4. You’re Only Sixteen Once
CHAPTER 4
YOU’RE ONLY SIXTEEN ONCE
NORA
I wish I could claim I recovered gracefully after nearly face-planting into the pavement. In some perfect world, I would've flashed a radiant smile and maintained my composure while those piercing hazel eyes studied me. But any pretense of dignity evaporated the moment his arms encircled my waist, fitting there as naturally as if they belonged. My breath caught—a momentary lapse that probably starved my brain of oxygen long enough to short-circuit my common sense.
The world around me blurred into meaningless shapes the second our eyes met. Time stood stilled, and I found myself mapping the landscape of his face like it was territory both familiar and foreign—his deep mahogany hair shot through with threads of caramel and auburn, catching sunlight in a way that transformed him into something almost mythical. The strong cut of his jaw and those impossible lashes only added to the illusion. If not for that fleeting half-smile that curved his lips as he steadied me, I might have mistaken the intensity in his gaze for anger.
Seeing Nate for the first time in over a year unleashed a flood of memories I'd fought to lock away in the darkest corners of my mind. The image I'd preserved of him now felt like a mirage, something that shimmered and shifted the closer I tried to examine it. Time has this cruel way of fooling you—making you believe nothing has changed until suddenly everything does. It reshapes people, sometimes into better versions of themselves, sometimes into strangers wearing familiar faces.
Standing before him now left me unmoored, experiencing the vertigo you get when you lock eyes with someone from your past only to realize you've both become different people, traveling separate paths. Even though he stood right there, looking at me the way he always had, the Nate I once knew felt like a ghost. Or maybe he was still there, hiding beneath layers, concealing himself from truly being seen.
But I've always seen Nate Sullivan, always.
Nate had always been that bright-eyed kid who shot up in height early, bypassing the awkward teenage phase entirely and landing straight in heartthrob territory—an annoyingly smooth transition that still irritates me. He can make torn jeans and a simple dark grey t-shirt look like haute couture, as if he just stepped off a Paris runway. Now he's even taller, his already imposing six-foot-four frame somehow stretching further skyward. The lean build from high school remains, but everything about him seems more defined—his shoulders broader, his presence more commanding. There's a new edge to his aura too, something darker and more guarded, as if he's carrying secrets he's determined to keep buried.
Being this close to him scrambles my thoughts. The intoxicating blend of tobacco, leather, and bergamot that clings to him makes it impossible to think straight.
He's been talking since our collision on the front porch, but my traitorous eyes keep drifting to the solid plane of his chest, only to snap back up when I catch his knowing, sideways grin—the one that tells me he knows exactly why I haven't heard a word he's said.
Stupid grin. Stupid piercing eyes. Stupid perfect face.
No, we're not doing this.
Never again.
Wait—what did he just ask?
Shit.
One moment with Nate is all it takes to unravel years of carefully constructed defenses. A single look, one ghost of a smile, and suddenly I'm that seven-year-old girl again, helplessly drawn to a boy who's always been just out of reach.
When our eyes meet, something electric crackles between us—a bone-deep recognition that thunders through my body. For a heartbeat, wrapped in his arms, I forget everything: where I am, what happened, even the anger I've harbored against him for so long.
Damn you, Nate.
The solid warmth of his body, his overwhelming proximity, the way his eyes hold mine as if I'm the only person in his universe—it's too much, too intense, too everything.
Reality crashed back when I spotted the bag of weed he was trying and failing to hide. Maybe I don't know him anymore. Reality has a way of shattering illusions, leaving nothing but sharp edges and uncomfortable truths.
Standing in my bedroom—the one where I've spent every summer since I was four—memories assault me from every corner. This space, with its sun-drenched layout and that old rocking chair still nestled in the corner, feels like a time capsule of my past. I've devoured countless books in that chair, lost in stories while summer light painted patterns across the pages. The expansive windows frame the lake vista perfectly. This room is mine because, as the only girl, I was given this sanctuary.
The Sullivans could have sold this house years ago, upgraded to something grander, more polished. But this place—with its worn edges and imperfect charm—has something money can't buy: it feels loved, lived in, real. It's my favorite spot in the world. The walls remain that same soft off-white they've always been, unchanged even after Lydia's redecorating phase. Every photo on the mantle stays exactly where it's always been, holding my memories in place.
