Before We Were

33. Happy Birthday Jake

CHAPTER 33

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAKE

NATE

PRESENT DAY

It's quiet. Too quiet as I step through the front door of the lake house. The air feels wrong—thick and suffocating, like the walls are closing in around me. My lungs struggle against the heaviness as I scan the empty living room. This place is supposed to be peaceful, but this silence? It's the kind that makes your skin crawl, the kind that warns you something's terribly wrong.

Then I see her.

Mom, lying there on the floor, her body contorted at impossible angles. Her face is ashen, eyes vacant, staring into nothingness. Blood seeps into the floorboards beneath her, spreading like dark watercolors on wet paper. My legs lock up, refusing to carry me closer, refusing to let me accept this reality. But it's real. And it's my fault.

"Mom!" The scream tears from somewhere deep inside me, my voice shattering like glass. "No, no, no, NO!"

I collapse to my knees, trembling hands reaching for her lifeless body. I pull her into my lap as if my touch alone could breathe life back into her. The panic claws up my throat, turning my vision blurry, my breaths coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

How did I let this happen?

I'm rocking back and forth, clutching her close when I hear it—a voice cutting through the chaos in my head. Soft. Familiar. Her voice.

"Nate..."

I freeze, my heart stumbling. For a moment, I think I've finally lost it completely.

Her voice pulls me up from the darkness. But this can't be real. None of this is real.

"Nate, wake up," she whispers again, closer now.

I blink, disoriented, as Mom's body slips from my grip. The floor tilts beneath me, reality shifting like sand through an hourglass. The blood fades, the walls blur, and when I look down again, it's not Mom I'm holding.

It's me. Lifeless.

My heart slams against my ribs, but her voice keeps calling, tugging me toward consciousness. The nightmare crumbles piece by piece, dissolving like smoke, and suddenly, I'm not in the living room anymore. I'm in my bed, and Nora's straddling me, her hands pressed against my chest, shaking me gently. Her face hovers above mine, brows knitted with concern, eyes searching. Her breath fans warm against my neck as she whispers,

"Nate, you're okay. It's just a nightmare."

My body reacts before my mind catches up. In one fluid motion, I flip her over, pinning her to the mattress. Panic courses through my veins, adrenaline making everything feel too fast, too raw, too real. Her eyes widen in shock, and for a split second, I'm lost between reality and dreams. All I know is the fear—the kind that chokes you, that drowns you, and follows you even in your sleep.

I see that same fear reflected in her eyes.

I never know what to do when the nightmares come like this. The lines between reality and imagination blur until I can't tell what's real anymore. They've been worse lately, with no drugs to numb them, no high to silence the noise. Just this—the crushing weight of everything I'm terrified of. Reality crashes into me like a tidal wave, and I scramble off her like her skin burns mine.

"Fuck—Nora, I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—God, I didn't mean to grab you like that."

She shakes her head, sitting up slowly. Her breathing is still quick, but the fear in her eyes has been replaced with something softer.

"It's okay," she says quietly.

"It's not okay," I snap, running a hand through my hair as guilt slices through me. "I shouldn't have—" The words die in my throat. I can't even finish the thought, can't bear to imagine what could have happened.

But then she does something unexpected. She reaches out, her fingers wrapping around my arm, pulling me back down beside her.

"What are you doing?" My voice comes out hoarse, raw with emotion I can't contain.

"Lay down," she says softly, settling beside me, her hand still resting on my arm. "You can close your eyes. It's okay."

I stare at her, trying to understand why she's still here, why she isn't running from me like she should be. "You shouldn't be here."

"Why?"

"Because I??—"

Because you being this close, seeing me like this, makes me feel more out of control than anything else.

"Nate," she whispers, her eyes locking with mine. "I've got you, promise. Lay down."

Her words calm the chaos inside me like magic. It's as if someone's flipped a switch, and for the first time in a long time, I feel something other than fear. For a brief moment, there's blessed silence in my head. Nora has no idea what her voice does to me. How it's always been the thing that pulls me back to the surface when I'm drowning.

I let my head fall back as I relax into her, my heart rate slowing, just enough to let the sound of her heartbeat fill the quiet between us. We lie there, staring at each other in the darkness, neither of us willing to break this fragile peace.

"You're okay," she whispers into my hair.

I close my eyes, letting her warmth ground me in a way nothing else ever has. Minutes stretch into silence, and I think she's fallen asleep until she speaks again.

"I wish I hated you." Her lips brush against my hair, leaving behind the softest kiss. "But instead, you make me feel things I don't want to."

She thinks I'm asleep.

