Page 15 of Before We Were

Lydia squeezes Mom's hand, her eyes bright. "I'm just so grateful you made it here this summer. This place feels more like home when you're all here."

"I second that, Mama Bear," Jake adds, throwing me a wink before nodding at Ollie. "That includes you too, shithead," he says with a playful jab.

Ollie responds by mock-headlocking him, planting a theatrical kiss on his temple. "Don't go soft on me now."

"We missed being here," Mom adds warmly, her gaze sweeping the table like she's memorizing each face.

"All right, enough sap. Can we eat? I'm dying here," Ollie declares.

"Wait," Lydia says, her eyes lighting up with sudden excitement. "I can't believe I almost forgot! We need to start planning for your birthdays!"

Jake groans dramatically but can't hide his smile. "Mom, can't this wait until tomorrow? Or at least till after we eat?"

"Well, sorry for being excited," Lydia continues, undeterred. "God, I can't believe my baby boy is turning eighteen and Nora you'll be seventeen." She looks at us like we're still the kids who used to blow out candles together, chocolate frosting smeared across our faces.

She looks to mom who can't help but laugh at her best friend. "Kat, when did our babies stop being babies?"

My stomach knots at the mention of my birthday, an instant heaviness settling into my chest. The date looms in my mind like a shadow—June thirteenth. One year since we lowered Dad into the ground. One day after Jake's birthday, one day before mine. The universe's cruel joke, sandwiching the anniversary of the worst day of my life between two celebrations.

“We’ll do something special this year.” Lydia continues.

"Especially for Jake," Ollie chimes in. "Finally legal... well, for some things."

"Like voting," Mom adds pointedly.

"Yeah, exactly what I meant," Ollie says with a smirk, earning him a warning look from Mom.

"What do you think, Nora?" Lydia asks, her enthusiasm refusing to be dampened.

Everyone's looking at me now, waiting. I force my face into something resembling normalcy, swallowing past the thickness in my throat. "Whatever you plan will be great, Lydia. You always make it special."

What I don't say is: How do I blow out candles and make wishes when the biggest wish—to have Dad back, to hear his laugh one more time, to feel his arms around me—will never come true?

How do I smile when all I want to do is scream at the unfairness that he's gone and somehow the world keeps spinning, birthdays keep coming, as if nothing has changed?

"I vote for something low-key this year," Jake says, his eyes finding mine across the table. Sometimes I think he can read my thoughts. The gentle understanding in his gaze nearly breaks me.

"We can do low-key." Lydia claps her hands together.

Growing up close in age with the Sullivan boys meant we were always attached at the hip. Nate was the eldest, a year older than Ollie who is now nineteen. Jake a year younger than Ol and then little old me, the youngest of them all. Dad used to joke that they had planned it that way—one Sullivan, one Wells, perfectly spaced out like stepping stones.

"Speaking of time flying," Mom interjects gently, her eyes lingering on me a beat too long. She sees it—the struggle, the way I'm barely holding it together. "Maybe we should let the food get eaten before it gets cold?"

"Mom, you read my mind." Ollie says, stabbing a fork into a potato before shoving it into his mouth.

The conversation shifts, but my mind remains stuck on the date, circling it like a shark around prey. Three hundred and sixty-five days. That's how long it's been since we gathered in black instead of summer colors. Looking across the table at the people I've loved my whole life, I feel like an actress in a play.

Smiling. Nodding. Pretending that celebrating my birthday won't feel like dancing on his grave.

"Damn Lyds, I missed your cooking," Ollie says before immediately looking at Mom apologetically. "I mean, I love your cooking too Mom."

"Sure," mom says with a playful eye roll.

This time, everyone laughs, and the moment passes. But the knot in my stomach remains, tight and insistent, a physical manifestation of the dread building for that day. The first anniversary of goodbye.

We're all finding ourselves in our own conversations, when footsteps thunder down the stairs. Nate rushes past the dining room without a glance our way.

"Excuse me, where are you off to?" Lydia's voice carries a particular mom-tone that usually stops kids in their tracks.

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