Bones, my battle-scarred stuffed toy from Dad—a gift after I broke my ankle the summer I turned twelve—watches me from the bed, his button eyes somehow managing to look judgmental.
"Don't look at me like that, Bones."
Great, now I'm talking to a stuffed animal out loud.
"Talking to stuffed animals again, are we?" Jake's voice cuts through my reverie, warm and familiar.
"I think Bones is mad I left him behind," I reply, nodding toward the toy.
Jake's laugh feels like sunshine breaking through clouds, instantly lifting the heaviness from the room. "He probably just missed you. Give him time," he suggests, his presence as comforting as always.
He leans against the doorframe with that easy grace of his, and I can't help but notice how much he's changed too. The gym selfies he's been sending don't do justice to the athlete he's become. His shoulders have broadened, muscles defined by countless hours in the pool. Even at rest, his stance radiates quiet confidence. His sun-bronzed skin tells stories of early morning practices and dedication that's finally paying off.
"All settled in?" he asks, his eyes meeting mine with that grounding steadiness that's so uniquely Jake.
"I guess you could say that," I respond, gesturing to my half-hearted unpacking attempt.
He settles onto the bed, immediately making himself at home in a way that feels right, natural. His fingers find Bones' floppy ears, fidgeting with them as he speaks.
"So, tell me everything I missed."
"What do you mean? You know everything," I say, genuinely puzzled. We've stayed connected—texts, calls, those ridiculous gym selfies.
"I think you're the one who needs to do the catching up. Duke?" I prod, watching color rise in his cheeks.
He brushes the back of his neck, that endearing humility surfacing whenever someone mentions his achievements. "Uh yeah, it's pretty cool, I guess..."
I can't help but laugh, playfully smacking his chest. Getting into Duke's swim program has been his dream since forever. Everyone who knows Jake knows this.
"Ow!" He rubs the spot where my hand connected, though we both know I barely fazed him. "What was that for?"
I slap his chest again, harder this time. "For being ridiculous. I'm trying to knock some sense into you."
"You don't get it," he sighs, still playing with Bones' ears. "The guys at Duke swim at an Olympic pace. Everything's so cutthroat." A shadow crosses his face. "I'm not even sure I'll be able to stay on the team next year."
Another slap, this one meaning business.
"Ow, fuck! Shit, Nora."
"You, Jacob Sullivan, are not a quitter. And you don't back down from jocks in pretentious speedos."
"I have to wear those pretentious speedos too, you know," he points out. "What's that say about me?"
"You're an idiot." I ruffle his sun-bleached hair, lighter now from endless hours of training. "I don't care how fast those jackasses are, they're not you. You've been working toward this your whole life, Jake. It's yours for the taking."
His laugh starts small but grows into that full-bodied sound I've missed so much. "Did you just call them jackasses?"
We dissolve into laughter, and the familiar warmth of our friendship wraps around me like a favorite blanket. God, I've missed this—missed him.
He stands suddenly, squaring his shoulders with mock solemnity. "Clear your schedule for tomorrow morning," he announces, mischief dancing in his eyes.
"I've been here fifteen minutes. What plans could I possibly have made?"
"True. Well, tomorrow morning is just about us.” His excitement proves contagious.
"Should I be worried?"
He grips my shoulders, meeting my eyes with playful intensity. "You should be excited." Heading for the door, he adds, "Oh, and heads up—five-thirty-five wake-up call."
"That's oddly specific," I smirk.
"We'll grab the bikes from the shed and hit the road," he says, his smile heavy with nostalgia. "Just like old times." He throws in a wink as he exits.
"Is that early really necessary?" I call after him.
"Nora, we have to seize the day!" His voice echoes down the hallway, arms raised dramatically. "Sunrise is at six. We've got a lot to catch up on this summer."
Something in my chest tightens. This place, these people—it physically hurts how much I've missed it all.
The aroma of Lydia's famous reunion dinner pulls me from what was supposed to be a quick nap but somehow stretched into a two-hour slumber. Checking my phone, I head downstairs to find Ollie and Jake sprawled across the couch, thumbs dancing across their screens while the moms transform the kitchen into something worthy of a cooking show.
"Well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty," Ollie teases as I wander in.
I answer with an eye roll that says everything it needs to.
"Need a hand with anything?" I offer, stepping into the kitchen's controlled chaos.
