My dad and I talked for a long time today. It was hard watching him struggle to form words that used to come so easily. But he persisted and pushed through every syllable as if giving up wasn’t an option, even when his body was working against him. And I told him everything.
All about Jace. How he’s been there for me through everything—the way he took me to the hospital the day it happened, how he held me when I fell apart and didn’t let go, even when I soaked his shirt with tears.
I cried when I told my dad about the trailer, about the cold that seeps through the walls, the rust, the peeling paint, and how the whole structure looks like it might collapse in a strong gust of wind. I also told him how he has been alone since he was nine years old and how he has survived things that would have broken most people into pieces too small to put back together.
I’m not sure if I told my dad all of that because I really needed to talk about it or because a part of me knew exactly what would happen and do what he always does. See someone struggling and offer help without hesitation because my dad sees people the way I do. He does not judge them by what life throws at them, where they come from, or their past mistakes. He recognizes who they truly are underneath all of that. Not as the kid from the wrong side of town who will never achieve anything, but as someone worth saving—someone who deserves more than a rusted trailer and a life of loneliness.
That’s why he offered without hesitation, for Jace to take the spare room.
I stare at my phone again—at the empty screen mocking me with its silence—and I think about the promise he made me. Not once, but twice. The one he looked me straight in the eye and asked for, his voice steady and certain, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. As if he was asking me to pass the salt instead of carving out a piece of my heart and handing it to him with a smile.
Promise me nothing will change between us.And like an idiot, I agreed twice because I thought I could handle it. I was strong enough to keep things simple. Uncomplicated. Thought I could have him in whatever way he was willing to give and not need more.
It sounded safe at the time. A compromise we could both live with. But standing here now in this empty kitchen, staring at my phone while he ignores my calls, I realize just how cruel that promise really was.
How cruel I was to myself for making it, because everything has changed.
Somewhere between the hospital waiting rooms and the late-night drives and the way he held me when I fell apart, I stopped being able to pretend. Stopped being able to separate the physical from the emotional. Stopped being able to watch him walk away without feeling like he was taking pieces of me with him.
And now I am standing here realizing I did not just lose the rules we set. I lost him. His friendship. The easy way we used to talk to each other before everything got complicated. The way he would smirk at something sarcastic I said, that half-smile that made my stomach flip. How he would sit too close just to get a rise out of me, his leg pressed against mine like it was anaccident even though we both knew it was not. The way he used to look at me as if I mattered.
All of it is gone. Burned up in the aftermath of a promise I never should have made. That promise was never designed to protect both of us. It was designed to protect him. To give him an escape route. A way to keep me at arm’s length while still having me whenever he wanted. A safety net that only he gets to fall into.
And the cruelest part of it all?
Nothing has changed for Jace Cooper. He still does whatever he wants. Still disappears when things get too real. Walks down hallways with girls like Nicole trailing after him like he is some kind of prize.
But everything has changed for me.
I am not the girl I was before. The one who could laugh it off. Who did not care who he hooked up with or where he went or whether he texted back.
Now I am the girl sitting in an empty house waiting for someone who is never going to show up.
And that promise—that cruel, impossible promise—is the only thing keeping me from telling him the truth. That I am in love with him. And this is destroying me.
I grab my phone and call him.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
Then voicemail. His voice, low and bored, like he cannot be bothered to care about anything or anyone.
“Leave a message or don’t. I probably won’t listen to it anyway.”
The beep sounds and I hang up without saying a word, because what’s the point? What could I possibly say that would make him care? That would make him pick up the phone and talk tome as if I am not just another person he can ignore when it is convenient?
I call him a second time, my jaw clenched so tight it hurts. My thumb jabs at his contact photo—the one I took of him when he was not looking with that infuriating smirk on his face. The one that used to make me smile and now just makes my chest ache.
My fingers are shaking now. From anger or fear or some toxic combination of both, I cannot tell anymore.
“Pick up,” I mutter to the empty kitchen, my voice cracking on the words. “Pick up, you fucking asshole.”
This time it rings out completely. No voicemail. Just silence and then the automated message telling me the person I am trying to reach is unavailable.
No shit. Like I needed a robot voice to confirm what I already know.