"I pretend to be this put-together person, but I'm just as broken and damaged as you believe you are. And the worst part is, I want you to know all the messed-up parts, but I'm scared."

I want to ask her what she's afraid of, but I don't want to stop her confessions.

"I wish I could face my demons too and maybe..."

She trails off, leaving the thought unfinished. I wait, but nothing else comes. Though I fight to stay awake, exhaustion wins. I let myself relax in her presence as my eyes drift shut, listening to her breathing as her heartbeat falls in sync with mine.

Sleep takes me, but this time it's different. This time, the nightmares don't come.

When I wake, the first thing I notice is sunlight filtering through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. Morning has crept in while I slept, bringing with it an emptiness I can't ignore. The second thing I notice is the hollow space beside me where Nora should be.

For a heartbeat, panic grips me. Maybe I dreamed it all—her being here, my arms around her waist, my face buried in the curve of her neck where her pulse beats steady and sure. Her warmth. Her scent. The whispered confessions pressed into my hair like secrets.

Could my mind have conjured her, like it has a thousand times before in my restless nights?

I sit up, running a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the disorientation that clings to me. But then I see Bones, perched on the pillow next to me. Nora's favorite stuffed animal from when we were kids, left behind like a silent guardian. She always did this when we were young and I had nightmares, leaving pieces of herself behind to remind me I wasn't alone.

A faint smile tugs at my lips, but it's bittersweet, tasting of longing and regret.

I'm mad for her.

Stupidly, hopelessly, desperately mad for her.

And the worst part? I can never have her. Not in the way I want, not without destroying everything.

I rub my hands over my face and take one of those deep breaths that's supposed to steady you, but it doesn't work. I suddenly remember what today is—Jake's birthday. My not-so-little brother is seventeen, and here I am, still pretending I've got it together for him, like I've done every day for years now.

After a quick shower and a half-assed attempt to pull myself together, I head downstairs, bracing myself for whatever the day might bring. I find Jake in the kitchen, hunched over a stack of waffles—the kind Mom always makes on birthdays, their sweet scent filling the air with memories of simpler times.

"Happy birthday," I say, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. The touch is brief, awkward. Hugging isn't our thing anymore. It used to be, back when things were easy—back before everything got so fucked up. I know Jake still blames me for the dysfunction that is our family, but if he only knew how deep the rot really runs.

"Thanks," he says, his voice muffled by the waffle he's shoving into his mouth. His smile is genuine, but it's been so long since I've seen one directed at me that it stings like salt in an open wound.

"Where's Ol?" I ask, reaching for coffee, needing something to sustain me before I lose my grip entirely.

"He's out with Mia. Horseback riding on the beach or some shit," Jake answers, smirking.

I raise a brow, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "Jesus. Ollie on a horse?"

"I know. The poor horse." Jake laughs, and for a second, I join in. But the laugh feels hollow because, even though it's light between us right now, there's still this chasm. One I dug myself, shovelful by shovelful of secrets and lies.

The silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable, pressing against my skin like humid summer air. My gut twists, this gnawing feeling growing stronger with each passing second. I want to fix this. I want to tell him everything—the real reason I've been such an asshole. I want him to understand that I did it for him, to protect him from the same shit that's been eating me alive every day for years.

But before I can speak, his phone buzzes on the counter. DAD flashes on the screen, and suddenly, my chest tightens like a vise. The air shifts, tension crackling between us like static before a storm. Jake hesitates, glancing at me before grabbing the phone.

"Dad, hey." There's a pause, and I can only imagine he'd be calling while he's on his way to his next meeting or next assistant he's fucking. "Thanks... Yeah, that sounds good. Okay, talk then."

I clench my jaw so hard it aches, my fists tight enough for nails to bite crescents into my palms.

Must be fucking nice to have a dad who remembers your birthday. The bitterness churns in my gut, a tidal wave of resentment I've been trying to suppress for years.

When Jake ends the call, I ask, my voice sharper than broken glass, "What did he want?"

He shrugs, avoiding my eyes like they burn. "To wish me a happy birthday."

There's more to it than he's letting on. He busies himself, putting away his dishes like he's trying to escape not just the conversation, but me.

"When are you seeing him?" I push, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into my words.

Jake doesn't meet my gaze. "Not sure."

Liar.

I let out a huff, the frustration bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove. Jake notices. His brows furrow, and he looks at me with something between confusion and frustration.

"Would it kill you to make a little effort with him? For all our sake?"

"Pass." I spit out the word like poison.

He throws his hands up in frustration. "I don't get you, Nate. I know you and Dad don't see eye to eye, but you've shut everyone out. Him, Mom, me... even Nora." His voice falters slightly when he mentions her, like her name physically pains him to say.

