Page 111 of Before We Were

After a quick shower and a half-assed attempt to pull myself together, I head downstairs, bracing myself for whatever the day might bring. I find Jake in the kitchen, hunched over a stack of waffles—the kind Mom always makes on birthdays, their sweet scent filling the air with memories of simpler times.

"Happy birthday," I say, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. The touch is brief, awkward. Hugging isn't our thing anymore. It used to be, back when things were easy—back before everything got so fucked up. I know Jake still blames me for the dysfunction that is our family, but if he only knew how deep the rot really runs.

"Thanks," he says, his voice muffled by the waffle he's shoving into his mouth. His smile is genuine, but it's been so long since I've seen one directed at me that it stings like salt in an open wound.

"Where's Ol?" I ask, reaching for coffee, needing something to sustain me before I lose my grip entirely.

"He's out with Mia. Horseback riding on the beach or some shit," Jake answers, smirking.

I raise a brow, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "Jesus. Ollie on a horse?"

"I know. The poor horse." Jake laughs, and for a second, I join in. But the laugh feels hollow because, even though it's light between us right now, there's still this chasm. One I dug myself, shovelful by shovelful of secrets and lies.

The silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable, pressing against my skin like humid summer air. My gut twists, this gnawing feeling growing stronger with each passing second. I want to fix this. I want to tell him everything—the real reason I've been such an asshole. I want him to understand that I did it for him, to protect him from the same shit that's been eating me alive every day for years.

But before I can speak, his phone buzzes on the counter. DAD flashes on the screen, and suddenly, my chest tightens like a vise. The air shifts, tension crackling between us like static before a storm. Jake hesitates, glancing at me before grabbing the phone.

"Dad, hey." There's a pause, and I can only imagine he'd be calling while he's on his way to his next meeting or next assistant he's fucking. "Thanks... Yeah, that sounds good. Okay, talk then."

I clench my jaw so hard it aches, my fists tight enough for nails to bite crescents into my palms.

Must be fucking nice to have a dad who remembers your birthday. The bitterness churns in my gut, a tidal wave of resentment I've been trying to suppress for years.

When Jake ends the call, I ask, my voice sharper than broken glass, "What did he want?"

He shrugs, avoiding my eyes like they burn. "To wish me a happy birthday."

There's more to it than he's letting on. He busies himself, putting away his dishes like he's trying to escape not just the conversation, but me.

"When are you seeing him?" I push, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into my words.

Jake doesn't meet my gaze. "Not sure."

Liar.

I let out a huff, the frustration bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove. Jake notices. His brows furrow, and he looks at me with something between confusion and frustration.

"Would it kill you to make a little effort with him? For all our sake?"

"Pass." I spit out the word like poison.

He throws his hands up in frustration. "I don't get you, Nate. I know you and Dad don't see eye to eye, but you've shut everyone out. Him, Mom, me... even Nora." His voice falters slightly when he mentions her, like her name physically pains him to say.

"You're going to end up pretty fucking alone if you keep pushing away the people who actually care about you."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut because deep down, I know he's right. But isn't that better?

Better than letting them in and failing them.

Alone means no one else gets dragged into the mess that is my life. I'm about to respond when the door swings open, and Nora walks in like a force of nature, cheeks flushed rose-pink from her morning run, hair wild and untamed. She's a whirlwind of chaos, a dangerous mix of beauty and defiance that steals the breath from my lungs. That's always been her way—whiskey in a teacup, sweet and sharp and more intoxicating than anything I've ever tasted.

"Happy birthday, Jake!" she chirps, wrapping Jake in a tight embrace. The jealousy flares up so fast it nearly chokes me, burning hot and bitter in my throat.

She looks my way, her gaze softening like morning fog.

"Hey." Her voice is barely above a whisper, testing the waters, trying to gauge if I'm still spiraling after last night.

"Hey.”

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