Chapter 2
Tyler
MORNING LIGHT SLICES THROUGH the blinds, hitting my face.
I squint, cursing myself for not closing them last night.
The cabin’s silence presses in on me as I stretch, my joints popping in protest. No sounds from the other room.
No coffee brewing. Just the hollow emptiness that follows a storm—and yesterday was definitely a storm.
Liam’s door remains shut, a wooden barrier between us that might as well be concrete. Typical of him to hide.
I grab my phone from the nightstand. Almost eleven.
Christ. I slept longer than intended, though after yesterday’s shitshow, who can blame me?
Twenty minutes—that’s how long Liam lasted before storming off like a dramatic teenager.
I don’t know what it is about him that makes me enjoy getting on his nerves so much.
Maybe it’s because of his holier-than-thou attitude, which has only worsened since college.
My stomach growls, demanding attention. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull on a pair of basketball shorts.
The wooden floor is cool against my bare feet as I pad to the kitchen.
I pause outside Liam’s door, debating whether to knock.
Wake his sulking ass up. Force him to face the reality that we’re stuck here together for an entire week.
I decide against it. Let him hide. His problem, not mine.
The coffee maker sits on the counter, clean and unused. I rummage through the cabinets, finding a bag of pre-ground beans that looks like it’s been sitting there since the ice age. I sniff it and recoil. Smells like burned dirt.
A quick glance out the window confirms what I already suspected—Liam’s car is still parked beside mine, exactly where it was last night.
I don’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed.
Relieved that he hasn’t abandoned our fucked-up family vacation altogether.
Or annoyed that I have to deal with his presence.
Our whole lives have been like this—me pushing, him retreating, the endless cycle that started the day Dad married his mom six years ago.
Movement from the neighboring cabin catches my eye.
An older woman sits on her porch, a steaming mug cradled between weathered hands.
Beside her, a little girl—eight, maybe nine—hunches over a tablet, her small fingers swiping across the screen.
The woman says something, and the girl looks up, smiling.
The simple domesticity of it makes something twist in my chest. I turn away.
I need real coffee. The kind that doesn’t taste like disappointment and broken family dreams.
I pull on a t-shirt and grab my keys, not bothering to text him. Liam will figure it out—or not. I couldn’t care less.
My car engine roars to life, gravel crunching beneath the tires as I reverse out of the driveway. The lake shimmers in the distance, sunlight dancing across its surface like scattered diamonds. It would be beautiful if I were in the mood to appreciate it.
The town is smaller than I expected, just a few streets lined with the kind of quaint shops that haven’t changed in fifty years.
I drive slowly, taking it in—the hardware store with fishing gear displayed in the window, the diner with its neon “OPEN” sign, the obligatory souvenir shop selling overpriced crap to tourists.
I park in front of a coffee shop that looks passable—at least the sign doesn’t have Comic Sans font, which is more than I can say for the bakery nearby.
A bell chimes as I push open the door, announcing my arrival to the handful of locals scattered at small tables.
They all look up, conversation pausing just long enough to register my presence before resuming with lowered voices.
The barista perks up when I approach the counter. He’s about my age, with a man-bun and carefully cultivated stubble.
“Morning,” he says, his smile a little too interested. “Haven’t seen you around before.”
“Just got in yesterday.” I scan the menu board.
“Vacation? We get a lot of city folks this time of year.” He leans forward, elbows on the counter.
“Something like that.”
“Staying at one of the lake cabins?” His persistence grates on my nerves, and I’m not in the mood for chit-chat.
I want to put him out of his misery and tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree, but instead, I say, “Coffee. Black. Large.” I pull out my wallet. “And a bag of whatever beans you recommend for drip brew.”
The barista’s smile dims. “Sure thing. Our Ethiopian is pretty popular. Medium roast, hints of blueberry and dark chocolate.”
“Fine.” I hand him a bill. “Keep the change.”
While he prepares my order, I scroll through my phone. A text from Meredith, my stepmom, blinks on my screen.
Hope you and Liam are getting along!
I leave her on read.
Why would she text me, and not her perfect son?
Or did she text him, too, wanting to compare our notes?
I wonder what he told her. Would he complain?