"We're all set, sweetie." Lydia's words tumble out in one breath. "Did you sleep okay? Was the bed comfy? I bought new pillows—tell me if they're not good, we'll get new ones tomorrow."
"Perfect sleep. Perfect bed. Perfect pillows, Lydia."
"Okay, good." She finally breathes, shoulders relaxing. "But if you need anything??—"
"Lydia, the Hilton doesn't offer service like yours."
"Oh, hush." She playfully snaps a tea towel at Mom, who responds with a mock scowl. Their easy friendship warms something inside me—a reminder of how lucky Mom is to have someone like Lydia in her life. "I just want you all to feel at home. This place is as much yours as it is ours."
Jake appears beside me, draping an arm across my shoulders. "So, when's dinner ready, Queens?" He swipes a potato from the counter.
Lydia swats his hand. "Ow! Jesus, what's with the women in my life and slapping me today?"
I jab him in the ribs, earning that troublemaker grin that makes me stick out my tongue—childish but genuine.
"It'll be ready once you set the table, like I've asked three times already."
"Mom, I was entertaining our guests. His royal highness here is high maintenance," Jake protests.
"Me? That's rich coming from you," Ollie calls from his couch fortress.
"Well, can you season this salad?" Lydia asks, but Ollie intercepts, grabbing the bowl. "I've got it."
"The last time you 'got it', you nearly poisoned us all," Jake reminds him.
"One time! And the internet swore those were the best dumplings."
"You never learn to trust the internet."
"God, you boys."
We settle into our usual spots around the dining table, the empty chairs more noticeable than ever—one permanently vacant, its absence a physical ache in the room.
"Is Nate joining us?" Mom asks, placing the salad before me.
Jake, already shoveling food onto his plate, mumbles, "I wouldn't count on it."
Lydia taps her glass with a fork, ever the matriarch. "Before we eat, I just want to say something."
Lydia squeezes Mom's hand, her eyes bright. "I'm just so grateful you made it here this summer. This place feels more like home when you're all here."
"I second that, Mama Bear," Jake adds, throwing me a wink before nodding at Ollie. "That includes you too, shithead," he says with a playful jab.
Ollie responds by mock-headlocking him, planting a theatrical kiss on his temple. "Don't go soft on me now."
"We missed being here," Mom adds warmly, her gaze sweeping the table like she's memorizing each face.
"All right, enough sap. Can we eat? I'm dying here," Ollie declares.
"Wait," Lydia says, her eyes lighting up with sudden excitement. "I can't believe I almost forgot! We need to start planning for your birthdays!"
Jake groans dramatically but can't hide his smile. "Mom, can't this wait until tomorrow? Or at least till after we eat?"
"Well, sorry for being excited," Lydia continues, undeterred. "God, I can't believe my baby boy is turning eighteen and Nora you'll be seventeen." She looks at us like we're still the kids who used to blow out candles together, chocolate frosting smeared across our faces.
She looks to mom who can't help but laugh at her best friend. "Kat, when did our babies stop being babies?"
My stomach knots at the mention of my birthday, an instant heaviness settling into my chest. The date looms in my mind like a shadow—June thirteenth. One year since we lowered Dad into the ground. One day after Jake's birthday, one day before mine. The universe's cruel joke, sandwiching the anniversary of the worst day of my life between two celebrations.
“We’ll do something special this year.” Lydia continues.
"Especially for Jake," Ollie chimes in. "Finally legal... well, for some things."
"Like voting," Mom adds pointedly.
"Yeah, exactly what I meant," Ollie says with a smirk, earning him a warning look from Mom.
"What do you think, Nora?" Lydia asks, her enthusiasm refusing to be dampened.
Everyone's looking at me now, waiting. I force my face into something resembling normalcy, swallowing past the thickness in my throat. "Whatever you plan will be great, Lydia. You always make it special."
What I don't say is: How do I blow out candles and make wishes when the biggest wish—to have Dad back, to hear his laugh one more time, to feel his arms around me—will never come true?
How do I smile when all I want to do is scream at the unfairness that he's gone and somehow the world keeps spinning, birthdays keep coming, as if nothing has changed?
"I vote for something low-key this year," Jake says, his eyes finding mine across the table. Sometimes I think he can read my thoughts. The gentle understanding in his gaze nearly breaks me.
