His smile fades just a little. He stabs at his stuffing. They continue talking about Tara’s future and I sense that this is a conversation that has been going on for some time.
The others don’t notice that Troy checked out as soon as his Dad was brought up, but I do.
I reach under the table and casually let my knee bump his. Not hard. Not pointed. Just enough to sayhey, I see you.
He glances over, a blink slower than usual, and gives me this quiet, grateful look. No words. Justthanks.
I give him a little shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it is. Even though it feels kind of massive, actually, to be able to show up for someone like this.
Claire, still mid-potato scoop, starts telling a story aboutTroy’s high school science fair, and just like that, the moment moves on. But not before I feel his hand brush against mine under the table and stay there.
And yeah. I squeeze it back.
After dinner, Troy and I are assigned dish duty while Claire and Tara prepare dessert. Standing beside him at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands occasionally brushing as we pass plates back and forth, I feel something dangerous growing in my chest.
“You're quiet,” Troy observes, bumping his hip against mine. “Food coma setting in?”
“Just thinking,” I say.
“Uh-oh.”
I flick soapy water at him. “Shut up.”
He laughs, leaning closer. “Seriously, though. You okay?”
I shrug, scrubbing harder than necessary at a fork. “It’s just... this. Your family. Dinner. Being here. It’s a lot.”
His brows pull together. “Too much?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Weirdly... not enough. Like, it’s unsettling how much I liked it. Like my brain’s trying to prepare for the inevitable disaster because this feels too... normal.”
Troy’s quiet. But not in a bad way. Just listening.
“And I know I haven’t earned any of this,” I add, voice lower now. “But I want to. Be part of it, I mean.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just passes me another plate, slower this time.
“You kinda already are,” he says.
And damn him, that does something to my ribcage.
We work in silence for a minute. The clink of dishes. The faint sound of Tara yelling at a movie character in the next room. Then, because I’m apparently broken in the head and incapable of letting a moment be nice, I continue and blurt out what’s been on my mind.
“Also... earlier. With Tara’s comment about your dad.”
His shoulders tense.
“I don’t know what the whole deal is,” I continue, carefully. “And I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you or force you into anything.”
He snorts. “Appreciated.”
“But,” I say, rinsing the last plate, “if there’s any part of you that wants to... I don’t know. Un-mess things with him? Even a little? You should.”
He hands me a towel without looking at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I dry my hands and lean against the counter. “Because…well, nobody’severcared what I did. No one sent me college brochures, let alone PhD programs. If someone did? Even if it was annoying? I’d probably cry and frame the email.”
He huffs a laugh but doesn’t look up.
