"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