I used to keep it in a drawer. Then it lived under my bed. Lately, I’ve carried it in my backpack—a secret I wasn’t ready to let go of. Until now.
I raised my fist to knock, but changed my mind and just turned the knob.
Dare lay on his bed, one arm slung over his forehead, earbuds in. He startled when the door opened, ripping one bud out as he sat up fast.
“What the hell, Tru?”
Without a word, I stepped in and placed the rock on his nightstand. Right beside his phone.
He stared at it like it might detonate any second. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Thank you,” I said softly.
His expression ran through a gamut of emotions—guilt, panic, anger. Dare recoiled as if the words burned him. “Take that shit back.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t want your fucking rock.”
“I want you to hold onto it for a little while. You can give it back to me some other time.”
The silence between us stretched until it felt like a wire pulled taut.
He glanced at the rock. “What are you thanking me for?” he snapped.
“For finally having the courage to stand up for me,” I answered. “Even if you made sure no one knew it was you.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Something sad and broken. He hated being seen like this.
“I promise,” I added, quieter now, “I’ll try to make better choices. About who I date.”
Dare’s throat worked like he was swallowing glass, but he didn't say anything. I took a step back toward the door.
“You can keep hating me if you need to,” I said. “But I don’t hate you. Even now.”
The last expression I caught on his face before I left was confusion.
CHAPTER 18
DARE
The past doesn’t let go just because somebody decided to grow up.
My father had becomesomeone different. Someone better. And it’d only taken him seventeen years.
Gone was the man who spent most of my childhood sitting behind a newspaper or a computer screen, tossing me the occasional “Atta boy” like spare change. In his place was this smiling, apron-wearing, family-man version of Clark fucking Griswold, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to get to know this new dad. Because let’s be honest, it wasn’t for me.
It was for Charlotte.
He came home from work on time now so he could have dinner with hisfamily.No more working through the weekend. No more barking phone calls or missed birthdays. He took Charlotte out on dates, fired up the grill, being somesuburban fantasy cliché while Tru swam laps in the pool, the favored son he’d always been. And sometimes, when hell froze over, he even showed up for my soccer games. He sat in the bleachers as if he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged.
Up until recently, I’d bet money the man couldn’t even tell you my jersey number.
At night, he made time to sit down with us and watch TV as a normal, functioning family unit. It was awkward as hell. Not because anyone did anything wrong. Just because I didn’t fit. I didn’t belong in the picture frame.
Everywhere I went in this house, I ran into someone I didn’t want to—my dad, Tru, with his soft voice and wounded eyes, moving through the house on silent feet, trying not to stir memories.
And Charlotte… God, Charlotte. She looked at me like she knew. As if she could see right through my skin, into the tangled mess I was trying to pretend didn’t exist. Not because I was invisible, but because shesaw.Really saw.
