We're different people now. Life has turned us into strangers wearing familiar faces. Part of me thinks it's better, safer, to keep my distance. But being close to her this morning stirred something I thought I'd buried. Four fucking minutes in her presence made me feel more than I have in the past year.

My sanity is hanging by a thread.

Navigating this house is second nature—I know exactly where Farrah's dad stashes the good scotch. Even on a normal day, this lake house feels suffocating, steeped in too many memories of a past that's long gone. Add a crowd into the mix, including one girl who can barely stand the sight of me, and it's like being caged while the air is thick with unresolved tension.

I lean over the bar, pouring four-hundred-dollar scotch into a plastic cup. There's something poetically tragic about that. I down it quickly, then pour another. The liquid burns, but it's not enough to cauterize the wounds I'm trying to ignore.

"Nate! What the fuck?" Farrah's slurred shout cuts through the music. She's drunk, eyes glassy, barely keeping herself upright. "Why haven't you been answering my calls?"

Despite her disheveled state, she looks immaculate—not a hair out of place.

Perfect.

Fake.

The touch I once craved now feels hollow, like touching a mannequin instead of skin.

"Been busy," I mutter, my patience wearing thin.

"Busy doing what?"

"Busy, Farrah," I snap back. She leans in for a kiss—it's rough and desperate, tasting of vodka and neediness.

"I missed you, baby. You seem on edge," she murmurs against my lips, her arms tightening around my neck. "Let me help you relax." Her eyes lock onto mine, fierce and trying too hard. She licks her lips, a clear play for seduction that feels more mechanical than passionate.

"Farrah—" I start, but she's already sliding her hands down my jeans. The frustration I feel isn't the kind that leads anywhere pleasurable.

I grab her hand firmly. "No."

She reels back, confusion and hurt flooding her eyes.

"No? What is going on with you? You don't reply to my texts, you ignore my calls, now you don't even want to fuck me?" Her voice rises, drawing stares like moths to a flame.

"You're right, I don't want to fuck you, so drop it," I growl, shrugging off her hand and taking another swig of scotch.

She scoffs. "Well, that wasn't a few days ago.”

My mind reels back to that dismal three-day bender—David's death anniversary and the last disastrous encounter with Scott, whom I can't bring myself to call Dad anymore. Farrah was the perfect distraction then. Farrah, booze, and pills: a destructive cycle I'm not proud of.

"I need some air," I mutter, snatching the scotch bottle from the bar and making for the pool area before anyone can follow me with their empty fucking small talk.