Chapter 9
DARE
The cruelest lies are the ones we tell ourselves, because once you believe them, you’ll bleed just to make them true.
I watched the tray hit the floor.
Watched his eyes go wide and his hands go still.
Watched the cafeteria go quiet, as if the world itself paused to watch him fall apart.
I moved to stand, but I don’t even remember deciding to. My body just acted, like some part of me still remembered how to be his friend. Muscle Memory. Then Caleb’s hand hit my shoulder.
“Yo,” he laughed, loud and cruel, pointing. “Your boyfriend’s a goddamn disaster.”
Everyone laughed with him. So I sat back down. Pretended I hadn’t moved. Pretended I hadn’t felt something splinter apart in my chest.
I laughed, too. Not because it was funny. Because it was easier. Because one wrong move and they’d turn on me. One wrong look and they’d know. Know something I don’t even know myself, not really. Not in any way that makes sense.
I didn’t like boys. I didn’t. I wasn’t him. I wasn’t allowed to be.
What happened in that closet was nothing. Just a stupid dare. Just a kiss that meant shit. I didn’t want it. I didn’t mean for my body to react like that. I didn’t ask for the thoughts that came afterward.
And if they knew, if anyone saw how I looked at him sometimes when he wasn’t watching, or how I remembered the shape of his mouth in the dark… They’d never let me forget it. They’d laugh louder than they did today. They’d destroy me.
And what would my father say? Or my brother, who wanted to be just like him?
So, I kept my mouth shut. Let Tru pick up the pieces alone. Let him run from the room with his shoulders hunched and his heart probably cracked clean open.
I could still feel his eyes on me. Still see the way he looked at me when I didn’t come to help. Like I’d kicked him in the teeth. Good. He deserved to hurt.
He was the one who’d ruined everything. He kissed me back. He made it weird. He made it stick. He planted the thought in my head, and now I couldn’t scrub it out. As if tar was under my skin.
I hated him for that.
I hated the way he made me feel—twisted, messed up, like I was wrong in ways I didn’t have words for. And more than anything, I hated that I still looked for him.
I thought pushing Tru away would keep me whole, but I’d never felt emptier.
That’s when the transformation started. I woke up one morning and decided I was done bleeding in silence.
If they were going to see me, they’d see what I wanted them to see: the easy smile, the swagger, the flirting, the jokes. They’d never see what lived underneath.
I smiled at girls in the hallway. Called them “baby” and “sweetheart” and let them laugh at things I barely said. Let them think I was a sure bet. Let them believe I wanted them. And every time one of them touched my arm, I flinched so subtly no one noticed but me.
That was the point. No one could notice anymore.
I started sitting closer to the front of class, where teachers noticed charm more than effort. I got better at saying nothing that sounded like everything. I wore cologne I hated, styled my hair too perfect. Walked as if I knew something no one else did. Like I had nothing to prove.
And every time I passed Tru in the hallway, I made sure to say something that would gut him.
A threat disguised as a warning. “Watch where you walk. The floors can be slippery.”
A cutting snub. “Oh look, it’s Tru. Guess they’ll let anyone into honors English now.”
Or an outright taunt. “Try not to cry today, yeah?”
The other guys laughed, but Tru didn’t say anything. He just blinked slowly, like it cost him something to even look at me. Good. I needed to be the bad guy in his story. It was the only way I could survive being the ghost in mine.
Because the truth?
Every time I saw someone smile at him—really smile, because they saw something beautiful there—something sharp crawled up my spine. I didn’t want him to be okay. I wanted him to be as broken as I felt.
So, I flirted with Lauren. Asked her what she saw in guys like him.
I said it as a joke, but I knew what I was doing.
And when I saw him sketching quietly by himself in the courtyard during lunch, I walked by and “accidentally” knocked his pencil case to the ground.
Kicked it out of reach and said, “Oops.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just looked up at me with those calm, distant eyes, like I’d already been erased from whatever part of him I used to live in. The quiet was worse than anger. Worse than hate. It was nothing—and I couldn’t stand it.
The panic clawed at me, sharp and wild. I had to matter. Somehow.
So I leaned down, close enough that only he would hear, and said, “Bet you regret kissing me now.”
The words hit the air before I could stop them, bitter and reckless. I didn’t wait for his reaction. I couldn’t. I walked away fast, my pulse thrumming as if I’d just set fire to something I couldn’t put out.
I thought I’d won.