"You're going to end up pretty fucking alone if you keep pushing away the people who actually care about you."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut because deep down, I know he's right. But isn't that better?

Better than letting them in and failing them.

Alone means no one else gets dragged into the mess that is my life. I'm about to respond when the door swings open, and Nora walks in like a force of nature, cheeks flushed rose-pink from her morning run, hair wild and untamed. She's a whirlwind of chaos, a dangerous mix of beauty and defiance that steals the breath from my lungs. That's always been her way—whiskey in a teacup, sweet and sharp and more intoxicating than anything I've ever tasted.

"Happy birthday, Jake!" she chirps, wrapping Jake in a tight embrace. The jealousy flares up so fast it nearly chokes me, burning hot and bitter in my throat.

She looks my way, her gaze softening like morning fog.

"Hey." Her voice is barely above a whisper, testing the waters, trying to gauge if I'm still spiraling after last night.

"Hey.”

Jake looks between us, his eyes narrowing slightly, picking up on the electricity crackling in the air.

"So," Nora says, casually reaching for a strawberry off Jake's plate. The way her lips close around it has my pulse racing.

Is this what it's come to? Jealous of a fucking strawberry?

I swallow hard, trying to rein in my spiraling thoughts before they betray me.

"What's the plan for the birthday boy today?" she asks, her smile faltering slightly as she looks at Jake.

He shrugs, standing to clear his plate. "Actually, I've got to help Mom out later. But maybe we can hang out tonight after dinner?"

"Sure," she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

He leans down, presses a quick kiss to her head, and leaves, the front door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoes in my chest.

And just like that, it's the two of us.

The silence stretches between us. I want to say something—about last night, about everything—but the words catch in my throat like thorns.

"Are you—" I start.

"I'm heading—" she says at the same time, both of us cutting each other off.

We pause, the moment awkward as a teenage slow dance.

"You go," I say quickly, my heart racing like a trapped thing.

"No, it's nothing. What were you going to say?" she asks, her gaze locking with mine, holding me captive.

I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck where tension coils like a spring.

Fuck it.

"I was just thinking, while Jake's out and Ollie is with Mia... maybe today we could take the boat out?"

Her eyes soften, and for a moment, there's a flicker of hesitation that makes my stomach drop.

"Or do you have plans?" I ask, knowing she doesn’t.

"Actually, you're in luck because today I do not." Her tone is causal and she’s fighting back a smile.

Relief floods through me, though I can't say why. Maybe it's because we'll be alone for longer than five minutes. Or maybe it's because she wants to be alone with me. Whatever the reason, I'm just glad she said yes.

"Well, I have to head down to Sonder for a few hours to help Nick with something. But I'll be back around 4 PM. We should catch the sunset." I make a quick move toward the sink to clean up the mess Jake left behind.

"Nate.”

Her voice stops me mid-step, like a hand on my chest. She's moved around the kitchen counter, now standing directly in front of me.

"Are you... okay? Last night??—"

"I'm good." The lie slips out too easily but I can see she doesn't buy it.

Her eyes narrow, and her voice softens to velvet.

"Does it happen a lot?" She's careful, too careful, like she knows I'm made of glass, and one wrong touch will shatter me into pieces too small to ever put back together.

Now it's my turn to hesitate. I hate this conversation, hate that she sees this part of me, but I force out, "I'm handling it."

She frowns, not convinced. "Is that why you were using?"

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a second, I want to run. But I don't. I give her the truth. “Yes.”

The way her face falters—it's like I've given her something she wasn't expecting.

“I wasn't lying when I told you I haven't touched anything since... since that night at the beach. When shit went down with Connor."

The confession sits heavy between us, like something too big to say aloud, but then she breaks the tension with a soft smile that warms me from the inside out. "That's good."

I want to tell her why I stopped. That it was because of her. That I couldn't stand the thought of her seeing me like that again, seeing me as someone to be afraid of. But the words don't come.

"I, uh, I'm gonna go take a shower and then start writing."

Her face lights up, and for a second, I'm free of everything weighing me down. She's always been happiest when she's talking about her writing. She's been doing it since we were kids, but she still doesn't know how good she is.

"How's it going?"

"I feel like I'm getting somewhere now," she says with a small grin that makes my heart skip. "I just need to sit down, no distractions, no noise—just write."

I watch her, captivated.

"What?" She looks self-conscious, like she's said too much, given away too many secrets.

"Nothing. It's just," I lean against the kitchen counter, not sure why I'm telling her this, "every memory I have of you involves books."

Her cheeks flush the perfect soft pink I love.

There's a smile she can't hide. "Just like every memory of you involves music."