Or would he lie and say we drank hot cocoa, sang Kumbaya, braided each other’s hair, and went to bed holding hands? The mental image makes me chuckle.
The barista slides my coffee across the counter along with a paper bag of beans. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thanks.” I give him a curt smile and grab my order, heading for the door. The bell chimes my exit, and I feel his eyes on my back as I leave.
The return drive to the cabin is quick. I park beside Liam’s car and sit for a moment, sipping my coffee. It’s good—rich and smooth, with none of the bitterness I was expecting. Small town, decent coffee. Wonders never cease.
As I step out of the car, movement on the lake catches my eye. A figure cuts through the water with powerful, rhythmic strokes. Even from this distance, I recognize Liam’s swimming style—controlled, efficient, almost mechanical.
A pang of guilt stabs at me because of the way I treated him last night.
I shouldn’t have snapped like that. But I was in a sour mood, because of our parents, especially his mom, forcing us to spend an entire week here.
I was angry at her, but I snapped at him instead.
I should probably apologize. We’re grown-ups now, after all, and maybe it’s time to end the childish fights.
I walk down to the shoreline, coffee in hand, watching him.
Liam’s always been an excellent swimmer—better than me, though I’d never admit it aloud.
Back in high school, he was the team captain, setting records that probably still stand.
I preferred football—the controlled violence, the dominance, the competition.
Swimming was too solitary, too measured for my taste.
But watching him now, there’s something almost hypnotic about the way his arms slice through the water, the steady kick of his legs, the occasional flash of his back as he turns his head to breathe. His technique is flawless.
I drain the last of my coffee and set the cup on a nearby rock. “Didn’t know you still swam, baby bro,” I call out, pitching my voice to carry across the water.
Liam’s head snaps up, his rhythm broken. He treads water, pushing wet hair from his forehead, his expression morphing from peaceful to annoyed when he spots me. The muscles in his shoulders tense, shiny droplets running down his chest.
“What do you want?” His voice carries across the water, clipped and cold.
I shrug, pulling my t-shirt over my head. “Just admiring the view.” The words have a double meaning that I didn’t intend, but I let them hang in the air between us.
Liam’s eyes narrow. “Go admire it somewhere else.”
“It’s a free lake.” I kick off my shoes, stripping down to the swim trunks I had the foresight to wear under my shorts.
The air is cool against my skin, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I stretch, arms over my head, knowing full well that the movement showcases the results of my dedicated training routine.
Liam rolls his eyes and turns away, resuming his swim with deliberate strokes that take him further from shore. Away from me.
I wade into the lake, the cold water a shock against my heated skin. I suppress a shiver, refusing to show weakness. The rocky bottom gives way to smooth sand as I push deeper, then launch myself forward into a dive that carries me several yards through the crystal-clear water.
I surface near Liam, shaking water from my hair like a dog. “Race you to the dock,” I challenge, nodding toward the wooden structure about fifty yards away.
“I’m not interested in your games, Tyler.” Liam’s voice is flat, but I catch the flicker in his eyes—that competitive spark neither of us has ever extinguished.
“Afraid you’ll lose?” I taunt, knowing which buttons to push. It’s always been this way between us—me needling, him resisting, until something snaps.
“Fuck you.” Liam glares at me, treading water.
“On three?” I position myself. “One…two…”
I launch forward before saying “three,” giving myself a head start. Behind me, I hear Liam curse, then the splash as he gives chase.
The water parts around me as I drive myself forward with powerful strokes. Liam is technically better, but I’m stronger, my broader shoulders and greater muscle mass propelling me through the water with brute force. I sense him closing the gap, his perfect form making up for my cheap start.
We’re neck and neck as we approach the halfway point, our arms slicing through the water in almost perfect synchronization. Neither of us speaks—there’s no breath to waste on words. Just the splash of our bodies, the rhythmic churning of legs, the singular focus on reaching the dock first.
Liam pulls ahead, and something dark and ugly twists in my gut. I hate losing. Always have. Without thinking, my hand shoots out, grabbing his ankle and yanking backward. The move sends him under, breaking his rhythm.
He surfaces sputtering, rage clear in every line of his face. “You fucking cheater!” he shouts, shoving a wave of water at my face.