Page 17 of Before We Were

"Be safe, Nora!" Mom adds.

"I will!" I shout back, my voice projecting more confidence than I feel.

Closing the front door behind me, I walk down to where Jake leans against his Range Rover, arms crossed, muscles defined under his shirt. His gaze catches on me as I approach, surprise and something else flickering across his face.

"Well, shit. You look..." His eyes sweep over me again, admiration clear in his expression. He grabs my arm, spinning me in a playful twirl, his grin widening. "Amazing."

I laugh, uncertain how to handle his scrutiny. "You're being weird," I deflect.

He grins, stepping back but keeping hold of my hands. "Well, that's not unlike me, now is it?"

"You came back," I state, more observation than question.

"For you, always," he replies, that signature boyish grin lighting up his features.

Jake's reliability has never been in question. I remember one summer when my attempt to impress the boys ended with me falling from a tree, resulting in three fractures and a bruised ego. While Nate carried me home, it was Jake who stayed in with me all summer, making sure I didn't feel like I'd ruined everything.

It turned out to be one of my favorite summers—just Jake and me, endless UNO games, movie marathons, and heated debates over which Harry Potter book reigned supreme.

"Shall we?" he asks, opening the passenger door with an exaggerated flourish.

"Why, thank you," I reply with a smirk, sliding into the seat.

Jake leans against the door frame, watching me with a soft expression. "What?" I ask, puzzled by his stare.

"Nothing, I'm just... happy. Happy you're here again."

"Me too."

He walks around to the driver's side and gets in, starting the car. "So, whose house party is this?" I ask as we pull away.

"Farrah Olsen's. Her parents are away until next week. She's invited practically everyone in town for an official opening weekend party."

We pull into a driveway that leads to what could easily be featured in Architectural Digest. A marble fountain dances in the center of the circular drive, casting ethereal reflections under the evening lights—probably worth more than my entire house in Boston. Music pulses from inside, and clusters of people filter through the grand front doors, their laughter and chatter melding with the unmistakable sound of privilege.

Stepping into this scene feels like entering another world. The Sullivans have money, sure, but they've never flaunted their wealth like this.

"Farrah's been living in this palace alone?"

"Well, she has a whole entourage that caters to her every whim. Nate sometimes stays over too," Jake replies casually, oblivious to how that detail twists something sharp inside me. It doesn't take a genius to piece together that Farrah is Nate's latest distraction.

"So, Farrah and Nate?" I venture, aiming for indifference and probably missing by a mile.

"They're together, sort of. Been on and off more times than I can count." His voice stays neutral.

"This place is absurd," I comment, desperate to change the subject as we step through the grand entrance.

Jake laughs, agreeing it's excessive for a summer home they barely use. "Her dad's some big-shot Wall Street investor, and I think her mom's an interior designer or something."

That explains the imported marble floors and the pristine everything—so untouched it practically screams wealth and careful curation.

Jake turns to me, sliding his arm around my shoulders protectively. "You ready?"

I nod, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm ready for. My heart races beneath my ribs, and something must show on my face because Jake gives me a gentle squeeze.

"Come on," he grins, offering his arm. "Time to show you off."

I link my arm through his, letting him guide me inside. Each step feels like moving closer to something inevitable, my pulse a symphony of anticipation and dread.

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