Page 184 of Before We Were

"What the fuck does that even mean?" I growl, tension crackling between us like static before a storm.

"Relax, man. Jesus." He takes a slow sip of his drink, as if he's got all the time in the world. The casualness is practiced, deliberate, designed to get under my skin.

"I saw her at the store. She didn't have anything on, so I invited her. You'd think you'd be happy to see your??—"

"She's not my girlfriend," I bite out, cutting him off. The words taste like acid. "She never was."

"Oh, that's right," he says, his tone laced with bitterness that runs deeper than this moment. "She's just your side piece"

What the hell is he so mad about? Mom hasn't told him about the divorce yet, but does he already know? Or is this about Nora? The questions swirl in my mind, each possibility more maddening than the last.

"I don't know what's going on with you," I say, my voice dangerously low, each word measured and precise. "But that—" I point toward where Farrah disappeared, the gesture sharp and accusatory— "was really un-fucking-called for."

I turn to walk away, trying to rein in the fury simmering beneath my skin, but Jake's casual jab pushes me past my breaking point. I whirl back around, words spilling out before I can stop them.

"And honestly, consider yourself lucky for being out of the loop. Must be nice living a life with such ease."

His eyes narrow, and the easygoing façade he was wearing shatters. "What’s that supposed to mean?" His voice rises, loud enough to draw eyes from across the yard.

"Okay, how about we all just take a nice, long, deep breath," Ollie interjects, stepping between us like a human barrier. The tension in his shoulders betrays his light tone—he knows this is more than just brotherly bickering.

But Jake isn't backing down. Something's shifted in him, like a dam breaking.

"You know what? I'm so tired of your cryptic bullshit, Nate." The words burst out of him, raw and accusatory. "That's half your problem. You expect everyone to just know what you're going through, but you never actually talk about any of it. Dad was right. We're all just supposed to walk around on eggshells because God forbid we say the wrong thing and send you down on another one of your??—"

"Enough!" Mom's voice slices through the noise, sharp and commanding.

The word echoes in my head as I look at Jake, my little brother, still living in his bubble of ignorance. He still thinks Scott's innocent, and part of me envies that luxury. I wish I could believe that. I wish I could simmer in denial and imagine a version of our father that wasn't the monster I knew him to be. Bile burns in my throat while nausea churns in my gut. The urge to destroy something—anything—claws at my insides. I want to pound my fists against a wall until my knuckles crack and bleed. I want to scream until my throat is shredded, raw and blistered.

Until I can't speak.

If I can't speak, I can't lie.

And if I can't lie, I won't have to live in this version of purgatory, caught between protecting him and destroying his world.

The yard falls silent, every pair of eyes burns into us. I feel like most of my life I've been living in a zoo anyway, so this seems fitting. The anger that's been brewing for years boils over, impossible to contain any longer.

"Open your fucking eyes, Jake."

The words hang heavy in the humid air, and for a moment, confusion flickers across his expression. It's like he doesn't want to hear what I'm saying, doesn't want to acknowledge the cracks in the perfect picture he's painted of our father. The willful blindness in his eyes just feeds the fire in my chest.

"If you think he actually gives two fucks about you, you're setting yourself up for heartache," I continue, my voice low but firm. Each word feels like glass in my throat. "You're a pawn in his game, and the second you cross him, he'll forget you're his blood."

Jake's face hardens, his jaw tightening as anger flashes in his eyes. "Wow. You really do have your head so far up your own ass you can't hear the shit you're spitting out."

"Paint me as the villain all you want," I say, stepping closer, the weight of years of secrets pressing against my chest like a stone. "But you're making a bed with the devil, so you better be ready to sleep in it, because I'm done protecting you from him."

"I never needed you protecting me from shit!" he yells, his voice cutting through the buzz of the party like a knife.

The hardest part?

He has no idea how wrong he is. But he'll learn.

He has to.

Even if watching that realization break him breaks me, too.

CHAPTER54

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