Page 71 of Where the Blacktop Ends

Troy’s hands on me. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was something precious.

And then… nothing.

After he took care of me so tenderly—washing me like I was something fragile, giving me an earth-shattering orgasm on the edge of the tub, and tucking me into bed like I was precious—he disappeared. Again.

Vanished.

No call. No text. No explanation. Just… gone.

I heard him leave early this morning—his footsteps muffled but distinct, the front door closing softly, like he didn’t want to wake me. But I was already awake. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, my body still aching for him. My heart aching for something I’m too scared to name.

And now?

Now I’m sitting here, pretending like I’m not counting down the hours since I last saw him. Like I’m not wondering where the hell we stand after everything that happened. My stomach twists, the uncertainty gnawing at me, making it impossible tothink about anything else. I try to push it down, to silence the questions swirling in my head, but they won’t stop.

Does he regret it?

Was it too much? Too fast?

Or am I just fooling myself, thinking this could be more than what it was?

I drag my fingers through my hair, exhaling a shaky breath as I finally break the silence.

“He’s really committed to his family…” My voice is soft, almost like I’m trying to convince myself. “And the people he feels responsible for, you know?”

James nods. “I’m getting the fact that you’ve become part of that list. It’s a good thing, too. So, when does Liam come back?”

“Not until tomorrow morning.”

“Nice. So, what are we watching tonight then?”

“You’re watching the first three seasons ofGossip Girlwhile you tell me all about your love life. I’ve heard things through the Hamptons grapevine amongst the older women.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he sips his drink. I press play on season one and then turn to him.

“Spill it, Whitmore.”

We dive into it, catching up, ordering pizza, and watching reruns of a show that reminds me of my high school days full of nostalgia. By the time the evening rolls around, I’ve stopped drinking, and the conversation takes a more serious turn.

“So, how have you been managing things?” James asks, his tone shifting slightly.

“Pretty well. My doctor from Texas has continued to check-in and I’ve been taking my prescription like usual.”

He nods, understanding the weight of those words.

“And you?” I ask him.

Despite all our teasing and playful banter, James and I bonded over something deeper than surface-level similarities and instant attraction five years ago. We connected through the cracks—the silent struggles we’d both carried, the kind that most people don’t see.

Depression.

For both of us, it wasn’t just a temporary occurrence. It had clawed at us during different seasons of our lives, weaving itself through memories, and somehow, we found a quiet understanding in that shared pain. I think that’s what’s kept us so close over the years. When you’ve sat in the darkness, it’s easier to recognize someone else who’s been there too.

Mine’s been managed for a while now, ever since I started a low-dose antidepressant back in high school. It helped level me out, took the edge off the heaviness that used to press down on me. But the roots of it? They went deeper—into the decisions I’d made when I was too young to understand their weight, the suffocating expectations I’d tried to live up to, and the whirlwind of changes that come when you’re barely old enough to know who you are.

James understood all of that.

When I first moved to New York to nanny for the Smiths, I told him everything.

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