Page 215 of Before We Were

I stare at him, mind racing through years of memories, searching for signs I might have missed. "He didn't have to do that."

"Nate was the only one allowed to pick on you," Ollie says with a laugh. "Remember Justin Kemp?"

The name sounds familiar, but I can’t recall. "The guy from Nate's football team?"

"One summer, during a scrimmage, Justin saw a photo of you and said something. Something I, as your brother, refuse to repeat."

Heat creeps up my neck. "It was about my boobs, wasn't it?"

"Gross. Don't say that," Ollie groans, shuddering like the twelve-year-old boy he used to be. "Nate ripped off Justin's helmet and pretty much rammed him to the ground. Told him if he ever said another word about you—or any part of you—he'd cut his you know what off and make him swallow it."

I gape at him, my heart doing a complicated dance in my chest. "He really said that?"

Ollie nods, grinning. "Pretty sure Justin still has his you-know-what, so he never tested Nate again."

The revelation settles over me and something in my chest tightens.

"I hate that you all feel like you need to stick up for me."

Ollie steps closer, resting one arm around my shoulders. His expression mirrors Dad's so perfectly it steals my breath—the same intense focus when he needed me to really listen.

"Whether you like it or not, you're always going to have people looking out for you. That’s what family does."

"Yeah but—” I mutter.

“That's what older brothers are for,” he says, pulling me into a hug that smells like his cologne and childhood memories.

I wrap my arms around his waist, holding tight. "Dad would be proud of you, Ol."

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and for a moment, I see the boy he was and the man he's becoming.

"He'd be proud of us both."

The horses are magnificent in the afternoon sun—sleek, powerful creatures with coats that gleam like silk. Players in crisp white polos guide them with practiced ease, their mallets swinging in graceful arcs as the game unfolds. The thudding of hooves against turf mingles with polite applause, creating a rhythm that feels surreal after the weight of Ollie's revelations about Nate.

"Go you fucking absolute queen!" Camilla screams from beside me, making several well-dressed spectators jump.

Marcus and I share an amused look at our friend's complete disregard for polo etiquette.

"Great," Camilla drawls suddenly, tipping her glass toward the far tent. "Look who decided to grace us with their obnoxious presence."

Following her gaze, I spot Connor, Farrah, and their usual entourage lounging like they own the place. Farrah's draped in a slinky white dress, laughing at something Connor is saying while he basks in the attention. But it's not them that makes my stomach turn.

It's Evan.

He's lingering at the edge of their group, taking periodic pulls from a flask he's not bothering to hide. The sight of him sends ice through my veins, but it's not just his presence, it's his condition. His lip is split and swollen, dark sunglasses failing to hide the violent purple bruising under his left eye. There's a stiffness in his movements that suggests bruised or broken ribs.

My breath catches as my mind immediately goes to Nate.

Those raw knuckles from this morning flash in my memory like a warning signal—fresh, angry bruises he'd barely tried to hide when we'd spoken. The cold dread pooling in my stomach deepens.

Camilla follows my gaze and lets out a sharp laugh. "Looks like Abercrombie got what was coming to him."

"What do you mean?" I try to keep my voice casual, but it comes out tight.

"Apparently," she draws out the word with relish, "there was some kind of drug deal that went sideways at Connor's party. Rumor has it, Evan tried to screw someone over and got his head kicked in for his trouble."

Marcus raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, sipping his champagne with practiced indifference.

---