Chapter 27 #2
“Quit being a little bitch,” Anders laughed. He was wasted. They all were.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and smirked, all teeth. “Let’s play.”
It started out stupid, like all their games do.
They formed a circle in the kitchen, half the soccer team, and their tagalongs. Someone passed around a bottle of cinnamon whiskey, and someone else shouted Truth or Dare! like we were in eighth grade instead of one step from college midterms.
I stayed near the edge, leaning against the doorframe, beer in hand. Watching. Pretending not to care.
Tru was across the room, half-curled beside his boyfriend on the floor, one leg stretched out in front of him as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
I could barely see his face, but I could see the way the other guy leaned into him—familiar, smug—and I wanted to punch a hole in the drywall just thinking about what they might be whispering to each other.
Truth or Dare rolled around the circle. Someone admitted to pissing in the campus pool.
Another took a dare to shotgun a beer with no hands.
The laughter got louder, messier. One of my teammates had to text his ex that he missed her.
Another was dared to kiss the guy next to him, which he did, laughing hard and throwing back another drink.
I told myself it was all bullshit. I told myself I didn’t care.
But every time I looked up, that guy still had his hand on Tru’s thigh, still tracing lazy circles on the inside seam of his jeans like he’d earned the right.
My jaw ached from clenching. I kept waiting for Tru to pull away. To push him off. To do something.
He didn’t. Instead, he whispered something back and laughed. Not his real laugh. Not the one I used to know. But still, it was a laugh he didn’t give to me.
My ears rang with it, and my vision swam with blank pages in a journal that should have been dedicated to me.
I took another swig of beer, swallowing down the roar building in my chest. Maybe it was the booze.
Maybe it was the six years of unsaid shit between us pressing against my ribcage like a ticking bomb.
Or was it the fact that I was watching somebody build the memories with him that should’ve been mine?
That was supposed to be me next to him. Instead, I was alone on the edge of the circle, watching my nightmare unfold in real time.
A few more dares went around. Someone licked peanut butter off a shoe. Someone else confessed to faking every orgasm they’d ever had with their boyfriend. And then—
“Carter,” someone called, slurring it with a grin. “You’re up. Truth or dare?”
Every eye turned to me. Even his. Did he feel triggered by those words?
I swallowed hard, set my beer down, and forced a smirk. “Dare.”
A few people cheered. One guy said, of course you would, and laughed like it was obvious. They didn’t know how badly I needed it. I needed something to let me feel in control again. To bleed off the pressure building under my skin.
The guy next to me grinned wide. “You’ve gotta kiss someone.” The group laughed. The brunette across the kitchen eyed me like she wanted to fuck me. “Not just anyone,” someone else chimed in. “It’s gotta be the hottest person in the room.”
Great. A truth and a dare all rolled into one. They always knew I’d choose dare. I always did. Truth was dangerous. Truth might burn the whole place down.
A few whistles. Someone fake-gasped. I could already feel them scanning the room, picking out some random girl to throw at me.
Pick her, someone said, pointing toward the brunette.
“What about Kyle?” Someone else yelled.
“Yeah, be brave, Carter. Let’s see how secure you really are.”
Laughter buzzed around the room like gnats.
I could feel the heat rising in my neck, spreading under my collar.
Like gravity, my gaze found Tru’s. He was already watching me.
Back pressed against the arm of the couch, legs crossed, a death grip on the red plastic cup in his hand like he wasn’t holding his breath.
His boyfriend had an arm slung low around his waist.
My stomach twisted.
The hottest person in the room was him.
It always had been.
I could still feel the imprint of his shirt between my fingers from earlier. Could still hear him laugh when he said, Make me.
I looked away, hoping a blink would erase the feeling, but it didn’t.
A voice—someone I didn’t care about—nudged me again. “Clock’s ticking, man. You stalling?”
I pushed off the wall too fast. The room tilted a little. My head buzzed, and my stomach roiled. I scanned the crowd, pretending to decide. Like I wasn’t already walking toward him.
Every step felt electric. Fucked. Final.
He watched me come closer with wide eyes, one foot tucked under him like he might bolt. His boyfriend straightened up, uncertain, already tensing.
I didn’t care. I stopped in front of Tru.
“You,” I said, voice low. “Get up.”
Laughter around us hiccupped. People shifted, whispers rising. Fuckface stammered something, half protest, half challenge. I ignored him.
Tru stood slowly, like he knew better. He always knew better, and he still came anyway.
“I don’t think—” he started.
I grabbed the cup from his hand and set it on the table. My fingers brushed his. He recoiled like my touch burned.
“Just go with it,” I muttered.
He stared up at me, blinking slowly. That same expression he used to give me when we were kids, equal parts trust and apprehension. I didn’t give him time to think. I kissed him. Hard. Meaning to leave a mark. Trying to erase the last six years with my mouth.
His lips were soft and still at first—surprised, stunned—but they tasted of cherry soda. He didn’t move. Not away. Not closer. Just stood there, letting me crash into him like a wave that had no business coming back to shore.
I could feel the scrape of his belt buckle against my stomach. The startled hitch of his breath. My scent on his shirt. My shirt. His hands remained at his sides in tight fists that didn’t know what to do.
For a second, I let myself imagine he was kissing me back. That if I didn’t pull away, he’d soften, lean in, forget we weren’t thirteen anymore. Forget we’d wasted years.
But I pulled back first, and in that breathless, echoing moment… I saw it in his eyes. Shock… Hurt… Rage, maybe. But beneath it all—ache. That same ache I’d been trying to destroy in both of us.
If I’d known how right his lips would feel on mine, I wouldn’t have waited six years to kiss him again.
His boyfriend shouted something, but I couldn’t hear it. My ears were ringing.
Tru wiped his mouth like he could erase me. “Fuck you,” he whispered, all the fight bleeding out of him.
I took a step back, swallowed hard, and laughed like it didn’t matter. “Hope that counted for your dare,” I muttered to whoever was still watching.
Then I walked out. Because if I stayed another second, I was going to drop to my knees and beg him not to hate me. And I didn’t beg.
Not even for him.