Chapter 32 #2
“That's not true,” I counter quickly. “Troy's actually got some amazing ideas about the solar integration. And the wind load calculations he came up with—”
“Oh my god,” Tara interrupts, grinning. “You guys are perfect for each other. Both trying to give the other credit.”
I flush again, but Troy just grins, sliding his arm across the back of my chair. “What can I say? I'm rubbing off on her.”
“More like I'm teaching you manners,” I mutter.
Claire laughs, and the conversation shifts to Tara's classes, to local politics, to a funny story about Troy's high school days. I find myself laughing, asking questions, even sharing a few carefully edited stories about my own life.
Throughout dinner, I notice how Troy quietly serves his mother before himself, how he asks if she’s ok a little too often—all done so subtly that I doubt anyone else catches it. He doesn't make a show of it, doesn't draw attention. He just takes care of her, like he's been doing it forever.
And maybe he has. Maybe that's why he's so good at taking care of everyone else—it's what he knows, what he's always done. The realization makes something shift in how I see him, adding depth to the easy charm I've come to expect.
I catch him watching me watch him, and the small, private smile he offers isn't his usual cocky grin. It's something softer, more genuine. Like he's letting me see a part of him most people don't get to.
And despite myself, I smile back.
I'm relaxed. Actually relaxed.
No one asks why my family isn't celebrating together. No one pries into the gaps in my stories. I'm simply accepted, welcomed into the orbit of their warmth without question.
Tara rolls her eyes at something Claire says. “Also, Mom, can you please ask Dad to stop emailing me PhD program brochures? I swear he has a bot set up or something. I’m not applying. I like my plan and I’m sticking with it.”
Claire sighs but there’s fondness in it. “He just wants you to reach your potential, honey.”
“Yeah, well, I am reaching it,” Tara mutters. “I don’t want to be in school forever. I want to do something that matters now.”
Troy goes still beside me. Not dramatically, just enough that I feel it. The shift. Like someone pressed pause on the part of him that was laughing a second ago.
His smile fades just a little. He stabs at his stuffing. They continue talking about Tara’s future and I sense that this is a conversation that has been going on for some time.
The others don’t notice that Troy checked out as soon as his Dad was brought up, but I do.
I reach under the table and casually let my knee bump his. Not hard. Not pointed. Just enough to say hey, I see you.
He glances over, a blink slower than usual, and gives me this quiet, grateful look. No words. Just thanks.
I give him a little shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it is. Even though it feels kind of massive, actually, to be able to show up for someone like this.
Claire, still mid-potato scoop, starts telling a story about Troy’s high school science fair, and just like that, the moment moves on. But not before I feel his hand brush against mine under the table and stay there.
And yeah. I squeeze it back.
After dinner, Troy and I are assigned dish duty while Claire and Tara prepare dessert. Standing beside him at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands occasionally brushing as we pass plates back and forth, I feel something dangerous growing in my chest.
“You're quiet,” Troy observes, bumping his hip against mine. “Food coma setting in?”
“Just thinking,” I say.
“Uh-oh.”
I flick soapy water at him. “Shut up.”
He laughs, leaning closer. “Seriously, though. You okay?”
I shrug, scrubbing harder than necessary at a fork. “It’s just... this. Your family. Dinner. Being here. It’s a lot.”
His brows pull together. “Too much?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Weirdly... not enough. Like, it’s unsettling how much I liked it. Like my brain’s trying to prepare for the inevitable disaster because this feels too... normal.”
Troy’s quiet. But not in a bad way. Just listening.
“And I know I haven’t earned any of this,” I add, voice lower now. “But I want to. Be part of it, I mean.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just passes me another plate, slower this time.
“You kinda already are,” he says.
And damn him, that does something to my ribcage.
We work in silence for a minute. The clink of dishes. The faint sound of Tara yelling at a movie character in the next room. Then, because I’m apparently broken in the head and incapable of letting a moment be nice, I continue and blurt out what’s been on my mind.
“Also... earlier. With Tara’s comment about your dad.”
His shoulders tense.
“I don’t know what the whole deal is,” I continue, carefully. “And I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you or force you into anything.”
He snorts. “Appreciated.”
“But,” I say, rinsing the last plate, “if there’s any part of you that wants to... I don’t know. Un-mess things with him? Even a little? You should.”
He hands me a towel without looking at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I dry my hands and lean against the counter. “Because…well, nobody’s ever cared what I did. No one sent me college brochures, let alone PhD programs. If someone did? Even if it was annoying? I’d probably cry and frame the email.”
He huffs a laugh but doesn’t look up.
“I’m not saying he gets a free pass. But if there’s any shot at something better between you two, maybe it’s worth trying. And I’ll help you. If you need it.”
He finally looks up, eyes searching mine.
“Delilah Greer,” he says slowly, “why do you sound like you actually give a shit about me?”
“Because I do, you idiot.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then he smirks. “Well, damn. If I’d known being emotionally unavailable would get you all soft and supportive, I would've weaponized my trauma way sooner.”
I snort. “Asshole.”
“And yet…” He steps a little closer, eyes dropping to my mouth for a second too long. “You keep showing up.”
“It’s definitely not because of your face.”
“That’s a lie. You think I’m hot.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think you’re adequate.”
He grins like he’s won something. “You literally just called me an idiot and offered to emotionally support me. That’s soulmate behavior.”
“Don’t make me take it back.”
He leans in, his voice low and teasing. “Too late. I already added it to my mental scrapbook of ‘Delilah Being Soft.’ It’s going right next to the time you brought me coffee and pretended it wasn’t for me.”
I roll my eyes and push off the counter. “You’re exhausting.”
He grabs a dish towel and flicks it at my hip. “And you’re cute when you care.”
“Say that again and I’ll drown you in cranberry punch.”
He’s still grinning when he tosses the last dish towel on the counter and follows me into the living room.
Just for tonight, I push away the voice that warns me not to get too comfortable. The one that reminds me good things don't last, at least not for me.
For once, I let myself simply be here, in this moment, with these people who somehow make room for me without question.
And when Troy kisses my temple, whispering “Told you they'd love you” against my hair, I don't argue.
I just lean into him, into the warmth, into the dangerous, wonderful feeling of belonging.