2. Don’t Forget The Curly Fries
CHAPTER 2
DON’T FORGET THE CURLY FRIES
NORA
June 2007
PRESENT DAY
"Is there anything else?" the waiter asks, his voice gentle, like he can sense the empty chair at our table. Maybe he recognizes us. Or maybe he just sees what everyone else does—a family with a missing piece.
The Roadhouse Diner used to be our pit stop, our tradition, our marker that summer had officially begun. Dad discovered this place before Ollie and I existed, dragging Mom here on their first road trip to Lake Eden. The curly fries became our ritual—extra mustard on the side because Dad swore they weren't the same without it, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he dunked each perfectly spiraled fry.
But today, none of us mention the fries.
Two years.
That's how long it's been since we've made this drive, since everything changed. Walking back into this life feels like trying to wear a coat that doesn't fit anymore—the sleeves too short, the shoulders too tight, everything slightly wrong in ways I can't fix.
We don't need menus here. After years of visits, our orders live in muscle memory. But even though I know what I want, nothing about this moment feels familiar.
Everything is quieter. Heavier.
The waiter stands there, his notepad in hand, freckled face open and kind. He can't be much older than sixteen, probably a summer hire who doesn't understand why we're all holding our breath. His eyes flit between Ollie, Mom, and me, searching for someone to take charge.
My chest tightens, but I force my voice steady. "You know what? Let's add the curly fries. A double serving."
"And mustard. On the side," Ollie chimes in, his tone artificially bright, like he's trying to patch a hole in the universe with cheerfulness alone.
"Forgot our manners, did we?" Mom says, her eyebrow lifting as she gives Ollie a look that's so achingly normal it hurts.
"Please, good sir," Ollie adds with an exaggerated flourish, handing back the menus we never opened. For a moment, he sounds exactly like Dad, and I watch Mom's fingers tighten around her glass.
The waiter grins, oblivious to our private pain. "Great choice. Can't go wrong with the curly fries." He jots down our order and disappears, leaving us in the kind of silence that feels too big for this small booth.
Mom sits across from Ollie and me, her lemonade leaving condensation rings on the table. She's trying to hold it together, and for the most part, she's succeeding. But I know better. I've heard her crying late at night, muffled sobs that seep through the walls like ghost stories. I've caught her brushing away tears when some old show she and Dad used to watch comes on TV, her hand moving so quickly you'd miss it if you weren't looking.
I lost my father, but she lost her best friend. Her soulmate. The love of her life. I can't even imagine what that kind of pain feels like. Not yet.
And still, she's Mom of the Year.
She juggles her job as head of Pediatrics at Boston General with the precision of a surgeon and the grace of a dancer. She's at every one of Ollie's football games, channeling Dad's enthusiasm into her cheers. She still gets croissants with me on Sunday mornings at our favorite bakery, just like she and Dad used to. She's Wonder Woman, and I don't know how she does it.
People say I look like her, though I've got more of Dad's spirit. Our similarities paint an obvious picture—the same oval face, the same habit of tucking hair behind our ears when we're nervous. But the differences tell their own story. Mom's hair is lighter, with honey highlights that catch the light; mine is rich chocolate brown, like Dad's was. Her eyes are deep brown, while mine are Dad's straightforward green. Mom's petite frame carries a natural elegance, while I inherited Dad's athletic build—not that I've ever used it for anything remotely athletic. That's Ollie's department.
"Have you talked to the boys yet?" Mom asks, breaking the silence as she sets her glass down, leaving another perfect ring on the table.
Ollie doesn't look up from his phone, thumb scrolling mindlessly. "Texted Nate earlier. Told him we'd be there by three. Haven't heard back."
Of course, Nate hasn't responded.
His name pulls at something in my chest, a string I can't stop tugging even though I know it'll only unravel me more. It's stupid, really. I know nothing will ever happen between us, but there's a gravity I can't escape. In Nate's eyes, I'll always be "little Leni”, the nickname Dad gave me when I was small enough to ride on his shoulders.
I've spent years trying to prove I'm more than that, more than just the kid sister of the group. Whether it was climbing the highest tree or sneaking out past curfew, I was always trying to keep up, to be seen. Nate always had to save me. And he was always annoyed about it.
Even now, just the thought of him makes my pulse quicken, a betrayal of every promise I've made to myself. After what happened last year—the silence, the unanswered messages, the empty chair at Dad's funeral—I should be over him. I should be angry.
But I'm not.
And I hate that.
"Have you spoken to Jake, Nora?" Mom asks, studying me with that knowing look that makes me feel transparent.
"He messaged me this morning. Wished us a safe trip."
