I don't know what to say. This side of Troy—vulnerable, angry, hurt—is so different from the confident, easy-going guy I thought I knew.
“I'm sorry,” I say finally. “That really sucks.”
He laughs, and this time it’s softer. More real. “Yeah. It really does.”
We fall into silence. The car hums gently beneath us, the air cooling, the windows starting to fog just a little at the edges. His profile in the dim light is all clean lines and quiet sadness, like he’s just a little more human than usual. Guard down. Edges softened. It makes something in my chest twist.
After a beat, he glances at me. “What about your dad?”
I shrug. “Never met him. He was gone before I was born.”I pause, then add automatically, “Can’t miss what you never had, right?”
It’s a line I’ve said so many times I could almost believe it. But Troy looks at me like he’s already heard the lie in it.
“You can, though,” he says quietly. “You can miss the idea of them. The possibility.”
My throat tightens.
“Maybe,” I say, and then, before I can stop myself, more slips out.
“It’s always just been me and my mom. And I use that term loosely. She was there, technically. But mostly it was a revolving door of boyfriends who didn’t know my name and left before they could. I was background noise. Something in the way.”
I stare out the window, jaw tight.
“I got good at being invisible. At staying out of the way. At not expecting much. Holidays, birthdays, whatever—some years she showed up, some years I ate cereal on the floor. It stopped mattering after a while. Eventually, you just learn not to want things.”
Troy’s still watching me. Not with pity. Just... with this quiet intensity, like he’s holding space for me to keep going.
“And I think,” I say slowly, “that’s why I get so wrapped up in proving myself. If I don’t say it loud enough, if I’m not useful enough, smart enough, then no one notices I’m there. I just... disappear.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it.
I clear my throat and look away again.
The silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like understanding. Like shared ache.
“I get it now why you're always taking care of everyone,” I say, the realization hitting me. “Why you go out of your wayto be reliable. To be there when people need you. Like me needing a ride.”
Troy's eyes widen slightly, like I've surprised him.
“I guess,” he admits. “Never really thought about it that way.”
“And why you're so protective of Tara.”
He nods. “All those years thinking Dad was just busy, when really he just... didn't want to be with us. That does something to a kid.”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking of my own mother's comings and goings. “It does.”
He looks at me for a long moment, like he's trying to figure something out. The heat in the car is dying, but I feel warm everywhere his gaze touches.
“What?” I ask, voice lower than I intended.
“Nothing. Just... I've never really talked about this with anyone before. I'm sorry, I hope it's not too much.”
“It's not,” I reassure him fast, placing a hand on his arm. The muscle beneath my fingers is solid, warm even through his jacket. We're still waiting outside my place and neither have made a move to adjust. “But…why me?”
He shrugs, but his eyes don't leave mine. “I don't know. You're easy to talk to.”