After weeks of wearing him down, turning every hallway glance into a bruise, I thought he’d finally cracked for good. Until I saw him smile. It wasn’t much, a flicker, quick and small, but it was enough to know I was losing a losing battle.
He was sitting under that tree in the courtyard again, but this time someone was with him, some kid from his art class, I think. Tall, too cool to be talking to someone like Tru. And yet… he was… talking, laughing.
And Tru laughed back. I didn’t hear the sound, but I felt it, as if it was aimed right at me. Something cold and sick slithered under my skin. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached.
I couldn’t look away.
The way he tilted his head when he laughed, the way he ducked it because he was shy. He never used to do that with me. With me, he never looked away. And now Tru was smiling for someone else.
Like I hadn’t wrecked him. Like I’d never mattered. Like he was free.
And I envied him for it. Envied him for getting better. For finding something to laugh at. For healing in places I was still bleeding.
And maybe that’s all we’d ever be now, his freedom and my regret.
I just wanted a piece of whatever he’d found. Even a crumb of it. Just enough to feel I hadn’t lost everything. I’d only hurt him to save myself, but truthfully, I wasn’t sure there was anything left worth saving.
I made it through the rest of the day with a joke on my tongue and bile in my throat. I laughed with Caleb and the guys, like everything was fine, like I wasn’t crumbling under my skin.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat on my bedroom floor, knees to my chest, staring at the journal I hadn’t touched in months.
I had learned to write in it when I needed to make sense of my head.
Now I just wanted to smash it against the wall.
I opened it anyway. Thumbed through old pages and notes, memories, a few poems I’d never admit to writing.
Then I found the page with his name.
Truen Jameson.
Written and rewritten.
Crossed out.
Carved back in.
I tore it out. Crumpled it in my fist. But I didn’t throw it away. I just sat there in the dark, holding the name I wasn’t allowed to want.
And when the tears came, I told myself it was anger. I swore it was just anger.
Because I didn’t miss him. I didn’t still want him. And I sure as hell wasn’t broken over a fucking kiss in a closet.
Except I was. And I didn’t know how to stop being broken.
The mask I’d created fit better than my own skin, and that scared me more than anything.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from my brother lit the screen.
How’s it going? Dad? School? Soccer?
I stared at it, thumb hovering. Then I typed back the same lie I always did.
Good. Everything’s fine.
A minute later:
Fine? That’s it? You always say that.
My jaw tightened. I typed,
Yeah. Busy. Practice every day. Coach says I’m improving.
Another buzz.
And Dad? He still riding you?
Admitting it would’ve split me wide open, so I swallowed it down. Then I forced my thumbs to move.
Nah. He’s good. Just… you know, Dad.
Three dots blinked as if my brother was deciding whether to push. Then:
You’d tell me if it wasn’t good, right?
I swallowed hard. My fingers hovered over the screen, useless. Then I finally sent back:
Yeah. Don’t worry about me. Focus on college. I’ve got this.
Another pause. Then his reply came through:
You always say that too.
I tossed the phone aside and lay back, staring at nothing, wishing I could accept the words myself. The lie was easy. Too easy. I wish I believed it as much as everyone else seemed to.
Because the truth was, hanging with the soccer guys drained me.
It was all noise and fists to the shoulder, locker-room jokes that never stopped.
I laughed when I was supposed to. Smiled when I had to.
Kept the mask tight. They were good dudes, mostly, but being around them was like keeping my muscles clenched for hours—pretending the jokes were funny, laughing too loud, flexing as if I cared about things I didn’t.
Talk of girls they liked, or “Dare, come on, backflip off the bleachers, bet you won’t.”
Always some test. Some dare.
And I always delivered. Smirk locked in place, heart pounding like I actually enjoyed being the idiot who did the crazy thing. Better that than them sniffing out the cracks.
Most days it worked. I was their guy, fast on the field, fast with a comeback. The one who never cowered.
But when the noise died down and the lights went out, all I could think about was how much work it took to stay that person. How thin that skin was—more costume than protection.
I hadn’t chosen soccer, not really. Dad had.
But somewhere between the drills and the matches, I was grateful it gave me something to throw myself into.
Somewhere to burn off the anger, the hurt, the pieces of me I wasn’t allowed to show.
A place to run harder, kick sharper, and shove my body until it went numb.
On the field, at least, no one asked me who I was. They just needed me to score.
And if I played hard enough, maybe nobody would see through me.