Chapter 11
DARE
The worst part wasn’t seeing the drawing—it was knowing he’d drawn it for me.
I wasn’t planning to go to the art show.
But Coach forced the whole team to show up. “Support the arts,” he said. “Show school spirit.” What he meant was: Stand around looking half-interested so the principal thinks we’re good kids and the school board keeps writing checks.
So I went, hands shoved in my pockets, headphones around my neck, music off. Pretending to be bored. Trying not to scan the crowd for him.
But I spotted him within minutes.
Truen Jameson had always had this way of drawing attention, even when he tried to disappear. At fifteen, he was beautiful in a way most boys weren’t, with his sharp cheekbones and full lips, a dark fringe of lashes, and those aquamarine eyes that could outshine half the girls at school.
He stood near the back wall of the gym in that same oversized black hoodie he wore like armor, sun-bleached hair falling in his face, his arms crossed over his chest like he was trying to hold himself together. His chin was tucked as if he’d rather melt into the wood floor than be seen.
Hah. As if he could hide from me.
I lingered behind a group of seniors until he stepped away from his display, waiting until he disappeared into the crowd of parents and bored siblings and paint-smeared kids who couldn’t stop talking about their process. Then I moved in.
Framed with matte black, the drawing was pinned right in the center of a display board filled with still lives and watercolor flowers.
His was different.
A self-portrait, but not the smiling kind that teachers hang up for open house. This was charcoal and graphite, rough strokes and angry lines, no softness. His face but warped. Jawline too sharp, eyes too wide, pupils blown out like he was caught between fear and fury.
He’d drawn his hair falling into his face, which was realistic.
But his collarbones jutted severely, like maybe he was starving.
I didn’t know much about art, but I had to wonder if that was how he felt inside.
Like maybe he wasn’t starving for food but for something you couldn’t put on a plate.
Affection. Attention. Something I’d taken away.
One of his eyes was slightly off. He'd drawn it that way on purpose, something about the expression uneven and desperate. But it was the mouth that got me.
It wasn’t just closed. It was stitched shut. Not literally, not thread or string. Just…lines. Crosshatched, thick and frantic, as if he’d tried to erase it and failed. Or wanted to say something and couldn’t.
Beneath it was the title:
What You Left Me With.
And fuck me if that didn’t stab like a hot knife between the ribs.
I stared at it longer than I meant to. Long enough that I forgot to look casual. Long enough for it to feel like a confession. I stood there too long.
His silence roared in my head. The things he never said, the things I never let him say. I pictured him alone, sketching this broken version of himself, pouring betrayal and grief into every mark until the paper screamed louder than he ever did.
This wasn’t just a drawing. It was a war memorial. And I was the name carved into the stone.
“You good?” someone asked behind me—a guy from the team. He probably had no clue what he was looking at. All he saw was just another weird art kid spiraling on paper.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. But I wasn’t.
Because that wasn’t just a drawing of Tru. That was a picture of everything I’d ripped out of him. His kindness, his trusting nature, his spirit.
And if that version of him still lived inside, then maybe the real Tru—the one who used to smile at me like I was the sun—was already dead. Buried beneath all the silence I left him with.
The drawing didn’t ask for pity. It demanded accountability.
I turned to go, but stopped after two steps. And when I looked back, he was watching me. It was just a flash of his blue eyes, a connection from across the room.
He didn’t smile and didn’t look away.
But neither did I. I should’ve. Because I’d spent years pretending I didn’t care. That I hadn’t ruined everything worth saving. And one look at that drawing?
It cracked something open. Something I couldn’t bury this time.
I didn’t say goodbye to anyone at the show, didn’t wait for a ride, and when the guys called after me, I didn’t answer.
The night air felt cool on my face and blessedly quiet.
Nothing but the occasional cricket as I walked—and walked—Nearly two miles with no clear direction in mind, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, hood up, head down.
