Page 78 of Before We Were

I nod, feeling a bit more purposeful.

Alfie wraps the book I've chosen, his hands steady and experienced. "You know what I believe?" His voice draws me in.

I lean on the counter, curious. "What's that?"

"We meet the most important people when we least expect it," he says, his tone soft yet certain. "And often, what you need isn't a thing—it's a person. A person who'll help you uncover the answers to the things you're searching for." He winks at me with a sly grin.

His words weigh heavy on me.

"What if you're too screwed up to keep them around?" The question slips out, raw and honest.

Alfie pauses, his task momentarily forgotten. "Healing doesn't mean the damage never existed, son. It means it no longer controls you." His gaze is piercing, seeing through me. "Remember that."

I nod, struggling to find my voice as he hands me the packaged book.

Handing him a fifty, my mind races with his insights. "Keep the change, please."

Alfie smiles, gratitude spread across his face.

As I head for the door, Alfie calls out, stopping me in my tracks, "Nate, those voices in your head? They're just echoes of past pains. Don't let them win."

Turning back, I manage a tight smile.

I step into the sunlight, feeling a strange mix of burden and relief.

CHAPTER24

SUNRISES AND CINNABONS

NORA

The morning airnips at my skin, sharp enough to pull me fully into wakefulness as Jake and I pedal hard up the hill. It's the magical hour just before sunrise. The world is bathed in a soft, golden glow, as if holding its breath. Jake was always the most nostalgic one out of the four of us. He loved holding onto memories, and I didn't fault him for it. But holding onto the past is like clutching a handful of water—no matter how tightly you grip, it always slips through your fingers, leaving only a lingering coolness and the wet traces of what once was.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jake's relaxed profile, touched by the pink hues of the dawning sky. When he notices me looking, his grin widens, those familiar crinkles appearing by his eyes—his real smile. It's such a small thing, but right now, it's everything.

We reach the cliff just in time. I drop my bike on the soft grass and rush to the edge. The view takes my breath away: the ocean stretches out, a vast expanse of shimmering gold.

Jake settles beside me, his knee lightly brushing against mine. We sit in silence, the kind that's as comfortable and familiar as an old favorite song, filling the space between us without needing words.

After a moment, Jake's voice breaks the calm, gentle yet tentative. "You know you can talk to me, right? About your dad. About anything." His tone is soft but there's an earnestness to it, probing the waters of my grief.

I swallow hard, feeling the heaviness of his words. The grief and guilt are always there, lurking in the shadows like persistent fog, refusing to be chased away by the rising sun. Jake shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against mine, his presence a steady warmth.

"I'm here," he murmurs. "Whether you talk or not, I'm here."

His words settle deep in my chest, warming yet breaking me all at once. I tear at the blades of grass, not daring to meet his eyes—searching for the cracks I tirelessly try to seal. You don't tell people you're not okay because it's too hard to watch them struggle with what to do. You’ll find yourself comforting them, even though you're the one who needs comfort.

Jake exhales a slow, deliberate breath. I feel his gaze, steady and earnest, as if he could make me believe simply through the force of his will. "You don't have to pretend with me, Nor."

I keep my eyes fixed on the ground. Looking at him would probably break me. My fingers clench around the grass, its sharp scent rising in the cool morning air. Sadness starts to well up again, swelling in my chest, thickening my throat until I can barely breathe.

He shifts beside me, his presence a silent plea for me to let him in. He doesn't have to say anything; I feel his desire to understand, to take away the pain. He's always been like that—ready to drown in my sorrows just to spare me the weight. But some burdens are mine alone. Not because he isn't willing to share them, but because some parts of grief are too personal, too raw to hand over, even to him.

"I know," I murmur, watching the sunlight spill across the cliffside, painting everything with a golden glow. "I'm just… still trying to figure out how to be okay."

I shift the focus away from my inner turmoil and divert the conversation. "Are you excited about Duke?"

He stretches out, looking thoughtful against the backdrop of the rising sun. "Yeah, I guess. I mean it's kinda terrifying. Feels surreal, like one chapter's ending without knowing what the next one holds."

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