Chapter 10
TRU
Just remember that when nobody else was there for you, I was. And when nobody else gave a damn, I did. And you still walked away without looking back. I know, because I’m always watching to see if you ever turn around.
When I thought back on my childhood, I thought of sunny days, running free and wild, laughter, and adventure.
I spent every minute side by side with my best friend.
Maybe he was the sun. He was definitely the adventure.
If I felt carefree and wild, it was only because Dare was by my side.
He brought that out of me. My best self.
But my teen years felt darker, like storm clouds moved in and blocked all the sun.
They called it an inciting incident when something enormous changed your life. For me, it was more than that. More incendiary. Like an earthquake that leveled an entire city.
Earthquake Darien upended my entire world.
It shook the foundation my life was built upon to the ground, leaving nothing but dust and rubble in its wake.
And just like with any earthquake, it wasn’t just one-and-done.
No, the aftershocks kept coming, disrupting my life—what was left of it—for months afterward. Years, even.
After school, I started hanging around the art kids, sitting in their paint-splattered circle and pretending I belonged.
Sketching my feelings onto paper so they didn’t drown my heart.
Other afternoons, I drifted to the arcade, half-laughing along while quarters disappeared into machines.
Or I tagged along to the mall or a movie, always careful to choose something light and ridiculous.
No horror, no gore, nothing that left me raw.
But it wasn’t the same. No one shared popcorn with me. No one’s hand brushed mine in the dark.
At home, nights turned into board games with Mom, flour on the counter from baking cookies, or the two of us drifting lazy circles in the pool until the sky turned violet. It wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t the same as him. But day by day, the silence stopped swallowing me whole.
It all started with that kiss. That incendiary explosion that burned my life to the ground.
It was supposed to be harmless, a simple party game. In that explosive moment, I thought it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. But now I knew better. Kissing Darien was the worst thing that ever happened to me.
Some days, I didn’t know if I'd ever be able to rebuild the damage left by that quake. Some places never got repaired, you just learned to live in the wreckage, breathing in the dust, pretending it didn’t choke you.
My sketchbook became filled with images of him, of childhood adventures, his face half-erased beneath storm clouds and pouring rain, with rough lines capturing the blur of his body sprinting across a soccer field.
The lines came easy, too easy, like my hands still remembered what my heart wanted to forget.
Sometimes I tore the pages out and fed them to the fire in the trash can behind the garage. Watched him curl and blacken until there was nothing left but smoke on my fingers and ash in my chest. As if I could cauterize the wound by setting fire to the proof.
Other times, I just shut the sketchbook and slid it back onto the shelf, hiding him between the covers, where the memories could stay secret.
I didn’t expect anything. Not a text. Not a nod in the hallway. Definitely not a miracle.
I hadn’t been back to the ramp in months. Not since I carved a line through the heart we pissed on, spit on, and swore on like it meant something.
But today hit different.
My fifteenth birthday.
Dare didn’t even blink at me.
The sky was overcast when I rode my bike down the cracked pavement of the dead-end street. The clouds were so heavy they looked bruised. Tangled grass curled through the rusted bars of the gate like tentacles.
I dropped my bike at the edge and pushed through.
The skateboard ramp had collapsed a little more. One corner sagged, wood rotting where the rain had soaked in. A few of the Sharpie drawings still clung to the beams, barely legible now. I crouched and ducked underneath anyway, out of habit. Out of need.
That’s when I saw it.
A small bundle wrapped in a square of newspaper was tucked behind the support post. He hadn’t tried to hide it well. Maybe he wanted me to find it, but couldn’t risk giving it to me himself.
For a long moment, I simply held it in my hands, wondering, hoping I wouldn’t regret opening it. Finally, when the anticipation nearly stole my breath, I peeled back the soft paper to find a rock inside.
It was smooth, palm-sized, the kind we used to collect and pretend were dinosaur eggs or meteorites. But this one had words written across it in black marker, smudged a little from moisture, but still readable.
“Sorry I ruined everything.”
On the back, in smaller letters, almost like an afterthought:
“Happy Birthday.”
That was it. No name. No signature. But I knew it was from him. The breath gathered in my lungs rushed out of me in a dizzying whoosh.
I sat under the ramp until my legs went numb, turning the rock over in my hands.
Maybe, if I stared long enough, it would tell me what he couldn’t.
I didn’t cry. But I didn’t smile either.
Because part of me wanted to throw it into the woods as hard as I could.
And part of me wanted to hold on to it because it was the last piece of him I had left.
The first drops of rain pattered through the gaps in the boards, dotting the dust at my feet. I lifted my hand, watching the water streak across my skin, and felt the sadness in my chest press heavier. The sky rumbled low in warning.
