I didn’t want a party. Didn’t want cake or candles or anything that might require pretending I was excited to celebrate, but Mom insisted. She baked my favorite—strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting—and invitedhimover.
Not just Darien. Him and his dad.
“They’re family,” she said, brushing powdered sugar off her hands. “It’s just a small thing. Try to be gracious, sweetheart.”
Gracious. Right. They hadn’t been family in almost two years, but in that time, the dissolution of my friendship with Dare had been replaced by a budding relationship between my mom and John, Dare’s dad.
I wanted to say,Why can’t it just be us? Like it used to be?Before the dinners and the dates. Beforehestarted coming over and taking up space. Before his smile stopped feeling like home.
But I didn’t say anything. I just nodded, went to my room, and stayed there until the doorbell rang.
John Carter was polite, as always. Flashing his straight white-tooth lawyer smile as if this was some networking event. He greeted my mom with that court-polished charisma he probably practiced in front of a mirror. He handed her a bottle of wine, held his smile too long, and said, “You’re doing an amazing job with Truen. He’s turning into quite the young man.”
I stared at the floor and tried not to gag.
“How’s school, Truen? Your mom says you’re taking art this semester.”
“I am.” Just like every semester. It wasn’t news.
“Good, good. That’s good. It's always important to have a creative outlet. Your generation’s gonna reinvent everything, I just know it.”
He had no idea what I wanted to reinvent, and didn’t care enough to ask.
Darien barely said a word. Just slouched in the chair across from me at the table, one elbow propped, one leg bouncing. Hekept staring, trying to burn holes through my forehead with his eyes. Maybe he thought if he stared hard enough, I’d break down and say something first.
But I didn’t. I’d already given him everything once. I wasn’t handing him more.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I excused myself to the bathroom. I didn’t have to go. I just needed to breathe. To stop shaking.
And when I came back,I brought it with me.
John made small talk with me during dinner. Asked about school. About art. About if I was thinking about applying to magnet programs or art camp in the summer.
I answered in clipped sentences and looked everywhere but at Darien. The food tasted like sawdust in my mouth. My mom tried to hold the conversation afloat, cheerful and unbothered, pretending she hadn’t noticed the undercurrent of tension strangling every breath between us.
Darien was quiet the whole time. Not breathing a single word. Not until Mom dimmed the lights and brought out the cake.
"Make a wish," she said, smiling at me like she still believed in wishes.
I stared at the flickering flames before closing my eyes. The kitchen felt too small. The air too thick. Darien’s gaze pressed against the side of my face like a threat.
The rock in my pocket burned against my thigh.
I wished he meant it.
I wished he hadn’t ruined everything.
I wished I hadn’t let him.
I blew out the candle, and a second later, pain bloomed in my shin, hot and mean. I flinched hard. Darien’s foot landed with deliberate sharpness.
My fork slipped and hit the plate with a clang. I looked up at his cruel face. No smirk. No warning. Just his dark eyes locked on me. As if he’d felt the wish leave my lungs, heard it rattle in my bones, and decided I didn’t deserve it.
Darien leaned back in his chair like nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just struck a match to see if I’d still burn. And the worst part? I did.
Reaching into my pocket, I curled my fingers around the smooth, cold stone. I pulled it out and laid it next to his plate, silent as a death sentence.
He froze. His dad didn’t notice, just kept talking to my mom, laughing about something I didn’t care to understand.
