd reach out. And anyway, it wasn't like I didn't know what he was up to. He was very active on social media—too much, if you asked me—so I could easily keep up with his life just by checking his Instagram stories. Me and the other one and a half million followers, of course.
I opened the message and read what he'd written:

Hey, little bug. I need the cabin. Can I crash there?

I sighed. Of course. He'd spent the past few weeks streaming live on Instagram from the gym, shopping, or making breakfast, but now he needed to unplug and hide out in my mountain house—the one we called "the cabin." I got into my car, fastened my seatbelt, and texted back before starting the engine.

Sure. Swing by the bar to grab the keys. I'll be there till one.

His reply came instantly: Thanks—followed by a blowing-kiss emoji.
I smiled, started the car, and drove toward the Wild Blue Yonder Brewing Co., the bar that had been in my family for about thirty years and that I now ran myself, thinking how nothing ever seemed to change between Nate and me.

I'm Elizabeth Taylor - funny, I know - and Nathaniel Brown, a.k.a. Nate, and I had been friends forever. We were the same age and grew up not far from each other in Castle Rock, Colorado. I was an only child, daughter of loving but older parents; Nate, the middle child in a messy family—his mom in and out of jail, his dad trying to keep things afloat while battling his own drinking problem. We met in elementary school, in a rather unusual way.

Nate was supposed to be my desk partner, but after the first month of school, he was suddenly absent for a long time. Our teacher told us he'd needed a serious heart surgery and was now recovering at home. Since I lived the closest, she asked me to bring him his homework. So, being the dutiful little student I was, I showed up at his house that afternoon, my mom by my side.

His dad led us to his room, and Nate looked genuinely surprised—but also happy—to see me. He had me sit on the edge of his bed, and we started talking. He asked about school, the kids, what we were doing in class. I asked how he was feeling and when he'd be back. He told me he didn't know, that the surgery had been rough and he needed to follow the doctors' orders if he really wanted to get better. I immediately offered to come by more often—to bring him his homework and keep him company.

Before I left, he asked if I wanted to see his scar. I think he expected me to say no—grossed out or scared—but I nodded, curious. So he lifted his shirt and showed me the long mark on his small chest. Instead of recoiling, I asked if it still hurt or if I could touch it. He shook his head, took my hand, and placed it over the scar. I ran my tiny fingers across it, then smiled at him. He smiled back, and that was it. We were inseparable after that.

Every afternoon, I'd go to Nate's under the pretext of bringing homework, and we'd spend hours together. That routine continued even after he returned to school—only now, sometimes he'd come to my place. As we grew up, instead of drifting apart, we only got closer. Everyone used to tease us, saying, "Where there's Beth, there's Nate."

Nate loved being at my house because my family was normal—something his wasn't. My parents practically adopted him as their second son. His siblings, Jason and Zoey, seemed less affected by their home life: Jason, three years older, threw himself into football and became the high school team captain, dreaming of an NFL career; Zoey, four years younger, wanted to be an actress and spent hours practicing lines in front of her mirror. Nate, though—he loved to sing and write songs. He played guitar, and his voice was incredible. My parents often let him perform at the bar.