And I hated myself for it. But not enough to stop.
The clink of silverware, the low hum of conversation, the sound ofhisvoice. That’s what I heard. That’sallI heard.
Tru sat across the table, elbow grazing the salt shaker, eyes bright as he told some story about his art teacher. The one who encouraged him to submit his portfolio to the student exhibit in Raleigh. He mentioned a scholarship.
My fork paused halfway to my mouth.
Charlotte beamed like he’d just cured cancer. My dad—mydad—nodded and said, “That’s incredible, Son. You’ve got real talent.”
Son.
NotDare. Notme.
And Tru went on and on. About how his art was evolving. About what it felt like to be seen. I hadn’t even known he was thinking of pursuing his art as a career.
I hadn’t knownanyof it.
It was so strange to realize the person you once told everything to had become a stranger.
I didn’t look up, but I heard every word, felt every beat of it like splinters working deeper under my skin. The fork in my hand twisted against my fingers until the prongs dug into my palm. Tru kept going, animated and flushed, eating up the attention as if he was starved for it. Maybe he was. Maybe I was, too. But no one asked me about soccer. No one asked me about anything.
Tru talked about his art portfolio like we weren’t both sixteen and still trying to figure out who we were. Must be nice to have it all figured out. To have a talent and a plan for something that makes you feel good about yourself. Something with purpose. A calling. I was called to be my father’s clone. To follow in his footsteps and be just like him.
Fuck Tru.
The way he sat there, surrounded by praise, just made it worse. As though I was watching him from behind soundproof glass, a hundred miles away, and still at the same table. And for a second—a fleeting moment—something inside mesplintered. My throat tightened. My eyes burned. I didn’t cry. Of course, I didn’t cry. Probably because I was too startled by the sudden onset of emotions.
Instead, I grabbed my glass and slammed it down hard enough to make everyone flinch. The table jumped. Water sloshed onto my plate. All three of them turned toward me.
“What?” I snapped. “Didn’t realize dinner came with a show?”
No one said anything. I shoved back from the table so hardthe chair scraped across the tile, then stood and stalked out of the kitchen before I did something even more humiliating—feelanything at all.
I didn’t stop walking until I hit the back porch. The screen door slammed behind me, shaking in its frame. My pulse hammered in my ears, loud enough to drown out reason.
I gripped the railing and stared into the dark yard. The pool glowed faintly, water still as glass. My reflection looked back at me—blurry, fractured, like even the night didn’t know what to make of me.
I inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass and chlorine and blew out a deep breath.
The door creaked again.
“Dare?”
Charlotte’s soft voice cut through the noise in my head. She stepped onto the porch, smoothing wisps of honey-blonde hair that had fallen from her messy knot.
“Don’t,” I muttered, still facing the yard. “I already know what you’re gonna say.”
She came closer, arms folded. “I doubt it.”
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the song of crickets and the distant hum of the pool filter’s motor.
“I’m not like you,” she said finally. “I don’t walk away when things get hard.”
My throat tightened. “You think that’s what I did?”
She hesitated. “I know that’s what you did.”
Her accusation stole my next breath.