Maybe if I just kept moving, I could outrun the version of myself hanging in the middle of that gym. The one who split Tru open and called it love. Or hate. I still couldn’t tell the difference.
Half a block from home, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out and thumbed the screen.
Lauren:
Wanna come over? Parents are gone.
I stared at it until the screen dimmed, then shoved the phone back into my pocket without answering.
The last thing I wanted was someone else’s hands on me.
Not when his picture was still burned to the inside of my eyelids.
I had meant to go home, but I just couldn’t stomach the silence.
It was different than the quiet that enveloped me as I walked.
That was soothing. Mind numbing. The silence at home felt…
Empty. And also loud. Echoes of all the things that had been shouted, and all the things that had been left unsaid by my parents, bounced off the walls until I couldn’t hear myself think.
Somehow, I ended up at the lot.
The pale, ghost-like moon cast shadows across the bones of the old construction site, littered with unfinished foundations and piles of lumber gone soft with rot.
I knew exactly where to go.
The skateboard ramp had sagged more since summer. One of the wooden support beams had split, and the nails rusted and pulled free. But the hideout underneath was still there, tucked into the dirt like a forgotten secret.
I ducked down, dropped to my knees, and crawled in. It smelled a bit moldy and abandoned. I reached out and ran my hand along the wooden beam. My fingers found the initials before my eyes did.
Tru + Dare = Forever
A heart around them. Still visible. Still…there. Except someone had drawn a harsh, black line through the middle.
A kill shot.
A split.
Tru had been here. Of course, he had. He’d found my rock.
I sat back on my heels, heart pounding harder than it should’ve. I felt as if I were being watched, judged, as I pressed my palm to the dirt. What had I wanted from this place? Forgiveness? Proof that the boy who cared about me still existed under all that bitterness?
But all I got was silence. Maybe that was an answer in itself.
I stayed until my legs went numb and my eyes began to sting. Until the cold crept in through my jacket and made me feel small again.
Before I left, I looked at our slashed initials one last time.
We ruined everything.
But somehow, this place still stood. Just like us. Broken. But not gone.
When I got home, the house was as quiet and as loud as I knew it would be. My father was probably with Charlotte.
I thumped up the stairs with angry steps, making as much noise as possible.
I stripped off my clothes and left them in a pile on the floor and headed into the bathroom.
The mirror was too clean. Too clear. The light reflected all the ugly truths in my face that I didn’t want to see. The ones I disguised at all costs.
What did Tru see when he looked at me now?
I leaned in, braced both palms on the counter, and studied myself through someone else’s eyes. Maybe I could figure out what was wrong with him—this stranger in my skin.
I didn’t look like someone capable of doing damage. Didn’t look like someone who could break a boy like Tru.
But I had. I’d broken him.
My gaze dropped to the sink where a Sharpie rolled lazily toward the drain. I had no clue where it came from. Maybe the universe wanted to make a point.
I picked it up, uncapped it, and slowly—deliberately—drew crosshatched lines across my own mouth. One. Two. Three. Thick, messy slashes, over and over until my reflection stopped looking like mine.
Now I matched his drawing. Stitched shut. Mute. Miserable.
The marker slipped from my fingers, dropping into the sink with an echo. My chest heaved, and all I’d done was stand there and stare, my fists clenched so tight they shook.
I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. I wanted to release all the feelings brewing inside of me. The anger, the guilt, the self-hatred. The shame.
Instead, I turned off the light and walked back to my room, climbed into bed, and buried my head beneath my pillow. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to see his face, but that never worked anymore.
Tru was everywhere.
In my chest. In my fists. In the echo of a kiss that never let me go. And maybe it was stupid, but for a second, I let myself wish—
Wish I could go back and stop myself.
Wish I could go back and do it all again.
But I couldn’t. And this was what I had left. A cold pillow, a haunted mind, and a silence so loud it nearly swallowed me whole.