Chapter 15 #2
“My car's just around the corner,” Troy says. “I can drive you home.”
I hesitate. The logical part of my brain says walking would be stupid when it's this cold and this late. But the stubborn part—the part that's kept me safe all these years—resists.
“I can walk. I do it all the time.”
“At midnight? Alone?” He raises an eyebrow. “Come on. It's not a big deal.”
I sigh, relenting. “Fine.”
His car is warm inside, the heater already blasting right away.
It smells like him—a mix of wood and manliness, something I can't quite place.
Something distinctly Troy. I try not to notice, just like I try not to notice how my own apartment never feels this warm, no matter how high I crank the heat.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the streets empty and quiet. Troy keeps his eyes on the road, but I can tell he's thinking about something. His fingers tap an irregular rhythm on the steering wheel.
“What?” I finally say.
He glances over. “What—what?”
“You're being weird. Quieter than usual. It’s…unnerving.”
He shrugs. “Just thinking.”
“Wow. That’s a first.”
He laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “You know, you use humor as a defense mechanism just as much as I do.”
That catches me off guard. I stare at him. “I don't—”
“You do,” he says, not unkindly. “You just do it differently. I go big, loud, over-the-top. You go sharp, sarcastic, push people away before they can get close.”
I cross my arms. “Are you psychoanalyzing me right now? Because I didn't sign up for that.”
“Not you. Just... patterns. I recognize them because I do the same thing.”
We stop at a red light, the glow casting shadows across his face. He looks different somehow. Tired. Older.
“What's going on with you tonight?” I ask, curiosity winning out over my usual defenses.
He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then, just as the light turns green.
“It's my dad's birthday.”
The words fall between us, heavy with meaning I don't yet understand.
“Oh,” I say, because I don't know what else to say. “Did you... call him?”
Troy's laugh is hollow. “No. He tried to call me but…it’s complicated between us.”
“Complicated how?”
God, how I wish I had a Dad to have a complicated relationship with. My mom never told me who my father is, and I reckon that’s for a good reason. If he’s anything like the guys she’s been with since, he’s not going to be much to rely on.
He sighs, taking a left turn toward my neighborhood. “Well, we don’t exactly get along. I try for my sister’s sake but…I can’t forgive him. He put us through a lot of shit when he left.”
The bitterness in his voice surprises me. I've never heard Troy sound like this—raw, angry, exposed.
“I didn't know your parents were divorced,” I say carefully.
“They’re not, not really. When I was nine, he left us,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. “He wanted to go explore other options but keep his option of home open.”
I wait, sensing there's more. I'm not used to this—to sitting in silence, letting someone else fill it. Usually, I'm the one trying to escape conversations, not extend them.
“He left,” Troy continues, his voice quieter now.
“Just... disappeared for a while. Told my mom he needed to 'find himself,' whatever the hell that means. While he was busy finding himself, I was busy trying to keep everything from falling apart at home. I remember my mom said to me one day after he left, “Troy, I can’t raise Tara alone. She’s got so much energy. Can you help me? Please? Will you look after us?” and I promised her that I always would. Which is why when he swanned back into our lives, I found it so hard to forgive him. Why I find it hard to say happy birthday to the asshole who made my mom cry every day for a year.”
I think about what that must have been like for him. Nine years old. Taking care of his mom, his sister. Having to be the man of the house when he was just a kid himself.
“That's a lot to put on a child,” I say softly.
Troy's jaw tightens. “It was what it was. Mom needed help. Tara was too young to understand, so I stepped up.”
He pauses, then exhales, voice lower.
“Well—she’s not that much younger. But she’s… she’s special. Always has been. She’s got this heart of gold, and Mom and I—”
He rubs the back of his neck. “We both agreed we wanted to keep it that way. We made some mistakes trying to protect Tar, but she turned out ok so I don't regret it.”
We pull onto my street, and I find myself wishing we had further to go. For once, I don't want this conversation to end.
“What sort of mistakes?”
“We told Tara he was on business trips,” he continues. “Made up stories about where he was, what he was doing. Made excuses for why he missed her birthday, Christmas, everything.”
“So she wouldn't know he left?”
He nods. “Mom thought it would be easier that way. And maybe it was, for Tara. But still I knew the truth. I had to listen to Mom cry herself to sleep every night. Had to watch her check her phone constantly, hoping he'd call.”
My chest tightens. I know what that's like—the waiting, the hoping, the inevitable disappointment.
“When did he come back?” I ask.
Troy parks in front of my building, killing the engine. “When I was sixteen. Waltzed back in like nothing happened, talking about how he'd 'changed' and 'found clarity.'” The sarcasm drips from his voice. “Mom took him back. Tara was thrilled.”
“And you?”
He turns to look at me, his eyes reflecting the streetlight. “I never trusted him again. But I pretended to, for them. I smiled and nodded and acted like everything was great. But I watched him, all the time, waiting for him to leave again.”
“Did he?”
