Chapter 38 #2
“Let's get some air,” I say, steering him toward the back door.
He doesn't resist, doesn't even seem to register I'm there until we're outside with the smokers. The cold air hits us both, but he doesn't flinch.
“Out back,” I mutter, guiding him further away from the house, past the clusters of people huddled around lighters and conversations.
We end up sitting on some random garden wall, far enough from everyone else that we can't be overheard. Ethan's breathing is too controlled, too even. Like he's counting each inhale and exhale.
I don't know what to say. I've never been good at this part—the real shit. Usually, I'd crack a joke, offer a distraction, suggest we find a different party. Anything to avoid the actual feelings part.
But looking at him now, I know that's not what he needs.
Freddie's words from the gym weeks ago echo in my head. If you expect Ethan to open up, maybe you should try it sometime.
I take a deep breath.
“I'm fucking wrecked over Delilah,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can overthink them. “Like, actually messed up about it. I don't even know if I like her or if I liked her or... fuck. I don't know. But it's in my head all the time and I can’t escape it.”
Ethan turns to look at me, surprise breaking through his blank expression.
“I can't stop thinking about her,” I continue, the admission feeling both terrible and freeing.
“Everything reminds me of her. I saw someone reading a book in CC's yesterday with a label from her bookshop and nearly texted her about it. Just so I could say something to her, anything. How pathetic is that?”
Ethan's silent for a moment, then he puts his arm around my shoulders. It's awkward and stiff, but it's something. I resist the urge to pull away—to make a joke, to pretend I'm fine. Instead, I let myself lean into him, just for a second.
“Not pathetic,” he finally says, voice rough. “Just human.”
We sit in silence for a minute, the distant bass from the party the only sound besides our breathing.
“Paige hurt me,” Ethan says suddenly. “Really hurt me. And I know everyone thinks I'm just some idiot who got too attached too fast. The lovesick doofus who can't take a hint.”
“No one thinks—”
“They do. And it's fine.” He stares down at his hands. “But it wasn't like that with her. I was... different. I felt like myself, you know? Not the guy who's always cracking jokes or acting like nothing matters. With her, I could just... be.”
I nod, because I do know. That's what it was like with Delilah. Underneath the bickering and the tension, there was this sense that I didn't have to perform. That she saw me, really saw me, and didn't need me to be anything other than what I was.
“Seeing her cheat,” Ethan continues, his voice breaking slightly, “it just... God, it fucked me up. But you know what the worst part was?”
I wait.
“She didn't even try to deny it. Just shrugged and said, 'Yeah, well, we were never going to last anyway.' Said I was just a filler until she found a 'proper man.'” He laughs, but it's hollow. “But we had fun, right? That's what she said. 'We had fun.'”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “That's fucked up, man.”
“Yeah.”
We sit in silence again, but it's different now. Less heavy, somehow.
“I'm sorry,” I say, meaning it. “You deserved better than that.”
Ethan shrugs. “Maybe. Sometimes I wonder if I built it all up in my head, you know? Made it into this epic love story when really, it was just... nothing.”
“It wasn't nothing,” I say firmly. “Not if it felt real to you.”
He looks at me, something like gratitude in his eyes. “Yeah. It did.”
“Then it was real.”
He nods, then nudges my shoulder. “So, what are you going to do about Delilah?”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I don't know. She made it pretty clear she's done. And I…said some fucked up shit to hurt her.”
“But, are you? Done, I mean.”
“No,” I admit. “Not even close.”
Ethan's quiet for a moment, then he sets his cup down beside him. “I think... if things can be okay between you two, if neither of you fucked up too badly... you should go for it. Being in love is the best feeling in the world.”
I stare at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.
“Even if it wasn't all real with Paige,” he continues, “I'm still glad I felt it. Even for a little while.”
Something in my chest loosens a fraction. “When did you get so wise?”
He grins, a flash of the old Ethan breaking through. “Heartbreak makes philosophers of us all, bro.”
I laugh, genuinely this time. “I'm scared,” I admit. “What if I put myself out there again and she just... bolts?”
“Then you'll be exactly where you are right now. Except you'll know you tried.” He stands, offering me a hand up. “Worst case scenario, you end up sitting on a wall with me in a couple days, talking about your feelings.”