"We can do low-key." Lydia claps her hands together.
Growing up close in age with the Sullivan boys meant we were always attached at the hip. Nate was the eldest, a year older than Ollie who is now nineteen. Jake a year younger than Ol and then little old me, the youngest of them all. Dad used to joke that they had planned it that way—one Sullivan, one Wells, perfectly spaced out like stepping stones.
"Speaking of time flying," Mom interjects gently, her eyes lingering on me a beat too long. She sees it—the struggle, the way I'm barely holding it together. "Maybe we should let the food get eaten before it gets cold?"
"Mom, you read my mind." Ollie says, stabbing a fork into a potato before shoving it into his mouth.
The conversation shifts, but my mind remains stuck on the date, circling it like a shark around prey. Three hundred and sixty-five days. That's how long it's been since we gathered in black instead of summer colors. Looking across the table at the people I've loved my whole life, I feel like an actress in a play.
Smiling. Nodding. Pretending that celebrating my birthday won't feel like dancing on his grave.
"Damn Lyds, I missed your cooking," Ollie says before immediately looking at Mom apologetically. "I mean, I love your cooking too Mom."
"Sure," mom says with a playful eye roll.
This time, everyone laughs, and the moment passes. But the knot in my stomach remains, tight and insistent, a physical manifestation of the dread building for that day. The first anniversary of goodbye.
We're all finding ourselves in our own conversations, when footsteps thunder down the stairs. Nate rushes past the dining room without a glance our way.
"Excuse me, where are you off to?" Lydia's voice carries a particular mom-tone that usually stops kids in their tracks.
"Out," Nate snaps back.
"We have guests, Nate," she reminds him, gentler now.
"They'll be here tomorrow, won't they?" The door slams behind him, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
"Told you not to get your hopes up," Jake murmurs, earning a sharp look from Lydia.
The chatter eventually resumes, but there's a new tension threading through it. After dinner, we fall into our old routine—adults cook, kids clean, a rule Mom's enforced since we could reach the sink. The familiar rhythm of it feels like stepping back in time.
It's Jake who brings up the party Nate disappeared to, casually suggesting we all drop by. My stomach knots itself. After this morning's awkward encounter, the last thing I want is another round with Nate, especially not at a party. Ollie's enthusiasm doesn't help, but I opt for the safety of a book and early bedtime.
"You sure you don't want to come? It's your first night back, and it could be fun." Jake leans against my door frame, that boyish charm of his in full effect—dimples and all.
"As tempting as that sounds," I gesture to my comfy clothes, "someone sentenced me to an ungodly wake-up call tomorrow. I need all the sleep I can get."
His laugh fills the room like summer light. "It'll be worth it, I promise," he says, eyes sparking with barely contained excitement.
"Go have fun. I'll see you at the crack of dawn," I say, settling the matter.
"Okay, but if you change your mind??—"
"Jake, I'm good," I cut him off gently, softening it with a smile. "My book and I have a date."
"Fine, guess I do need you rested for tomorrow.” He steps forward, wrapping me in a hug that smells like clean laundry and something uniquely Jake. "Missed you, Nor."
"Missed you, too."
"Sweet dreams."
"Always."
The house settles into silence after they leave. I'm alone with my laptop, staring at a cursor that blinks like an accusation. I've been trying to write—anything, something. But the words have been stuck since the funeral. Writing used to be my escape, my dream, a passion Dad helped nurture. Now the blank screen feels like staring into an abyss. My attempts at creativity are interrupted by Lydia's soft knock.
"You didn't want to join the boys?" she asks, voice gentle as she appears in the doorway.
"Not really in a party mood this summer," I reply, the words trailing off as unwanted memories threaten to surface.
Lydia settles beside me on the bed, brushing a stray hair from my face with maternal tenderness. "Nora, honey, you're only sixteen once. After everything you've been through, it's okay to just be a teenager again. Your dad would want you to keep living, to experience life," she encourages, her voice soft but sure.
"I still have nightmares about it," I admit, my eyes fixed on the mockingly empty screen.
"Come here." Lydia opens her arms, and as I lean into her embrace, it feels like being wrapped in pure warmth. "He may be gone physically, but he'll always be here.” She taps my head, then my heart. We share a moment of understanding before she stands, her gaze falling on the outfit I'd tossed across the rocking chair earlier.
