Chapter 12
DARE
I used to be his favorite person. Now I’m the villain in every story he tells himself.
We moved into Tru’s house because it had a pool and an extra bedroom. That’s the reason my dad gave—logical, efficient, stupid.
Charlotte didn’t want to leave her house. She said it felt like a home.
Ours never had. Just three bedrooms and a roof, no warmth, no softness, with walls thick enough to muffle arguments and hallways wide enough for silence to stretch.
So we moved into hers… Theirs.
At sixteen, we were old enough to know what a colossal mistake it was, but too young to do anything about it.
And faster than I could say Fuck My Life, I was back under his roof, in a house that used to be my second home, only now I was supposed to live here full time. It wasn’t the same. Not even close. The kitchen smelled like memories, the living room held echoes, and the walls were covered in ghosts.
Everywhere I turned, there were photos of Tru and me.
Back when we were still us. The hallway walls still displayed our childhood: muddy soccer uniforms and grass-stained knees, candles glowing between our grins on Tru’s birthday cake.
The two of us shoulder-to-shoulder in every frame, like some time-locked fairytale of best friends who didn’t know any better.
It used to make me feel loved. Now it made my skin itch.
The boys in those pictures believed they’d grow up together. Now it felt like I’d broken into someone else’s life and stolen a past that wasn’t mine anymore.
I didn’t belong in this house. Not really. Not now.
But here I was, back in his territory, where every framed photo and every chipped tile whispered, You don’t get to call this home.
I sort of envied Tru’s ignorance.
He didn’t know what it was like, having to live in a house that used to feel like a sanctuary and now felt like a trap.
He didn’t know what it was like to lose your mother to a man you didn’t respect, only to be thrown into the arms of a woman you once loved like a second mom and now could barely look in the eye.
He didn’t know how it felt to sleep in a room that haunted you with memories of a life you grieved.
This wasn’t a new chapter in my life. This was a sentence. And it wasn’t even his fault.
I watched Tru from the bedroom window, the same view I used to have during sleepovers.
His body moved through the water in sharp, clean lines.
He wore a ridiculous Speedo—navy blue with little white stars.
I should’ve laughed. Teased him about it, called him something dumb, something cruel. That was our dynamic now, wasn’t it?
But instead, I stood behind the blinds like a goddamn creep and stared.
His back arched as he pushed off the wall, slicing clean through the water. Long legs, wider shoulders, everything about him stretched taller, leaner, sharper than I remembered.
And then it hit me. Hard. Tight in my throat, hot behind my eyes, low and sick in my gut. That same feeling I swore I buried. It surged before I could stop it. I wanted to puke, not because of him, but because of me.
Because my body betrayed me, lit up before my brain could kill the spark. It always did. As though I wasn’t in control. A painful reminder that something in me still wanted him.
And that made me hate him more than ever because it was easier than hating myself.
Hated that he was constantly around now, some phantom that refused to move on. Just there, in every room, every corner, same as the air I had to breathe.
Hated that he swam like he was born to the water. As if the world bent for him. He didn’t even realize how loud his existence was, how fucking bright.
Hated how easy he made it look. As if none of it mattered to him, and he hadn’t wrecked everything and walked away without a scratch.
But most of all, I hated that he still got to me, that my chest tightened when I saw him. That my hands shook. That my body remembered. And he didn't even have to try.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose this. Whatever the hell was broken inside me started the night of that kiss, and it had only gotten worse since. And yeah, maybe I should see someone. Maybe I should talk to someone. But I won’t.
Because if I said it out loud, it became real.
And if it was real, then I’m not who I’m supposed to be. Not who my dad raised. Not the future lawyer. Not the straight-A, straight-edge, straight-everything golden boy. I’m something else. Something twisted. Soft. Weak, like him. Like Tru, with his feelings and his art and his quiet, wounded eyes.
I couldn’t be that. I wouldn’t be that. Because if I admitted any of this, if I peeled back even one layer, there was no telling what I’d find underneath.
And I already knew I wouldn’t survive it. Neither would the version of me the world expected to see. So, I’d keep the lie. Guard it with my life. Even if it killed the part of me that remembered how to breathe.
It was easier to keep the blinds half-closed and my mouth shut. I swallowed it. Buried it. And I promised myself, just a couple more years. Then I’d be gone. Gone from this house. Gone from him.
Before whatever this was rotted me from the inside out.
Our parents were happy. God, they were so happy. Talking about the wedding every night over dinner, giggling like teenagers. Planning color schemes and menus, and honeymoon flights. Meanwhile, we were choking on our own silence across the table.
Tru tried to stay invisible. Quiet footsteps, short replies, always busy, always gone.
But I couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let him slip through the cracks again.
So I poked. Prodded. Made fun of the way the Speedo clung to his junk.
Laughed too loudly when he tripped over his towel.
Made sure every room we shared was hostile.
Made sure he never forgot I was there.
He didn’t talk back. Not usually. He just absorbed my silence and my sarcasm like rain soaking into the parched earth. But I saw the cracks forming in his expression. I saw the way he flinched every time I walked into the room.
And I hated myself for it. But not enough to stop.
The clink of silverware, the low hum of conversation, the sound of his voice. That’s what I heard. That’s all I heard.
