I turned away too fast, heart a mess of heat and bile. Amira caught my arm and tugged me toward the drink table.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Fine.”
She gave me a look. “The kind of fine that means ‘I might torch this whole party’ or the regular kind?”
I didn’t answer. Behind me, Dare laughed. Not the fake sound he used on the soccer team. The real one. The one I used to know.
I hated how much I missed it.
Somewhere along the line, Dare and I had reached a kind of peace, or maybe just exhaustion. We’d learned how to live with the distance between us, the silence, the careful avoidance. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was something close to survival. A cease-fire built on the promise that it would all be over soon. Graduation. College. Distance.
But now, that illusion had gone up in flames. The hell we’d buried was back—fresh, raw, and seemingly endless. Every look, every breath between us stirred up old resentment like smoke from a fire that was never fully snuffed out.
I couldn’t take four more years of this bullshit. I wouldn’t survive it.
Why in God’s name had I applied to his second-choice school? He was right, the art program was second-rate. Not terrible, but there were other schools with better funding, better mentorship, better everything. So why had I followed him?
Was it habit? A leftover instinct from years of tracking his orbit?
Was it fear? Of going somewhere he wasn’t, where the ache might actually be louder than the silence we’d practiced?
Or was it something worse—something pathetic—like hope?
Hope that if we ended up in the same place again, he’d finally see me. Not the kid from the ramp. Not his father’s wife’s son. Not the version of me that reminds him of the many reasons to hate himself.
Just me.
I didn’t like the answer. It made my chest tight. Because the truth was simple:
I didn’t follow Dare to torture him.
I followed him because part of me still believed he might turn around someday… and I wanted to be close enough to catch it if he did.
Pathetic. Delusional. Stupid.
But also true.
Thunder cracked, and the sky split open. In seconds, I was soaked to the bone. Mom yelled about the patio table with the food being drenched. Everyone rushed inside, covering their heads. But I only saw Dare.
He stood on the deck, head tilted back, letting the rain plaster his hair to his forehead. His shirt clung to him. His eyes were closed, mouth open to taste the downpour.
Something inside me snapped. I heard my own voice before I realized I’d shouted it.
“Dare!”
He turned, water streaming off his lashes, and for a moment the whole world was that look in his eyes—surprise, challenge, hope?
I stalked him like prey, sneakers squelching in the grass. Lightning flickered. Thunder shook the sky. The party vanished behind us, its music and laughter muffled by the storm.
He held up his hands, palms bowed, as if daring me to come closer. “What do you want, Tru?”
I stepped forward until the rain was pounding on my face, and I could smell the chlorine from the pool, the smoke from the fire pit, and the metallic tang of fear in my own chest. “I want?—”
He cut me off with a laugh that wasn’t mocking. It was soft, incredulous. “You want what?”
Words tangled in my throat. The split-second of bold daring and yearning that had straightened my spine crumbled under the steady beat of the rain. I took another step, close enough to see every drop on his skin.