"Why do you love it?" I ask, wanting to hear more, even though I’m running so fucking late right now. I want to keep her talking just to hear her voice and see her face light up when she talks about the things she loves.

"Writing?"

I nod.

"Escapism, I guess. Anything's possible in the stories you write. There's this kind of magic in believing in possibility, whether it's on paper or in real life." She flips the question back on me. "Why do you love music?"

"Same reason," I say, feeling the truth of it in my bones. "It takes you somewhere else. Or it brings back a thousand memories at once."

"Guess there's something we can finally agree on." She lets out a soft laugh, and it hits me all over again—I'm hooked on finding each new laugh she has, each one different, each one just as addictive as the last.

"Shit, I better get going or Nick will be pissed.”

"I guess I'll see you later then?"

"You will."

I'm halfway out the door when Mom walks in, surprise flickering across her face like sunlight through leaves.

"Nate, where are you off to this early?"

"To Sonder, that new bar in town," I reply, already anticipating the worry that will cloud her eyes. "To help, not to??—"

"I know,” she cuts me off, her eyes soft as morning light. "I heard you volunteered. I'm proud of you."

I manage a smile, but inside, guilt gnaws at me like a hungry beast. Over the past year, she's seen me walk out this door too many times, always left wondering where I was going, what I was doing, or if I'd even come back. She's been a saint, enduring the shit I've added to her life on top of everything else.

"Hey, Mom, what's Jake helping you with today?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual as I pull the door open.

Her face scrunches in confusion, lines appearing between her brows.

"Jake? He's not helping me with anything. Kat and I are heading to the markets, then lunch by the waterfront. He said he's spending time with Ollie this morning."

A prickle of something dark creeps up my spine like ice water. I force a smile as she squeezes my arm.

"You okay, honey?"

"I'm fine." I kiss the top of her head, "Nothing to worry about. I promise."

I don't know if it's true, if the buzzing in my head and the tightness in my chest will get better or worse. But I give her what she needs, and she smiles, her concern easing for now.

"We're doing dinner and cake tonight, so don't be late," she calls after me.

"Sounds good," I say, shutting the door behind me.

But all I can think about now is why Jake's lying. Why suddenly, of all people, is my brother hiding something from me?

"Sorry I'm late," I call out to Nick as I step inside the bar.

He waves it off, glancing up from where he's sketching something on a clipboard. "Actually, you're right on time. Can you help me move those planks out back?"

We get to work, moving piles of wooden planks, one by one. By the looks of it, I won't be needing to hit the gym this summer. This place is a wreck, and it's going to take a lot of heavy lifting to get it ready by the end of the season. I keep my head down, focusing on the repetitive rhythm of moving wood from one spot to another. Every plank feels like a step further away from the shit swirling in my head.

"So, what's the plan?" I ask, stacking another pile against the wall, muscles burning pleasantly from the work.

Nick grins, the kind of smile that tells me he's thought this through more than I've realized.

"The booths need reupholstering, the stage needs a complete overhaul, and I'm redoing the entire menu. Luckily the bar was in pretty decent condition so it didn't take much work to fix that."

He looks around the space like he's seeing something I can't—not what is, but what could be.

"I want this place to have a different feel. You know, a place where people want to be on any night of the week, not just weekends. Where they can experience a taste of Spain right here in Eden."

"Spain?"

I can see the flicker of excitement in his eyes, like he's already there in his mind.

"I spent a lot of time in the South of Spain when I was younger. It's a place where people stayed for hours, eating, drinking, and talking. I want to bring that vibe here. Only local produce, local wines, and we showcase local talent. Make it feel like this place belongs to the town."

"How'd you end up in Spain?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

His expression shifts, becoming more contemplative. "Life at home wasn't easy growing up. So I did what any teenager would do and I ran. Only California didn't feel far enough so I ran to another country where I didn't know anyone and couldn't speak the language." He laughs, but there's an edge to it that I recognize—the kind of laugh that covers old wounds.

"I was a pretty messed up teenager and if it wasn't for my uncle giving me a way to get out, I don't know where I would have ended up."

I can sense the gratitude in his voice and the love he has for Alfie.

"It was a special place. I felt like I found some part of myself that I'd lost there. As time went on, I set myself up, got myself straight, learned more about the culture, cuisine and wines. Eventually I bought a house there and started a little business. But then Uncle Alfie got sick a few years back. He's the only family I have so instead of flying back and forth like I was, I packed up my life in Spain and here we are."

"Opening a bar," I add.

"Restaurant bar actually," he corrects with a hint of pride.