"I heard he's been offered a scholarship to Duke," Mom says, her lips curving into that proud smile she always saves for the Sullivan boys. "And made captain of the swim team, too."
"That kid was a fish in a past life," Ollie pipes up, rolling his eyes. "I mean he's got an ego the size of a whale, so it fits."
"Says the guy who refers to himself as the GOAT," I shoot back, smirking.
"My ego is perfectly under control, thank you very much," Ollie retorts, puffing out his chest.
"Well, your head begs to differ."
"My head is symmetrical and scientifically proven to be the perfect size," he argues with mock seriousness.
Mom shakes her head, but I catch the ghost of a smile. "Well, anyway, Jake's worked hard for it. Lydia and Scott will be thrilled that at least one of them is going to college." She pauses, wincing slightly at her own words.
I glance at her but stay quiet. She's not wrong, though. The Sullivan family story reads like a tale of two worlds. Ollie and I grew up in a home where laughter echoed through every room, where security came from more than just a bank account. Mom and Dad, both proudly middle-class, poured their hearts into jobs they loved without letting work overshadow family. Sunday dinners, chaotic game nights, and bedtime "I love yous" were our constants—our foundations.
The Sullivans lived a different reality. Sure, Nate and Jake had the kind of life that teenage dreams are made of—shiny cars, MTV-worthy parties, and a house that belonged in architectural magazines. But beneath that glossy surface, I'd seen the fractures. Without Lydia's grounding presence, those boys might have become exactly what everyone expected—entitled trust fund kids wearing designer labels like armor.
But they didn't. They became something else entirely.
Scott Sullivan's empire stretched back generations, old money that whispered of privilege and power. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't wondered, at least once, what it would be like to grow up without watching your parents check price tags or calculate monthly budgets. But mostly, I was grateful for our life. Dad taught us hard work builds character, and that lesson stuck.
Jake, though—he was different. Even with privilege cushioning his fall, he earned everything that mattered. The Duke scholarship wasn't bought; it was won through countless pre-dawn practices and late-night training sessions. Jake didn't just swim; he became the water itself, moving through it like he'd found his true element. Watching him glide through a pool was like witnessing poetry in motion, every stroke purposeful, every turn precise.
My phone buzzes and Jake's messages light up my screen like small beacons of normalcy.
Jake
How far are you guys?
Me
About 28 minutes out.
The instant response makes me smile, a rare genuine one these days.
Jake
That is oddly specific.
Me
Well, now it's 27 minutes and 47 seconds.
Jake
I’ll be seeing you in 27 minutes and 33 seconds then :)
Jake's messages always have this effect. His boundless Labrador-like enthusiasm is infectious, even through a screen.
Me
You better get ready to get your ass handed to you in UNO comps this year.
Jake
HA! You are dreaming, sunshine. I will be the only one doing the ass-kicking. Yours truly, the (reigning) heavyweight UNO champion of the world.
Jake
Drive safe. See you soon x
As we wind through town toward the lake, the transition from seaside to lakeside unfolds like a familiar story. The salt air gradually gives way to the earthy perfume of redwood trees embracing the lake. This aroma, rich and grounding, whispers of home and belonging. I roll down the window, letting the humid air wash over my face, the familiarity of it cleansing something deep inside me—a yearning I've carried since last summer without knowing it.
The long driveway appears ahead, concealed from the street like a secret passage. The house and its lakefront backdrop wait five hundred miles away, hidden from view until that final turn. Despite the deep sense of rightness that comes with returning, an undercurrent of unease reminds me how much has shifted. The lake house stands solid and unchanged, but everything else feels different.
The second Ollie kills the engine, the front door flies open and Lydia bursts out, already barrelling down the stairs toward us with the kind of energy that makes exhaustion look like a foreign concept.
"Oh, my God! You're finally here!" She reaches for Mom's door before we can unbuckle. "I've been watching for you since breakfast!"
"Oh God, Lydia, my neck. Hold on will you. Let me get out of??—"
"I'm just so happy to see you all!"
I watch these two women reunite and something in my chest loosens. Their friendship exists outside of time, untouched by distance or circumstance. It's the kind of bond that makes you believe in permanence—the way Mom has Lydia, and Lydia has Mom, constant as the tides.
Some friendships stand immovable against time's current. Like the one I share with the blue-eyed boy standing at the top of the porch steps, his smile catching the light like the sun on water. Jake's presence has always been a constant, especially when everything else spins off axis.
This summer stretches before me like a blank page.
It's a new chapter because, this summer, things will be different.
I will be different.
The girl who left Eden two years ago died with her father. It's time to discover who she's become—and maybe find a way to make peace with the boy who never showed up to say goodbye.