Page 32 of Before We Were

“It’s a dumb question but I’m going to ask it anyway, how are you holding up?" His voice carries a gentle concern that makes my chest ache.

"I'm surviving.” The lie sounds hollow even to me.

He laughs softly, seeing right through me as always. "Still a terrible liar." His elbow bumps mine, the casual touch anchoring me to the present.

"I am as good as anyone can be, considering." The words catch in my throat.

Instead of pressing further like everyone else has today, Jake moves to examine a photo on the mantle. It's from last summer on the family boat—me at fourteen, Ollie and Jake at sixteen, and Nate, freshly eighteen. We're all sun-kissed and laughing, unaware that these moments would become precious memories far too soon.

"He wanted to be here," Jake murmurs, his voice strained as he mentions his brother. "Nate's just been... busy with school and football."

The lie hangs between us. I know the truth—I overheard Lydia telling Mom about Nate's spiral. Skipped classes. Missed practices. Lost scholarship. The golden boy who was supposed to carry on the family legacy at Stanford, derailing instead. It hurts to think about how much he's changed, but right now, I can't let myself sink into that particular grief. Today's pain is enough.

Jake sets the photo down and crosses to me, his warm hand finding mine. The touch feels as natural as breathing.

"I'm here for you, always. You know that, right?"

His turquoise eyes, deep as the ocean and just as constant, hold mine. There's something about Jake that creates a pocket of calm in any situation, since we were kids. I lean into him, breathing in the familiar mix of a spicy-sweet blend of cinnamon that clings to his skin.

"We should probably head back out," I mumble against his shirt. "Ollie's probably feeling lost out there."

Jake catches my tears with his sleeve, unconcerned about the makeup staining the white fabric. "You're going to be okay, Nora. I promise." He extends his pinky, the childhood gesture hitting me right in the heart.

"Swear?"

"A pinky promise is legally binding, I'm pretty sure," he jokes, pulling me close again. His lips brush my hair. "No matter what, you'll always make your dad proud."

The day bleeds into night, leaving behind a house full of emptiness and too many casseroles. Mom and Lydia are asleep on the couch asFootloosecredits roll silently across the TV screen. I kiss Mom's forehead, my chest tight with love and worry. The clock reads 11:34 PM—marking the clear divide between my life with Dad and without.

A polaroid on the fridge stops me in my tracks—the last photo of Mom and Dad together, taken with the camera Dad gave me for my fifteenth birthday. They're smiling, unaware it would be their final picture. My fingers trace Dad's face through the tears. How is it possible to still have tears left?

When I make it back to my room, Jake's there by the window, funeral suit disheveled in a way that somehow makes him look more put-together. His sleeves are rolled up, collar loose, hair a mess from running his hands through it all day.

"Didn't think anyone was still up," I whisper.

He turns, leaning against the windowsill. "Had to escape Ollie'sGrand Theft Autorampage. Kid was about to demolish the controller."

The silence between us feels comfortable, weighted with understanding. Jake moves to sit beside me, close enough our shoulders touch.

"I feel like I'm barely hanging on," I admit, the water bottle crinkling in my grip.

"Well that's understandable." His arm slides around my shoulders, solid and warm. "Nor, you're not alone in this."

"Could you stay?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "Just for tonight?"

Without hesitation, he nods, pulling off his dress shirt. I try not to stare at the lean muscle underneath—when did Jake start looking like that?—as he tugs on the hoodie I'd taken from the lake house last summer.

"So you're the hoodie thief," he teases.

"Borrowed," I correct, my cheeks warming. "And it's mine now."

We settle into bed like we've done a hundred times before, during backyard campouts and storm-scared nights. Jake tucks me against his chest, his heartbeat steady against my back.

"Hey Jake," I whisper into the darkness.

All I get is a drowsy "Mmm," his voice thick with sleep.

"Happy birthday for yesterday."

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