“I was standing up for you back there,” he snarls, yanking the van door open with a sharp metallic pop. The sound cracks through the night like a gunshot. “You should be thanking me.”
My shoulders sag, the fight draining out of me all at once. “I didn’t ask you to stand up for me. I don’t need you to be my knight in shining armor.”
His mouth twists into a pained scowl. “If you expect me to sit there and smile politely while your dad questions your intelligence, then you picked the wrong guy to date.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “You overstepped. You can’t talk to my dad like that.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “So I’m just supposed to sit there while he tears you down?”
“I can handle my dad.” My hands ball at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “I’ve been handling him my whole life.”
“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you,” he snaps.
“I’m not asking you to.” My voice wavers despite my best effort. “I’m asking you to trust me to fight my own fights.”
He shakes his head and climbs into the driver’s seat. “I willneverlet anyone talk about you like that,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. The engine chokes once, then rumbles to life. He looks me dead in the eye and adds, “Especially not your own father.”
The headlights flare on, washing me in harsh white light.
“Wait.” I step closer to the open window, my pulse scrambling. “Troy, wait.”
He grips the steering wheel, jaw clenched.
“Come back to my place,” I say quickly. “Please. We can talk this out. I know we’re both angry. Just—don’t leave like this.”
He keeps his gaze fixed on the windshield, refusing to look at me.
“I can’t,” he says finally, voice low. “Not right now.”
My stomach drops. “Troy—”
“We both need to cool off,” he cuts in. “If we keep talking, we’re just going to say worse shit. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He shifts the van into reverse.
“Please,” I beg again, my voice softer now.
But he’s already looking past me, checking his mirrors.
The tires spin against the gravel as he backs up fast, too fast, then jerks the wheel and peels out of the driveway. The roar of the engine splits the quiet night, gravel spraying, dirt billowing up into a thick cloud that swallows the taillights as they disappear down the road.
Dust slowly settles around me, the night returning to its heavy, suffocating stillness.
Luke’s living room smells like grease, a half-empty pizza box rotting cold on the coffee table in front of us. The curtains are half-drawn, moonlight slanting across the TV screen where pixelated soldiers sprint through a bombed-out city.
He bought the game today—some brand-new first-person shooter that “everyone online is losing their minds over.” Apparently that includes him. I couldn’t sleep after everything that happened at dinner, so when he invited me over to play it with him, I happily accepted the chance at a distraction.
We’re sprawled on opposite ends of his couch, controllers in hand, a six-pack sweating on the coffee table between us.
I purposely grabbed one of the cheap beers from the very back of my fridge before I came over. The kind I only keep around for guests who don’t care what they’re drinking. I left Troy’s craft brews lined up neatly on the middle shelf where they belong.
I couldn’t stomach the idea of drinking one.
The first sip is sharp and metallic. Bitter in a way that coats my tongue instead of settling smooth. I swallow anyway, chasing the burn, hoping it’ll dull the pounding in my head and the steady ache lodged beneath my ribs.
I’ve gotten used to Troy’s beer—the citrus notes, the clean finish, the way you can practically taste the care and craftsmanship poured into every drop. Now nothing else compares.
On-screen, gunfire erupts in a staccato burst.
“Are you kidding me?!” Luke shouts as his character takes a sniper round and collapses in dramatic slow motion. “What the hell was that? I was behind cover!”
