Page 8 of Before We Were

Jake

Mom wants you home NOW.

Jake

Stop being a dick and reply to her calls.

I ignore it, letting it join the dozen other unopened messages from him, Mom, and Farrah. Farrah’s name on my phone screen feels like a bad taste I can't wash out. I still don't know why I've let her cling to me for this long.

The morning started with me hauling ass out of the house, escaping Mom's endless nagging about the Wells coming back this summer. She's been hammering on about it for days like it's some impending apocalypse, and just the thought of sharing space with them all summer makes my skin crawl.

Last time I saw the Wells family was nearly two years ago. The memory hits like a sucker punch. I was a fucking wreck when David died, and the guilt of blowing off his funeral still eats at me like acid in my gut. They're probably all still pissed about it, but showing up wasted and ready to explode would have been worse. At least, that's the lie I keep feeding myself to get through each day.

The truth sits heavier, a weight pressing against my lungs: I couldn't handle it.

Couldn't stomach a world without David, the one person who saw past my bullshit and still gave a damn.

Couldn't bear seeing Nora broken when I was already shattered beyond repair.

The Mustang roars to life under my hands, the engine's growl matching the chaos in my head as I point it toward the other side of Lake Eden. Today, my thoughts are a war zone, memories exploding like land mines with every breath. The human mind is a torture chamber, stuck on replay, obsessing over every failure, every promise broken like bones that never set right.

I try to steady myself because that's what everyone expects—good old Nate, always in control, always holding it together. But with everything I'm walking into, the tension builds like a sealed pressure cooker about to blow. Memories of two summers ago flood in, sharp as broken glass and twice as dangerous. I crank the radio, desperate to drown out the chaos, and fucking"Save Me"by Remo starts playing. I laugh, but it's a sound that would make devils flinch. The universe really knows how to twist the knife.

The bait shop looms ahead, its peeling Tack and Bait sign swaying in the humid breeze like a hangman's noose. Jay's already outside, a nervous shadow pacing the warped boards of the porch. His fingers drum against his thigh in a frantic rhythm that matches my pulse.

"About fucking time," he snaps as I kill the engine, but the fear in his eyes undermines the bite in his words.

We push past aisles of fishing gear, hooks glinting like tiny daggers in the dim light. The air is thick enough to choke on—a toxic cocktail of saltwater, mildew, and something darker. A tank bubbles in the corner, bait fish swimming endless circles, waiting for death. Felix, another lost soul caught in this web, cracks open the back room door. The hinges cry out like they're warning us to run. Inside, six of Monty's crew crowd around a plastic table that's one breath away from collapse, playing poker with the kind of stakes that end in blood.

The door snaps shut behind us with the finality of a coffin lid.

"Well, well, look what the country club dragged in." Monty's voice slithers through the stale air, each word dripping with a disdain that makes my skin crawl. He's all sharp edges and bad endings—a late twenties psycho with a body count inked on his arm like notches on a bedpost. Cross him and you're either out cold or becoming his next tattoo.

He pops a beer with his teeth and spits the cap at my feet. The metallic ping against the concrete floor echoes like a warning shot. "You rich fuckers think the world's got nothing better to do than wait on you, huh, Preppy?"

The rage in my chest coils tighter. "Family emergency," I lie through clenched teeth, tasting copper where I've bitten the inside of my cheek.

A smirk twists his lips as he stands, looming close enough for me to catch the stale stench of beer and weed and something darker—something that smells like violence waiting to happen.

"Family? Must be nice having one. Never knew mine. Didn't have a daddy to spoon-feed me gold and grease my path to the Ivy League."

His eyes glint with the kind of madness that's earned him every one of those body-count tattoos. The room crystallizes into sharp focus. Something dark inside me smiles at the odds: just Jay and me against his gang of six. The kind of math that ends in hospital visits.

"Are we gonna wax poetic about my so-called privileged childhood or your daddy issues, or are you gonna take the money?" My voice cuts through the thick tension like a blade, each word dripping with contempt. Part of me wants him to snap, to give me an excuse to paint these walls red.

He laughs, the sound low and menacing as a growling beast. "You got some balls on you, Preppy. Showing up late, making us wait, and now pushing me to hurry?" His eyes catch the fluorescent light like broken glass. "You're playing with fire."

The room holds its breath. Even the ceiling fan seems to slow its lazy spin. I feel Jay trembling beside me, his fear a tangible thing in the heavy air.

The attack comes faster than my anger-dulled reflexes can track. Monty's hand wraps around my throat like a python, squeezing until black spots dance at the edges of my vision. The rough concrete wall slams against my back, but I barely feel it. Part of me welcomes the pain, craves it even.

"Don't you fuck with me or my time again, you ungrateful little shit. Got it?" His breath hits my face, hot and sour with beer.

I stay silent—not from fear, but because the darkness inside me is enjoying this too much. Some sick part of me wants him to squeeze harder, to give me an excuse to unleash the hurricane building in my chest.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, Monty." Jay's voice wavers like a candle in the wind. "He screwed up, but he's got the cash. It won’t happen again.”

Monty's eyes narrow, shooting Jay a look that could strip paint from walls. Jay shrinks back, but his mouth keeps running, desperation making him brave or stupid—probably both.

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