He grins, a flash of the old Ethan breaking through. “Heartbreak makes philosophers of us all, bro.”
I laugh, genuinely this time. “I'm scared,” I admit. “What if I put myself out there again and she just... bolts?”
“Then you'll be exactly where you are right now. Except you'll know you tried.” He stands, offering me a hand up. “Worst case scenario, you end up sitting on a wall with me in a couple days, talking about your feelings.”
I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. “That doesn't sound so bad, actually.”
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn't.”
I look back toward the house, thinking about Delilah. About what it would take to make things right between us. I'm going to do it, I decide right then.
Not tonight. Because first, I need to be there for Ethan. And then I need to figure out what I actually want to say to her—not some half-assed apology or desperate plea. Something that shows I've learned from all this. I need a plan.
The right moment. The right words.
I’m going fix things with her, but not yet.
There's another relationship in my life I need to work on first. One I've been avoiding for too long.
We head back toward the house, but neither of us seems eager to go inside.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask. “Grab some food or something?”
“God, yes,” Ethan says with feeling. “I'd rather eat my own foot than watch Paige play tonsil hockey with Beard Guy.”
I throw an arm around his shoulders. “Burgers it is, then.”
The house isquiet the next morning. Too quiet.
Everyone’s passed out or ghosted off to some hangover brunch. My room still smells like sweat, beer, and the faint trace of someone's Axe body spray from two parties ago. I should shower. Should eat. Should maybe answer the seven texts from Ethan asking if I can make breakfast burritos.
Instead, I stare at my phone.
The message is still there.
Dad
Call me when you’re ready.
I’ve been “not ready” for a decade.
But last night with Ethan… something shifted. I watched someone break open, admit they still believed in love, even after it crushed them. I saw someonetry, even knowing it might hurt. And for the first time in forever, I wondered what it might look like to stop keeping score.
So I hit call.
It rings once. Twice.
“Troy?” he answers, voice tentative, like he’s not sure I meant to dial.
“Hey,” I say, already regretting it. But I don’t hang up.
There’s a beat of silence. “Wow. Uh. Hi.”
I lean back in my chair, stare at the water stain on the ceiling. “I saw your message.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d ever call.”
“Yeah, well. I wasn’t sure either.”
