Chapter 31
DARE
We’d spent countless Christmases under the same roof, but this time I was showing up for him.
Tru’s hand was already on the gearshift when I tapped the window. He startled, that blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flinch he gave whenever he wasn’t expecting me, which was fair. I hadn’t exactly been consistent lately.
I lifted my duffel in answer before he could say anything and popped the passenger door open. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t say a word. Just watched me climb in, as if he couldn’t decide if this was good or bad or just another letdown dressed in false hope.
The engine purred low between us. The heater was already on, warm air ghosting over my knuckles as I buckled up. We didn’t speak.
Tru and I reached for the radio at the same time.
His fingers brushed mine, and we both froze.
He gave me a sharp look and turned the dial to a soft indie station.
I waited maybe ten seconds before twisting it toward something heavier.
Grunge. Angsty and loud. He didn’t say anything, just turned it back.
We did that twice more, petty, silent, the kind of stubborn standoff we used to fall into when we were younger, when it still felt like a game.
Now it felt like a challenge. Testing how far we could push each other before something cracked.
I lost.
“I miss you,” I blurted, feeling my emotions close to the surface.
It came out quiet. Hoarse. Not planned at all. But once it was out there, I couldn’t take it back, nor did I want to.
Tru’s fingers tightened around the wheel, and I saw his throat bob when he swallowed. I almost left it at that. Pretended that was enough. But it wasn’t, not anymore.
“I know I’ve been a dick,” I added, staring straight ahead. “You don’t have to say it. I know. I’ve been scared. And I’ve hurt you. I see it every time you look at me like I’m something you shouldn’t touch.”
His silence felt like a verdict.
I looked down at my hands. “But I’m here. I packed. I want to come home with you. I want to try… if you’ll let me.”
Still nothing. Then the radio clicked off. Quietly, he reached across the console and rested his hand palm-up between us, waiting.
I didn’t deserve it. But I laced our fingers together anyway. And this time, he didn’t pull away.
In the scheme of grand gestures, it was nothing—dumb, really—but when I reached into the glove box and pulled out his cherry air freshener, clipping it to the rearview, Tru smiled like Christmas came early.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe maybe we still had a chance to get it right.
We’d been stepping around each other all week. Long glances over cocoa mugs, brushed shoulders in the hallway, a stolen kiss behind the fridge door while the rest of the family watched a movie ten feet away.
Even when we were apart, I felt him. Even when I was across the room pretending to watch football with my dad and brother, I felt the burn of his gaze on my spine. He knew I was lying with every casual laugh.
Two days before Christmas, I finally cracked.
“Get your coat,” I muttered, brushing Tru’s hand as we passed each other in the hallway. His eyes snapped to mine. “You’ll need boots, too.”
He followed without asking questions. Of course he did. That’s always been the problem. Tru never needed a reason to choose me. Not then, not now.
The wind bit hard, but the cold helped keep my mouth shut until we hit the edge of the neighborhood. I could tell the moment Tru realized where we were headed.
“The ramp?” he asked, breath puffing white, a little smile curling up like muscle memory. “It’s still here?”
I didn’t answer. Just kept walking until the warped boards of the old skate ramp came into view, half-buried in snow and weeds. The thing looked like hell. We used to spend hours here every summer, bruising our knees and pretending it would last forever.
He followed me beneath it, ducking under the weathered beams. It sagged in the middle, filled with crumpled leaves and a few rusted energy drink cans that had somehow survived years of weather. And in the far corner, wrapped in old comics and string, was a box.
Tru stared at it. Then at me. “But it’s not Christmas yet.”
“I know.” I nudged the box toward him with my boot. “It’s not a Christmas present.”
He gave me that look. The one that peeled all the layers off me until it was just Dare underneath. I cleared my throat. “It’s for your birthday. Or birthdays. I guess. I missed a few.”
“It’s not my birthday, either,” he said with a soft smile.
His fingers shook when he untied the string.
Inside was the drawing he’d given me in eighth grade, the one I’d pretended to throw away but kept in a lockbox at the back of my closet.
A silver ring I’d stolen from his mom’s drawer the night before we left for college.
She’d said it belonged to her mother, Tru’s grandmother, and at the time, I thought I’d just wanted to take a piece of Charlotte with me.
But now I knew, it was always about Truen.
And a mixtape—yes, an actual CD—of songs we used to scream in the car before everything went to shit.
Tru didn’t speak.
“I don’t know how to fix what I broke,” I said, voice barely a whisper. “But I want to try.”
He looked at me then, really looked. “This is a terrible fort,” he said, lips trembling from cold and emotion.
“I know,” I said, heart racing. “But it’s ours.”
My gaze drifted past him, past the box in his lap, to the support post at the back—splintered, weather-grayed, and scarred with age. The old sharpie was still there.
