"Relax, man. Jesus." He takes a slow sip of his drink, as if he's got all the time in the world. The casualness is practiced, deliberate, designed to get under my skin.

"I saw her at the store. She didn't have anything on, so I invited her. You'd think you'd be happy to see your⁠⁠—"

"She's not my girlfriend," I bite out, cutting him off. The words taste like acid. "She never was."

"Oh, that's right," he says, his tone laced with bitterness that runs deeper than this moment. "She's just your side piece"

What the hell is he so mad about? Mom hasn't told him about the divorce yet, but does he already know? Or is this about Nora? The questions swirl in my mind, each possibility more maddening than the last.

"I don't know what's going on with you," I say, my voice dangerously low, each word measured and precise. "But that—" I point toward where Farrah disappeared, the gesture sharp and accusatory— "was really un-fucking-called for."

I turn to walk away, trying to rein in the fury simmering beneath my skin, but Jake's casual jab pushes me past my breaking point. I whirl back around, words spilling out before I can stop them.

"And honestly, consider yourself lucky for being out of the loop. Must be nice living a life with such ease."

His eyes narrow, and the easygoing façade he was wearing shatters. "What’s that supposed to mean?" His voice rises, loud enough to draw eyes from across the yard.

"Okay, how about we all just take a nice, long, deep breath," Ollie interjects, stepping between us like a human barrier. The tension in his shoulders betrays his light tone—he knows this is more than just brotherly bickering.

But Jake isn't backing down. Something's shifted in him, like a dam breaking.

"You know what? I'm so tired of your cryptic bullshit, Nate." The words burst out of him, raw and accusatory. "That's half your problem. You expect everyone to just know what you're going through, but you never actually talk about any of it. Dad was right. We're all just supposed to walk around on eggshells because God forbid we say the wrong thing and send you down on another one of your⁠⁠—"

"Enough!" Mom's voice slices through the noise, sharp and commanding.

The word echoes in my head as I look at Jake, my little brother, still living in his bubble of ignorance. He still thinks Scott's innocent, and part of me envies that luxury. I wish I could believe that. I wish I could simmer in denial and imagine a version of our father that wasn't the monster I knew him to be. Bile burns in my throat while nausea churns in my gut. The urge to destroy something—anything—claws at my insides. I want to pound my fists against a wall until my knuckles crack and bleed. I want to scream until my throat is shredded, raw and blistered.