I tucked the rock into my pocket, holding it like a secret, and pushed myself up. My legs tingled pins-and-needles, stiff from sitting too long. By the time I dragged my bike out from under the ramp, the drizzle had thickened to a steady pour, soaking my hair, my hoodie, everything.
I kept pedaling anyway. The tires hissed against wet pavement, my breath fogging in the cooling air. Home had never felt so far away.
I didn’t want a party. Didn’t want cake or candles or anything that might require pretending I was excited to celebrate, but Mom insisted. She baked my favorite—strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting—and invited him over.
Not just Darien. Him and his dad.
“They’re family,” she said, brushing powdered sugar off her hands. “It’s just a small thing. Try to be gracious, sweetheart.”
Gracious. Right. They hadn’t been family in almost two years, but in that time, the dissolution of my friendship with Dare had been replaced by a budding relationship between my mom and John, Dare’s dad.
I wanted to say, Why can’t it just be us? Like it used to be? Before the dinners and the dates. Before he started coming over and taking up space. Before his smile stopped feeling like home.
But I didn’t say anything. I just nodded, went to my room, and stayed there until the doorbell rang.
John Carter was polite, as always. Flashing his straight white-tooth lawyer smile as if this was some networking event.
He greeted my mom with that court-polished charisma he probably practiced in front of a mirror.
He handed her a bottle of wine, held his smile too long, and said, “You’re doing an amazing job with Truen. He’s turning into quite the young man.”
I stared at the floor and tried not to gag.
“How’s school, Truen? Your mom says you’re taking art this semester.”
“I am.” Just like every semester. It wasn’t news.
“Good, good. That’s good. It's always important to have a creative outlet. Your generation’s gonna reinvent everything, I just know it.”
He had no idea what I wanted to reinvent, and didn’t care enough to ask.
Darien barely said a word. Just slouched in the chair across from me at the table, one elbow propped, one leg bouncing. He kept staring, trying to burn holes through my forehead with his eyes. Maybe he thought if he stared hard enough, I’d break down and say something first.
But I didn’t. I’d already given him everything once. I wasn’t handing him more.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I excused myself to the bathroom. I didn’t have to go. I just needed to breathe. To stop shaking.
And when I came back, I brought it with me.
John made small talk with me during dinner. Asked about school. About art. About if I was thinking about applying to magnet programs or art camp in the summer.
I answered in clipped sentences and looked everywhere but at Darien. The food tasted like sawdust in my mouth. My mom tried to hold the conversation afloat, cheerful and unbothered, pretending she hadn’t noticed the undercurrent of tension strangling every breath between us.
Darien was quiet the whole time. Not breathing a single word. Not until Mom dimmed the lights and brought out the cake.
"Make a wish," she said, smiling at me like she still believed in wishes.
I stared at the flickering flames before closing my eyes. The kitchen felt too small. The air too thick. Darien’s gaze pressed against the side of my face like a threat.
The rock in my pocket burned against my thigh.
I wished he meant it.
I wished he hadn’t ruined everything.
I wished I hadn’t let him.
I blew out the candle, and a second later, pain bloomed in my shin, hot and mean. I flinched hard. Darien’s foot landed with deliberate sharpness.
My fork slipped and hit the plate with a clang. I looked up at his cruel face. No smirk. No warning. Just his dark eyes locked on me. As if he’d felt the wish leave my lungs, heard it rattle in my bones, and decided I didn’t deserve it.
Darien leaned back in his chair like nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just struck a match to see if I’d still burn. And the worst part? I did.
Reaching into my pocket, I curled my fingers around the smooth, cold stone. I pulled it out and laid it next to his plate, silent as a death sentence.
He froze. His dad didn’t notice, just kept talking to my mom, laughing about something I didn’t care to understand.
Darien stared at the rock. Then at me. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t look at the gift. He looked at me, his beautiful face twisting with revulsion. You’d think I’d handed him something radioactive. Something he couldn’t touch without blowing everything up again.
I turned away first and cut myself a piece of cake with shaking hands. His were balled into fists under the table.
I took a bite of the strawberry cake. The frosting clung to the roof of my mouth, sugar thick on my tongue.
I chewed slowly, swallowing past the lump in my throat, but the sweetness lingered, stubborn and cloying.
Even the cake was trying too hard to convince me everything was fine.
Nothing had been fine since that kiss in the dark and everything that came after.
Across the table, his jaw clenched tight. His fingers twitched like he didn’t know whether to grab the rock or throw it at my head.
My mom asked if I was having a good birthday, and I nodded.
Darien’s voice cut through the mood like a blade.
“Hope you made a good wish,” he said, bitter and cold. “Sometimes they come true. But sometimes they ruin your whole fucking life.”
Then he stood and walked out, leaving the rock where it was—an apology he never meant to give.