I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. “That doesn't sound so bad, actually.”
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn't.”
I look back toward the house, thinking about Delilah. About what it would take to make things right between us. I'm going to do it, I decide right then.
Not tonight. Because first, I need to be there for Ethan. And then I need to figure out what I actually want to say to her—not some half-assed apology or desperate plea. Something that shows I've learned from all this. I need a plan.
The right moment. The right words.
I’m going fix things with her, but not yet.
There's another relationship in my life I need to work on first. One I've been avoiding for too long.
We head back toward the house, but neither of us seems eager to go inside.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask. “Grab some food or something?”
“God, yes,” Ethan says with feeling. “I'd rather eat my own foot than watch Paige play tonsil hockey with Beard Guy.”
I throw an arm around his shoulders. “Burgers it is, then.”
The house is quiet the next morning. Too quiet.
Everyone’s passed out or ghosted off to some hangover brunch. My room still smells like sweat, beer, and the faint trace of someone's Axe body spray from two parties ago. I should shower. Should eat. Should maybe answer the seven texts from Ethan asking if I can make breakfast burritos.
Instead, I stare at my phone.
The message is still there.
Dad
Call me when you’re ready.
I’ve been “not ready” for a decade.
But last night with Ethan… something shifted. I watched someone break open, admit they still believed in love, even after it crushed them. I saw someone try, even knowing it might hurt. And for the first time in forever, I wondered what it might look like to stop keeping score.
So I hit call.
It rings once. Twice.
“Troy?” he answers, voice tentative, like he’s not sure I meant to dial.
“Hey,” I say, already regretting it. But I don’t hang up.
There’s a beat of silence. “Wow. Uh. Hi.”
I lean back in my chair, stare at the water stain on the ceiling. “I saw your message.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d ever call.”
“Yeah, well. I wasn’t sure either.”
Another pause. He doesn’t fill it with nervous dad jokes or awkward small talk. Just waits. Which... somehow makes it worse.
“I just, I wanted to say congrats,” he says. “Your mom told me about the project you’re part of. It sounds awesome.”
I blink. “She did?”
“Yeah. She said you and your teammate are killing it.”
“She said ‘killing it’?”
He chuckles. “Okay, no, she said ‘he’s doing well.’ I’m trying here.”
I exhale a soft laugh despite myself.
“I’m proud of you, kid.”
My jaw tightens.
“You weren’t there,” I say quietly. “For any of it. Not school. Not Tara’s plays. Not when Mom couldn’t get out of bed for three days straight.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “And I won’t pretend I have a good excuse for it. I messed up. A lot. I didn’t know how to show up, so I just... didn’t.”
His voice is raw and honest and for once, I don’t want to shout at him for that.
“I don’t need you to pretend like everything’s fine,” I tell him. “It’s not. But I guess…I don’t know. I guess I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.”
I hear him exhale. Long. Shaky.
“I care too,” he says. “And I want to fix what I can. If you let me.”
I nod, even though he can’t see it.
“We don’t have to have a beer and toss the football or whatever,” I mutter. “I’m not ready for some father-son redemption arc.”
“Wouldn’t expect one,” he says.
“But maybe... we can talk. Sometimes. About real stuff.”
“Like feelings?” he jokes.
“Don’t push it.”
He laughs. It’s not forced.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll start with this.”
We stay on the phone for almost an hour, talking about nothing and everything—awkward silences, dumb jokes, old memories that don’t sting as much when we say them out loud. It’s not perfect. But it feels good. Easy. Like putting down a backpack full of bricks I forgot I was carrying.
When we hang up, I stare at the ceiling for a second, just... breathing.
Then my phone buzzes again, and I catch up on the flood of texts from Ethan that piled in while I was MIA.
ETHAN
No response? Okay. I guess I’ll make myself a piece of toast
Sad, boring toast
Wait, was that a ghost notification? Did you change your mind? I can hold off for burritos
…still nothing. Cool. I’ll just starve. Probably wither into a husk
Tell my story
I laugh out loud, the sound echoing in my quiet room.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe... I'm not carrying everything alone anymore.