The Sullivans could have sold this house years ago, upgraded to something grander, more polished. But this place—with its worn edges and imperfect charm—has something money can't buy: it feels loved, lived in, real. It's my favorite spot in the world. The walls remain that same soft off-white they've always been, unchanged even after Lydia's redecorating phase. Every photo on the mantle stays exactly where it's always been, holding my memories in place.
Bones, my battle-scarred stuffed toy from Dad—a gift after I broke my ankle the summer I turned twelve—watches me from the bed, his button eyes somehow managing to look judgmental.
"Don't look at me like that, Bones."
Great, now I'm talking to a stuffed animal out loud.
"Talking to stuffed animals again, are we?" Jake's voice cuts through my reverie, warm and familiar.
"I think Bones is mad I left him behind," I reply, nodding toward the toy.
Jake's laugh feels like sunshine breaking through clouds, instantly lifting the heaviness from the room. "He probably just missed you. Give him time," he suggests, his presence as comforting as always.
He leans against the doorframe with that easy grace of his, and I can't help but notice how much he's changed too. The gym selfies he's been sending don't do justice to the athlete he's become. His shoulders have broadened, muscles defined by countless hours in the pool. Even at rest, his stance radiates quiet confidence. His sun-bronzed skin tells stories of early morning practices and dedication that's finally paying off.
"All settled in?" he asks, his eyes meeting mine with that grounding steadiness that's so uniquely Jake.
"I guess you could say that," I respond, gesturing to my half-hearted unpacking attempt.
He settles onto the bed, immediately making himself at home in a way that feels right, natural. His fingers find Bones' floppy ears, fidgeting with them as he speaks.
"So, tell me everything I missed."
"What do you mean? You know everything," I say, genuinely puzzled. We've stayed connected—texts, calls, those ridiculous gym selfies.
"I think you're the one who needs to do the catching up. Duke?" I prod, watching color rise in his cheeks.
He brushes the back of his neck, that endearing humility surfacing whenever someone mentions his achievements. "Uh yeah, it's pretty cool, I guess..."
I can't help but laugh, playfully smacking his chest. Getting into Duke's swim program has been his dream since forever. Everyone who knows Jake knows this.
"Ow!" He rubs the spot where my hand connected, though we both know I barely fazed him. "What was that for?"
I slap his chest again, harder this time. "For being ridiculous. I'm trying to knock some sense into you."
"You don't get it," he sighs, still playing with Bones' ears. "The guys at Duke swim at an Olympic pace. Everything's so cutthroat." A shadow crosses his face. "I'm not even sure I'll be able to stay on the team next year."
Another slap, this one meaning business.
"Ow, fuck! Shit, Nora."
"You, Jacob Sullivan, are not a quitter. And you don't back down from jocks in pretentious speedos."
"I have to wear those pretentious speedos too, you know," he points out. "What's that say about me?"
"You're an idiot." I ruffle his sun-bleached hair, lighter now from endless hours of training. "I don't care how fast those jackasses are, they're not you. You've been working toward this your whole life, Jake. It's yours for the taking."
His laugh starts small but grows into that full-bodied sound I've missed so much. "Did you just call them jackasses?"
We dissolve into laughter, and the familiar warmth of our friendship wraps around me like a favorite blanket. God, I've missed this—missed him.
He stands suddenly, squaring his shoulders with mock solemnity. "Clear your schedule for tomorrow morning," he announces, mischief dancing in his eyes.
"I've been here fifteen minutes. What plans could I possibly have made?"
"True. Well, tomorrow morning is just about us.” His excitement proves contagious.
"Should I be worried?"
