Page 72 of Where the Blacktop Ends

I didn’t mean to—hell, I hadn’t planned on spilling my past over takeout and late-night walks on the beach—but James has this way of making you feel like it’s okay to be honest. Like he won’tjudge you for the parts you’re still ashamed of. I told him how I’d never finished college. How the depression I thought I had under control came back full force in those early years, dragging me under when I least expected it.

I was so sure I was past that. I had a plan, a purpose—or at least I thought I did. But when the passion I once felt for what I was studying faded, when it started to feel more like a prison than a path, all those doubts from high school came rushing back. The weight ofwhat ifsandnot enoughscrushed me until I couldn’t breathe, and eventually, I just… stopped.

Stopped going to class.

Stopped answering my friends’ texts.

Stopped believing I was capable of anything more.

I dropped out before anyone even realized how bad it had gotten and found nannying which saved me.

And James?

He didn’t look at me like I was broken. He just nodded and said, “Yeah… I get that.”

Because hedid. He’d been there too—different circumstances, same darkness.

“I’m doing alright,” James says, leaning back. “I’m back in therapy. Funny how you can spend two years in therapy, once a week, and still not get past processing your teenage years.”

I snort. “I get it. I think most of our trauma starts there. I’m glad you’re talking about it,” I say after a pause. “Showing up is the hardest part.”

James looks at me. “And what’s the easy part?”

I tap my finger against the wine glass, lost in thought. “I’m not sure if there is aneasypart. But maybe it’s when you can justexist in those small, quiet moments, where you’re not haunted by that voice in your head. The one that says you’re not enough, you’re not doing enough, and no one will ever truly see you for who you actually are. Only your past mistakes.”

I look away, suddenly feeling too exposed, like I’ve handed him a piece of me that I’m not used to sharing. But with James, it doesn’t feel scary. It feels… safe. His hand rests lightly on mine, grounding me in that quiet understanding that’s always been there between us.

We sit there for a moment, the silence stretching but not uncomfortable. Just…heavy. I’m about to say something—something to lighten the mood, something that’ll cut through the weight of it—when the front door swings open.

And then there’sTroy.

The shift is instant.

James and I are sitting close, which is nothing new. We’ve always been like this—best friends, both empaths, comfortable with physical closeness, intimately aware of each other’s scars. But for the first time, I’mhyperawareof how it might look to someone who doesn’t know us.

ToTroy.

His gaze locks onto us, sharp and unrelenting, like a spotlight cutting through the dim glow of the living room. It sweeps over me, slow and deliberate, and I swear I can feel it—feelthe heat of it trailing over my skin, making my breath catch in my throat.

The air thickens.

Troy doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. The weight of his stare says it al

“Hi, Mr. Marshall!” My voice comes out high-pitched and way too cheerful, enough for both James and Troy to glance at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Also,Mr. Marshall?Why they hell didn’t I just call him Troy? There’s no reason to feel guilt. James is my best friend and Troy knows that.

Right?

I’m not sure anymore judging by the look on his face.

“Good evening,” Troy says, his voice cool and measured as he nods at James.

I jump up as if to greet him, though I have no idea what I’m doing. He meets my eyes with a look that tells me to stay put and sit back down, so I sink back onto the couch.

I wasn’t expecting him to come home right now. Liam’s not here, so it shouldn’t matter that I have company. Troy said I could have guests as long as Liam isn’t around. And it’s Jame.Why am I spiraling?

I’d rather be spending the evening with Troy, buthe disappeared. Again.

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