TRU + DARE = Forever
inside a wobbly, lopsided heart.
A diagonal slash cut through it, dark once, now a barely there bruise in the wood. The rain and sun had chewed at the ink, but that angry, deliberate strike had held on better than the rest. Like the ruin lasted longer than the promise.
Something stabbed hot and sharp in my chest. I wanted to take it back, to scrub out that ugly black line and redraw the heart, but I didn’t. I didn’t deserve fresh ink. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
All I could do was stare at it, knowing I was the one who ruined it. I ruined us.
Tru crouched in front of the box, but his eyes flicked to mine. He didn’t say anything; he didn't have to. He saw me looking at it, and he knew.
I was such a liar.
I brought him here to give him something, but all I could see was everything I took away.
Now, looking at that crossed-out heart, I felt twelve and fourteen and seventeen all at once—every version of me that chose silence over him clustered in my throat, choking me.
You did that.
You let him think he was alone in it.
You made him carry the weight of your denial.
Tru followed my stare, eyes softening when he found the mark. “I thought it would’ve faded more,” he whispered.
It should have, I almost said. Instead, I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets to hide the shake and forced a thin smile. “Guess some things are stubborn.”
What I meant was: I wish I hadn’t let you stand here and hurt alone.
What I meant was: I still want you.
What I meant was nothing that would come out clean.
He turned back to the box, and I kept looking at the scar on the wood until my chest hurt enough to feel like penance. That box wasn’t big enough to hold all of my apologies.
Lauren texted again.
Hey stranger. Home for a few more days. Wanna catch up? Just talk. Promise.
Then, a few minutes later:
Thought of you when I saw the snow. Remember freshman year?
I locked my phone without replying.
She’d been texting since the first day of break. Friendly stuff at first. Vague, nostalgia-baiting messages. Then the subtle lures. Promises to keep it casual. Like she didn’t use to cry when I pulled away and ask me, over and over, what she’d done wrong when the truth was, it was never her.
I hadn’t told Tru. Not because I was hiding it. More like... I didn’t want to ruin what we had by dragging the past into it. But secrets sat like cinder blocks in my gut, and I guess he could tell.
He brought it up a few nights later.
We were holed up in the den, the rest of the house quiet, lights turned low.
A cheesy Christmas movie flickered on the screen—something with twinkle lights and fake snow—but neither of us was watching.
Tru was half-curled into my side, a blanket slung over his legs, his thumb absently tracing the stitching on my jeans.
“I saw Lauren texted you,” he said casually. Too casually.
I stiffened, just a little. “Yeah,” I said. “She’s home for break. Wants to meet up.”
“You going to?”
I turned to him, heart starting to pound. He wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was locked on the TV, but he hadn’t reacted to anything on the screen in ten minutes.
“No,” I said firmly. “I told her I was busy. And I am.”
Tru remained silent, eyes forward. His hand had gone still.
“When I was with her,” I said slowly, “I wanted to be with you. So why would I leave you now to go back to her?”
He let out a breath. “’Cause she puts out?”
I blinked, startled. Then laughed, short and rough. “I wouldn’t know.”
He turned then, brows drawn together. “What do you mean?”
I rubbed at the back of my neck, feeling my ears flush. “We fooled around, but we never had sex.”
“You serious?”
“Dead serious.”
His frown deepened. “Why not? She wanted to.”
“Yeah,” I said, grimacing. “She did. Pushed for it a lot. But I just... I wasn’t into it. And her parents were crazy strict. Wouldn’t let her use birth control. I seized on that like a lifeline. Told her we couldn’t risk it.”
“You used her parents as an excuse to not have sex,” Tru said slowly, like he was still processing it.
I gave a small, guilty shrug. “I didn’t know how to explain it. Not even to myself. Back then, I thought I was broken or something. Or just... bad at being a boyfriend.”
Tru let out a low sound, half exhale, half laugh. “You really were in denial.”
“Oh, full-blown. I should’ve gotten an award.”
He was quiet for a second, then leaned closer, nudging his head against my shoulder.
“I’m glad it’s going to be me,” he murmured.
My heart snagged. I turned, pressing a kiss to the crown of his hair. “Me too,” I whispered.
He tilted his face up to look at me. “You sure?”
“Tru…” I swallowed. “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life.”
He kissed me then, slow and warm, nothing like the frantic touches we shared in secret. This one was just ours. No rush. No hiding. Just lips brushing softly, breath mixing, his fingers curling around mine like an extension of my hand.
We sat like that for a while. The movie played on in the background, the faint glow flickering across our faces. Somewhere upstairs, someone laughed. A floorboard creaked. But the rest of the world faded.
Here, in the quiet of this room, he wasn’t a dirty secret. He was mine. And I was his.