Nick continues, painting a picture of open mic nights, live bands—making this the spot everyone in town wants to play at. He's a dreamer, but he's done this before. I can tell by the way he talks, confident and decisive. I admire that about him.

"So why 'Sonder'?" I ask.

Nick's face lights up as he leans back against the counter. "When I traveled, I loved to sit in the window of cafés and watch people. Just living their lives, completely unaware of me watching. Everyone's got their own story, their own journey. And every now and then, I'd see the same person walk by, and we'd just nod, like we shared something without even speaking. Those little moments, they're meaningful even if we don't understand the full extent of them."

I let that sink in for a moment.

"That's some stoic shit," I mutter, earning a laugh from him.

"Well, that's what 'sonder' is. It's the realization that every person you see has a life as full and complicated as your own."

We keep working for a few more hours, hauling junk, clearing out old furniture, getting the place ready for its transformation. My muscles ache, but there's something satisfying about it—physical work that pulls me out of my head for a while.

Nick heads to the back, leaving me to wander until my eyes land on something. A guitar case, half-hidden in the corner of the unfinished stage, like a ghost from my past waiting to be discovered. My fingers twitch with muscle memory. Nora's question from earlier echoes in my mind: "Why do you love music?"

It's been so long since I've even touched a guitar. I think about that night two weeks ago, fitting puzzle pieces together listening to November Rain . The way she'd looked at me when she asked if I still played, her eyes lighting up with something between curiosity and challenge.

I'd linked my pinky with hers, thinking it was just another throwaway moment. But something about the way she'd smiled afterward, like she'd won something precious, had lodged itself in my chest.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm crossing the room and flipping open the case. An acoustic, pre-loved but well-maintained. I run my fingers along the strings, feeling the vibrations ripple through me like electricity. I strum a chord, then another. The sound fills the empty bar, soft but resonant, and before I know it, I'm playing a melody I wrote when I was sixteen.

For a moment, everything else fades—the noise in my head, the pressure in my chest, the weight of all my secrets. It's just me and the guitar, the music grounding me in a way nothing else ever could.

I made a pinky promise. And I'm starting to realize that any promise I make to Nora, I want to keep. No matter how small. Because each one feels like a step toward something real, something I can't name yet but know I've been missing. Something worth fighting for.

"Nate."

Nick's voice pulls me back to reality, and I stop, guilt flashing through me like lightning.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to touch??—"

Nick shakes his head, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "That's what it's there for. Sounds like you've been playing for a while."

I set the guitar down carefully, scratching the back of my neck where tension coils.

"I used to. But I don't anymore." I take a deep breath, the memories rising like smoke from a dying fire.

"Nora's dad got me my first guitar, for my tenth birthday. I started teaching myself how to play, learning chords, and reading music. It became my escape." I pause, swallowing the bitter taste that comes with the memory. "But my dad... he hated it. Thought it was a waste of time."

The memory of Scott slamming through the door that night comes back to me, sharp as broken glass. He was drunk, rage rolling off him in waves. The sound of me playing set him off. He walked right into my room, grabbed the guitar, and smashed it to pieces like he was trying to break more than just wood and strings.

"You think strumming a fucking guitar is your future? I don't pay school fees so you can fuck around. Stop wasting your time with this shit." His words still echo in my head, sharp and cruel as the day he spat them at me.

I never picked up a guitar again after that.

"I stopped playing to focus on school and football," I add, my voice hollow as an empty promise.

Nick gives me a look, one that says he's reading more into my words than I'm letting on. "Well, I think you should try picking it up again."

I shake my head, pushing away the temptation. "I don't own a guitar anymore."

He gestures toward the one I was just playing. "That one's been sitting there, collecting dust for God knows how long."

"It's not really my thing anymore."

Nick studies me for a moment, then sets down the box he's carrying.

"Look, Nate. I don't know you all that well, but I know talent when I see it. And trust me, you've got it." He puts a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it steady and grounding. "Don't let your father's version of your life be the one you end up actually living. You owe it to yourself to choose your own path in this lifetime."

I look away, swallowing hard against the truth in his words. He's right, but it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.

"Sometimes healing means reopening old wounds, taking a good look at them so you can finally let them close for good."

"What if the wounds run too deep?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Nick pauses, turning back to me. "They might never go away completely, but that doesn't mean you can't start fresh. You've got a whole life ahead of you, Nate. And at any point, you can begin again. Trust me."

He walks away, leaving me with those words settling into my bones.

"And for someone who hasn't touched a guitar since he was fifteen, you've still got it," he shouts, without turning to face me.

I smile at the compliment, and just like that, something in me shifts. It's tiny, barely there, like the first spark of a flame—but it's there.