“Not yet, but how can I ever know that for sure? It's why I found it so hard when Tara got with Alfie, my best friend, over summer. I just…I don't know how to not look out for her. I can't watch another guy let her down.”
I don't know what to say. This side of Troy—vulnerable, angry, hurt—is so different from the confident, easy-going guy I thought I knew.
“I'm sorry,” I say finally. “That really sucks.”
He laughs, and this time it’s softer. More real. “Yeah. It really does.”
We fall into silence. The car hums gently beneath us, the air cooling, the windows starting to fog just a little at the edges.
His profile in the dim light is all clean lines and quiet sadness, like he’s just a little more human than usual.
Guard down. Edges softened. It makes something in my chest twist.
After a beat, he glances at me. “What about your dad?”
I shrug. “Never met him. He was gone before I was born.” I pause, then add automatically, “Can’t miss what you never had, right?”
It’s a line I’ve said so many times I could almost believe it. But Troy looks at me like he’s already heard the lie in it.
“You can, though,” he says quietly. “You can miss the idea of them. The possibility.”
My throat tightens.
“Maybe,” I say, and then, before I can stop myself, more slips out.
“It’s always just been me and my mom. And I use that term loosely. She was there, technically. But mostly it was a revolving door of boyfriends who didn’t know my name and left before they could. I was background noise. Something in the way.”
I stare out the window, jaw tight.
“I got good at being invisible. At staying out of the way. At not expecting much. Holidays, birthdays, whatever—some years she showed up, some years I ate cereal on the floor. It stopped mattering after a while. Eventually, you just learn not to want things.”
Troy’s still watching me. Not with pity. Just... with this quiet intensity, like he’s holding space for me to keep going.
“And I think,” I say slowly, “that’s why I get so wrapped up in proving myself. If I don’t say it loud enough, if I’m not useful enough, smart enough, then no one notices I’m there. I just... disappear.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it.
I clear my throat and look away again.
The silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like understanding. Like shared ache.
“I get it now why you're always taking care of everyone,” I say, the realization hitting me. “Why you go out of your way to be reliable. To be there when people need you. Like me needing a ride.”
Troy's eyes widen slightly, like I've surprised him.
“I guess,” he admits. “Never really thought about it that way.”
“And why you're so protective of Tara.”
He nods. “All those years thinking Dad was just busy, when really he just... didn't want to be with us. That does something to a kid.”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking of my own mother's comings and goings. “It does.”
He looks at me for a long moment, like he's trying to figure something out. The heat in the car is dying, but I feel warm everywhere his gaze touches.
“What?” I ask, voice lower than I intended.
“Nothing. Just... I've never really talked about this with anyone before. I'm sorry, I hope it's not too much.”
“It's not,” I reassure him fast, placing a hand on his arm. The muscle beneath my fingers is solid, warm even through his jacket. We're still waiting outside my place and neither have made a move to adjust. “But…why me?”
He shrugs, but his eyes don't leave mine. “I don't know. You're easy to talk to.”
I almost laugh at that. No one has ever accused me of being easy to talk to.
Instead, I find myself saying, “My mom left sometimes too. Not forever, like your dad. Just... days at a time. I never knew when she'd go or when she'd come back.”
The words come out before I can stop them, like they've been waiting to escape.
Troy doesn't say anything, doesn't offer empty sympathy or advice. He just listens. His arm shifts under my hand, and suddenly his fingers are brushing against mine. Not holding, just touching. The contact sends a current up my arm.
“I learned pretty early how to take care of myself,” I continue, voice barely above a whisper now. “How to make sure the bills got paid, that there was food in the fridge. How to not need anyone.”
He nods, understanding in his eyes. “Self-preservation.”
“Exactly.”
The car feels smaller suddenly, the air charged with something I'm afraid to name. His eyes flick down to my hand on his arm, then back up to my face. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second, but it's enough to make my heart stutter.
In the silence that follows, I become acutely aware of every point of contact between us. The brush of his fingertips against mine. The way our breath seems to sync without trying. The narrowing space as he leans in, just slightly.
The moment stretches, taut with possibility.
Then Troy clears his throat, breaking the spell as he pulls back. His eyes dart to my building. “You should probably get inside before you freeze to death.”
I nod, my hand sliding from his arm, feeling suddenly cold. “Right.”
“It's late,” he adds, like he's trying to convince himself.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves.
Then headlights flash behind us as a car turns onto the street, the harsh glare cutting through our bubble. The moment shatters.
I reach for the door handle. “I should go.”
Troy nods, his expression unreadable now. “Goodnight, Delilah.”
The sound of my first name on his lips catches me off guard. Not Greer. Not Mittens. Delilah.
“Goodnight,” I manage, stepping out into the cold night air.
I don't look back as I walk to my door, but I can feel his eyes on me. My key shakes slightly in the lock.
Only when I'm inside, door closed firmly behind me, do I let out the breath I've been holding. I lean against the wall, heart pounding like I've been running.
What just happened?
What almost happened?
And why do I feel like I've just made both the best and worst decision of my life by walking away?