Page 19 of Before We Were

"You're right, I don't want to fuck you, so drop it," I growl, shrugging off her hand and taking another swig of scotch.

She scoffs. "Well, that wasn't a few days ago.”

My mind reels back to that dismal three-day bender—David's death anniversary and the last disastrous encounter with Scott, whom I can't bring myself to call Dad anymore. Farrah was the perfect distraction then. Farrah, booze, and pills: a destructive cycle I'm not proud of.

"I need some air," I mutter, snatching the scotch bottle from the bar and making for the pool area before anyone can follow me with their empty fucking small talk.

The night air slaps my face—a blessed relief from the suffocating heat of bodies packed inside. I collapse onto a deck chair, muscles aching with a fatigue that has nothing to do with physical exertion. Uncapping the bottle, I take a long pull, welcoming the burn as it scorches down my throat. Better to feel something, even if it's pain. My fingers work automatically, rolling a joint with practiced precision. The first hit fills my lungs, and I exhale slowly, watching the smoke twist and curl into the darkness above. There's poetry in that smoke—how it appears substantial then dissipates into nothing. Like everything else in this godforsaken life.

Years of constructing elaborate fictions. Years of lying, distracting, deflecting. It's fucking exhausting, but I've grown accustomed to the weight of the lies I carry. They've become part of my skeletal structure—remove them and I might collapse entirely.

All I want—all I've ever wanted—is to feel weightless.

Free.

But self-pity is a luxury I abandoned years ago, leaving nothing but hollow echoes where emotions used to live. Sometimes I wonder if I even remember how to feel anything real anymore.

The moon hangs overhead like a silent witness to everything we are and aren't. Funny how we're just these insignificant specks with our colossal problems while that rock has watched empires rise and fall. There's a strange comfort in that cosmic perspective—knowing we're all just trying to navigate this chaotic existence, brief flashes in an endless narrative that everyone forgets. Everyone except that cold, dead rock floating above us all.

Images of Nora infiltrate my thoughts like persistent ghosts.

Why now? Why tonight?

She's always had this hold over me, even when we were kids. It's as if part of me is perpetually searching for her in my darkest moments—her eyes, her voice, the way she moves through space like she was born to command it. But I forfeited any right to her, even in my thoughts, when I din’t show up for her, for Ollie. The hurt and suspicion that clouded her face earlier today cut deeper than I expected.

Deeper than I deserve to feel.

I scan the sea of strangers around the pool, all too wasted to remember their own names, let alone mine.

Thank fucking god.

I stub out the joint and light a cigarette instead, drifting toward the pool's edge where the water fractures the party lights into disjointed patterns. The conversations washing over me are shallow, slurred echoes of the same pretentious bullshit I've navigated my entire life—people chasing money, status, or some illusion they'll never catch no matter how fast they run.

My moment of solitude doesn't last.

Of course it doesn't.

Nothing good ever does.

Farrah appears flanked by Shay and Harlow like some discount version of a royal entourage. Before I can escape, she situates herself onto my lap without invitation, her perfume invading my senses—too sweet, too manufactured, nothing like the natural scent of?—

No. Not going there.

It figures why they're all friends—cut from the same designer cloth, sharing the same cultivated tastes and remarkable tolerance for Farrah's casual cruelty. The weight of her on my lap feels wrong. Everything about this night feels wrong.

"Baby, you look so tired. Are you sure you don't want me to help you relax a little?" Her hands wander across my chest, her touch lingering longer than I want. When her fingers edge lower, I snap, grabbing her wrists. The motion is gentle but firm—a warning.

"I'm good right here," I say, my voice sharp enough to slice through steel.

Instead of taking the hint, she drapes herself over my body, claiming me in a possessive display that makes my skin crawl.

“We heard you nearly got shot by your dealer today," Shay drones on, her voice as dull as her personality. She and her twin sister have morphed into robotic clones, perfectly crafted by Farrah to follow her every whim.

"You need to find a new hobby,” I growl, irritation boiling over. I'm on the verge of exploding, surrounded by whispers and accusations I don't need.

My attention snaps to a nearby conversation, where Christian and his crew are eyeing someone new.

"Who's the new girl hanging off Jake's arm?" Christian leers, his voice carrying over the music. Farrah blocks my view, but I strain to see past her.

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