Tru sat across the table, elbow grazing the salt shaker, eyes bright as he told some story about his art teacher. The one who encouraged him to submit his portfolio to the student exhibit in Raleigh. He mentioned a scholarship.
My fork paused halfway to my mouth.
Charlotte beamed like he’d just cured cancer. My dad—my dad—nodded and said, “That’s incredible, Son. You’ve got real talent.”
Son.
Not Dare. Not me.
And Tru went on and on. About how his art was evolving. About what it felt like to be seen. I hadn’t even known he was thinking of pursuing his art as a career.
I hadn’t known any of it.
It was so strange to realize the person you once told everything to had become a stranger.
I didn’t look up, but I heard every word, felt every beat of it like splinters working deeper under my skin.
The fork in my hand twisted against my fingers until the prongs dug into my palm.
Tru kept going, animated and flushed, eating up the attention as if he was starved for it.
Maybe he was. Maybe I was, too. But no one asked me about soccer. No one asked me about anything.
Tru talked about his art portfolio like we weren’t both sixteen and still trying to figure out who we were.
Must be nice to have it all figured out.
To have a talent and a plan for something that makes you feel good about yourself.
Something with purpose. A calling. I was called to be my father’s clone.
To follow in his footsteps and be just like him.
Fuck Tru.
The way he sat there, surrounded by praise, just made it worse.
As though I was watching him from behind soundproof glass, a hundred miles away, and still at the same table.
And for a second—a fleeting moment—something inside me splintered.
My throat tightened. My eyes burned. I didn’t cry.
Of course, I didn’t cry. Probably because I was too startled by the sudden onset of emotions.
Instead, I grabbed my glass and slammed it down hard enough to make everyone flinch. The table jumped. Water sloshed onto my plate. All three of them turned toward me.
“What?” I snapped. “Didn’t realize dinner came with a show?”
No one said anything. I shoved back from the table so hard the chair scraped across the tile, then stood and stalked out of the kitchen before I did something even more humiliating—feel anything at all.
I didn’t stop walking until I hit the back porch. The screen door slammed behind me, shaking in its frame. My pulse hammered in my ears, loud enough to drown out reason.
I gripped the railing and stared into the dark yard. The pool glowed faintly, water still as glass. My reflection looked back at me—blurry, fractured, like even the night didn’t know what to make of me.
I inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass and chlorine and blew out a deep breath.
The door creaked again.
“Dare?”
Charlotte’s soft voice cut through the noise in my head. She stepped onto the porch, smoothing wisps of honey-blonde hair that had fallen from her messy knot.
“Don’t,” I muttered, still facing the yard. “I already know what you’re gonna say.”
She came closer, arms folded. “I doubt it.”
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the song of crickets and the distant hum of the pool filter’s motor.
“I’m not like you,” she said finally. “I don’t walk away when things get hard.”
My throat tightened. “You think that’s what I did?”
She hesitated. “I know that’s what you did.”
Her accusation stole my next breath.
Charlotte took another step until she was beside me.
“After that night—the night of the party—Tru came home a mess. He was shaking so hard I thought he’d break apart right there in my arms. He told me everything.
Not because he wanted to get you in trouble, but because it was too much hurt for one boy to carry alone. ”
I turned my head toward her, breath caught somewhere between guilt and disbelief. “He told you?”
She nodded, eyes glossy in the dim porch light. “He said he didn’t understand what happened, or why you shut him out afterward. But he needed to let it out. Needed someone to tell him he wasn’t crazy for missing you.”
A muscle jumped in my jaw. My hands curled into fists on the railing.
Charlotte’s eyes softened. “He wasn’t the only one who thought they lost you that day.”
The words were a slap in my face, straight through the armor I’d been wearing since I was thirteen. Or had I been born wearing that armor? Because sometimes it felt as if I’d been hiding behind it for a lifetime.
“It took me almost a whole year to realize I didn’t lose you,” she went on. “Because no matter what walls you build, Dare, you’ll always be family to me. All I had to do was wait patiently—and maybe wish on a hundred or so stars—and here you are again. Back under my roof, where you belong.”
Something cracked open in my chest then, quiet and small but deep enough to bleed. I tried to fight the sting behind my eyes, but it was no use.
Charlotte smiled, a stretch of lips that made it impossible not to return it, even if mine was crooked and reluctant.
Before I could find words, she reached for me, arms wrapping around my shoulders. For a heartbeat, I stood stiff, every instinct screaming to pull away. But then I sank into it—into her warmth, her steady heartbeat, the faint scent of vanilla and sugar.
And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I had to hold myself together.
She squeezed tighter, murmuring against my shoulder, “Someday you might find yourself in a position to come clean too. To unburden yourself. When that day comes, I’ll be right here, with a hot cup of cocoa and a tight hug, ready to listen.”
The lump in my throat was impossible to swallow. I nodded against her hair, unable to speak, barely breathing.
Her arms lingered a moment longer before she pulled back, brushing her thumb under my eye like she might catch a tear I wouldn’t let fall.
“Good,” she whispered, giving my shoulder one last squeeze. “Then it’s settled. Be good to Tru. No bullying under my roof. You need him, Dare. More than you may realize or let yourself admit. He needs you too.”
She turned toward the door, leaving me there on the porch, alone with the sound of dripping rain and the weight of her words.