And that was enough to keep me choosing the loudest, goriest ones, just to see how long he’d keep choosing me back in his own quiet way.
Apparently, there was no limit to what he'd brave for me. And I loved that about him. That he’d sit through hours of monsters and fake blood just because I asked.
My dad would’ve hated it. He always rolled his eyes when I came back from the movies with Tru. “Why don’t you take a girl like a normal boy?” he’d say, as if going with him was something I should be ashamed of.
When it wasn’t movies, we were swimming in his backyard pool. I’d cannonball off the edge and try to splash him, and he’d pretend to hate it, even though he always laughed. His mom made lemonade and grilled cheese after every single time. I never asked why she didn’t get sick of it.
I just kept showing up.
The best part, though, the part I looked forward to every day, was the field at the end of our street. The one with all the weeds and half-poured sidewalks. Some construction company had run out of money or permits or something, and just left it behind like a forgotten promise.
My older brother and his friends dragged scrap wood out there and built a crooked skateboard ramp. Nails stuck out inplaces, and it creaked when you walked on it. It was totally unsafe, a tetanus nightmare.
Which made it perfect.
Tru and I would crawl underneath and hide. The air was always cooler there, even in July. We thought hiding under there made us invincible, like nobody could touch us if we stayed small enough, quiet enough. It smelled of dirt and sun-baked wood and secrets. He brought Sharpies in every color and drew on the support beams—dragons, wolves, spaceships, made-up logos for fake bands he said we were going to start someday.
One time, I asked why he never drew people.
He didn’t answer for a long time. Just kept tracing the curve of a tail on something with wings.
Then he said, “People don’t stay.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I picked up a red Sharpie and wrote our names on the lowest beam.
Tru + Dare
NO GIRLS ALLOWED
He smiled at that.
I liked his smile. It was soft, but rusty. He didn’t show it to just anyone. I started trying to earn it every day—a little reward only I got to keep.
And when I crawled under that ramp with Tru—just the two of us, knees tucked close, Sharpie ink on our hands—the world stopped spinning so fast. We could stay there forever, just hiding from everything.
I didn’t know what it meant yet, the way my chest felt full and hollow at the same time when I looked at him.
I just knew thatunder the ramp, Tru was mine.
Sometimes I’d stay for dinner and never want to leave. The light in his kitchen was always warm. His mom played music while she cooked, humming along under her breath. At the Jameson house, I could be myself. The loud, uncouth version my mom never approved of. We told jokes and laughed. Gossiped about our classmates. Even Ms. Jameson joined in, telling us about some of the gossip from her office.
Nobody yelled.
Nobody hid.
Nobody asked why I wasn’t chasing girls.
It was just the three of us. There was a strange kind of peace in that. Maybe that’s how it was when you didn’t have a dad.
At my house, my dad was always late. My mom slammed cabinet doors like they’d insulted her. I wasn’t allowed to talk back. I wasn’t allowed to talkmuchat all. But at Tru’s? I could justbe.
I think that’s why I started pretending I forgot to ask for a ride. Why I stopped texting my mom to pick me up and told her I was going home with Tru. I learned exactly how long I could stay before Tru’s mom would say, “Honey, you want to just spend the night?”
I always did.
Leaving Tru’s house always felt like stepping out of a dream. By the time I walked through my own front door, the spell was gone, the warmth and peace of his kitchen dissipating like fog over the welcome mat.
The air here was stiff and quiet, the kind of silence that only came after a fight. Not during—during was loud, plates rattling in the sink, voices sharp enough to cut. But afterward? It was as if the whole house held its breath.
