“No.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “But you're not alone in this, Del. You've got me. Whether you're with Troy or not, whether you fix this or not—you've got me.”
The words hit me harder than I expect, a fresh wave of tears blurring my vision. Because maybe that's what I've been most afraid of all along—being truly, completely alone. Unloved. Unwanted.
“I don't deserve you,” I say.
“Bullshit.” Lacey stands, pulling me up with her. “You absolutely deserve people who love you. And I do. And I'm pretty sure Troy does too, even if he wants to strangle you right now.”
I let out a watery laugh.
“Now go shower,” she says, giving me a gentle push. “I'll order pizza.”
“Lacey?” I call as she turns to leave.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For coming. For...”
“Being your friend?”
I nod, throat tight.
She smiles, soft and understanding. “Always, Del. Always.”
As I stand under the hot water, washing away days ofgrief and self-pity, I think about what she said. About patterns. About walls. About deserving love.
I don't know if I can fix things with Troy. I don't know if I'm brave enough to really let someone in, to risk everything on the chance that maybe, just maybe, he won't leave.
But for the first time, I want to try. Not just with Troy, but with everyone who's been trying to love me while I've been busy pushing them away.
I want to try.
38
TROY
I've been staring at the ceiling for two hours when I finally decide: fuck this.
Fuck moping. Fuck feeling sorry for myself. Fuck caring so much about someone who clearly doesn't want me around.
“Ethan!” I shout, rolling off my bed and yanking my door open. “You busy tonight?”
There's a pause, then the sound of his door creaking. His head pops out, hair sticking up like he's been napping. “Uh, no? Why?”
“We're going out.” I clap my hands together, forcing a grin so wide it almost hurts. “Time to remind this campus who we are.”
Ethan's eyes widen, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Seriously? Fuck yes! I've been waiting for you to snap out of it.”
“Snap out of what?”
“The whole...” he waves a hand vaguely, “lovesick routine.”
I scoff, leaning against the wall. “Lovesick? Me? Please.”
“You've been moping around the house for days, dude.”
“I don't mope,” I say, moving past him toward the bathroom. “I strategically retreat to regroup.”
“Whatever you say.”