"I think you should wear that tonight," she suggests, her tone light but encouraging.
"The boys have already left, and it's late??—"
"It's only 9:30. Your ride is waiting downstairs," she counters, presenting the outfit with a hopeful smile.
"Go enjoy your last couple of weeks being sixteen," she insists, laying the clothes on my bed. At the door, she adds with a conspiratorial wink, "Just don't do anything your mother and I wouldn't. And definitely don't tell her I said that."
Standing in my room, I hover between two versions of myself—the one who crawls into bed with a book, and the one who takes a chance tonight. The past will always be there, but maybe I don't have to live in its shadow forever. I want to feel something other than this numbness that's become my constant companion this past year.
I smooth down my denim skirt—definitely shorter than my usual comfort zone—and try to ignore how exposed I feel in this top. A jacket would defeat the purpose, but the evening air reminds me exactly how much skin I'm showing. Standing here, I seriously question my sanity.
I should be in pajamas, not whatever this is. I head for the stairs anyway.
"Have fun!" Lydia calls from the kitchen.
"Be safe, Nora!" Mom adds.
"I will!" I shout back, my voice projecting more confidence than I feel.
Closing the front door behind me, I walk down to where Jake leans against his Range Rover, arms crossed, muscles defined under his shirt. His gaze catches on me as I approach, surprise and something else flickering across his face.
"Well, shit. You look..." His eyes sweep over me again, admiration clear in his expression. He grabs my arm, spinning me in a playful twirl, his grin widening. "Amazing."
I laugh, uncertain how to handle his scrutiny. "You're being weird," I deflect.
He grins, stepping back but keeping hold of my hands. "Well, that's not unlike me, now is it?"
"You came back," I state, more observation than question.
"For you, always," he replies, that signature boyish grin lighting up his features.
Jake's reliability has never been in question. I remember one summer when my attempt to impress the boys ended with me falling from a tree, resulting in three fractures and a bruised ego. While Nate carried me home, it was Jake who stayed in with me all summer, making sure I didn't feel like I'd ruined everything.
It turned out to be one of my favorite summers—just Jake and me, endless UNO games, movie marathons, and heated debates over which Harry Potter book reigned supreme.
"Shall we?" he asks, opening the passenger door with an exaggerated flourish.
"Why, thank you," I reply with a smirk, sliding into the seat.
Jake leans against the door frame, watching me with a soft expression. "What?" I ask, puzzled by his stare.
"Nothing, I'm just... happy. Happy you're here again."
"Me too."
He walks around to the driver's side and gets in, starting the car. "So, whose house party is this?" I ask as we pull away.
"Farrah Olsen's. Her parents are away until next week. She's invited practically everyone in town for an official opening weekend party."
We pull into a driveway that leads to what could easily be featured in Architectural Digest. A marble fountain dances in the center of the circular drive, casting ethereal reflections under the evening lights—probably worth more than my entire house in Boston. Music pulses from inside, and clusters of people filter through the grand front doors, their laughter and chatter melding with the unmistakable sound of privilege.
Stepping into this scene feels like entering another world. The Sullivans have money, sure, but they've never flaunted their wealth like this.
"Farrah's been living in this palace alone?"
"Well, she has a whole entourage that caters to her every whim. Nate sometimes stays over too," Jake replies casually, oblivious to how that detail twists something sharp inside me. It doesn't take a genius to piece together that Farrah is Nate's latest distraction.
"So, Farrah and Nate?" I venture, aiming for indifference and probably missing by a mile.
"They're together, sort of. Been on and off more times than I can count." His voice stays neutral.
"This place is absurd," I comment, desperate to change the subject as we step through the grand entrance.
Jake laughs, agreeing it's excessive for a summer home they barely use. "Her dad's some big-shot Wall Street investor, and I think her mom's an interior designer or something."
That explains the imported marble floors and the pristine everything—so untouched it practically screams wealth and careful curation.
Jake turns to me, sliding his arm around my shoulders protectively. "You ready?"
I nod, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm ready for. My heart races beneath my ribs, and something must show on my face because Jake gives me a gentle squeeze.
"Come on," he grins, offering his arm. "Time to show you off."
I link my arm through his, letting him guide me inside. Each step feels like moving closer to something inevitable, my pulse a symphony of anticipation and dread.