Page 18 of Before We Were

CHAPTER5

SPECKS WITH COLOSSAL PROBLEMS

NATE

"There's our boy!"Christian bellows as I stride into the party. The bass thrums through the floorboards, matching my racing pulse. This is the last fucking place I want to be, yet here I am, weaving through a crowd that's slapping my back like I'm some sort of hometown hero.

"About fucking time you showed.” An arm hooks around my neck, pulling me into a headlock that's more aggressive than friendly. "You got it, yeah?"

"Yeah," I mutter, handing over the small bags of weed and pills. The weight of them leaving my pocket doesn't lighten the burden I carry.

"Now it's a fucking party!" Christian shouts, igniting a chorus of cheers around us.

Drink. I desperately need a drink.

The anger and anxiety I've been carrying lately weigh me down like a brick. The panic attacks aren't new, but their frequency is becoming suffocating. The weed and pills are my crutch, dulling the chaos inside just enough so I can stand to be in places like this, surrounded by people who feel more like cardboard cutouts than actual humans.

Then there's Nora.

She's been haunting my thoughts more than I'm willing to admit, and it's not just because of our awkward encounter earlier. It's been over a year since we last spoke, but she's lived rent-free in my mind for years. Every thought of her is tangled with anxiety and guilt. I shouldn't care that she's here—I knew she would be. Yet within fifteen minutes of sharing the same air as her, my composure is completely shot to shit.

Her eyes carried a depth of pain that mirrored my own, an infinite cosmos of unspoken words. She used to burn with fire, and now she's cloaked in ice, but beneath it, the embers still smolder. Life has hardened her, a feeling I know all too well.

Everything feels different because it is.

We're different people now. Life has turned us into strangers wearing familiar faces. Part of me thinks it's better, safer, to keep my distance. But being close to her this morning stirred something I thought I'd buried. Four fucking minutes in her presence made me feel more than I have in the past year.

My sanity is hanging by a thread.

Navigating this house is second nature—I know exactly where Farrah's dad stashes the good scotch. Even on a normal day, this lake house feels suffocating, steeped in too many memories of a past that's long gone. Add a crowd into the mix, including one girl who can barely stand the sight of me, and it's like being caged while the air is thick with unresolved tension.

I lean over the bar, pouring four-hundred-dollar scotch into a plastic cup. There's something poetically tragic about that. I down it quickly, then pour another. The liquid burns, but it's not enough to cauterize the wounds I'm trying to ignore.

"Nate! What the fuck?" Farrah's slurred shout cuts through the music. She's drunk, eyes glassy, barely keeping herself upright. "Why haven't you been answering my calls?"

Despite her disheveled state, she looks immaculate—not a hair out of place.

Perfect.

Fake.

The touch I once craved now feels hollow, like touching a mannequin instead of skin.

"Been busy," I mutter, my patience wearing thin.

"Busy doing what?"

"Busy, Farrah," I snap back. She leans in for a kiss—it's rough and desperate, tasting of vodka and neediness.

"I missed you, baby. You seem on edge," she murmurs against my lips, her arms tightening around my neck. "Let me help you relax." Her eyes lock onto mine, fierce and trying too hard. She licks her lips, a clear play for seduction that feels more mechanical than passionate.

"Farrah—" I start, but she's already sliding her hands down my jeans. The frustration I feel isn't the kind that leads anywhere pleasurable.

I grab her hand firmly. "No."

She reels back, confusion and hurt flooding her eyes.

"No? What is going on with you? You don't reply to my texts, you ignore my calls, now you don't even want to fuck me?" Her voice rises, drawing stares like moths to a flame.

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