liv

darry, on the other hand, loves spicy food. it reminds him of the days he’d go out with the football team, wolfing down hot wings and piling hot sauce on everything as a joke.

once darry becomes the primary chef in the house (not by choice, believe him), he starts trying to slowly integrate spice into their dinners.

but then there’s sodapop. soda doesn’t twist his arm or raise his voice. he doesn’t have to. all it takes is one look — that wide, open kind of look that only soda can pull off, like the world hasn’t knocked the happiness out of him yet — and darry is toast.

he remembers a different life, barely. one where fall meant college, not court dates and grocery lists. he was supposed to make it out of tulsa. supposed to be more than this. but all of that — his future, his parents, even his relationship with ponyboy — was ripped away in a single night.

he tries not to be bitter. tries not to think about how unfair it is. but sometimes he wonders why it had to be him. why not one of the rich, smiling kids from high school who had everything and still wanted more? he misses those days, even if he doesn’t want to. misses who he was before everything broke.

he’s standing in the kitchen, staring at the same empty cereal box he can barely afford to replace, when there’s a knock at the door. it’s firm, quick. not the kind of knock that means trouble, but not the kind that means comfort, either.

he wipes his hands on his jeans and opens the door.

he’s met with a familiar smirk and a curly, brown head of hair.

“hey,” paul says, hands shoved in the pockets of his letterman jacket like it’s still senior year and everything’s normal. like darry’s whole world didn’t fall apart two months ago.

“hey,” darry says, voice flat.

“don’t be like that, dar. can i come in?” paul asks, because he knows darry better than himself and he knows that this is the last thing darry wants to deal with right now.

darry hesitates, then steps aside. “sure.”

the house smells like ponyboy’s cigarettes and motor oil. paul looks around, takes it all in — the dishes in the sink, the stack of overdue bills on the table, soda cans lined up on the counter like trophies. he doesn’t say anything about it, which almost makes it worse.

“just wanted to check in,” paul says, finally. “it’s been a while.

darry leans against the counter. “been busy.”

paul nods. “yeah. i bet.”

silence stretches between them. the kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath. it’s awkward and strained — far from the easy-going conversations they used to share in the middle of the night back in high school.

“we’re all set for fall though, right?” paul asks, like it’s a normal question.

darry laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “nah. that’s off the table.”

“what do you mean?”

“i mean i can’t go.” he looks down at his hands. “someone’s gotta keep this place running. pony can’t do it. soda dropped out just to keep us fed. i can’t leave.”

paul runs a hand through his hair and starts pacing, jaw clenched tight like he’s trying to keep something from slipping out. darry watches him, arms crossed, waiting for the explosion.

“we can fix it,” paul says finally, voice low but urgent. “there’s gotta be a way, right? scholarships, night classes, something. you don’t have to give up —”

“i’m not givin’ up,” darry snaps. “i’m doin’ what i have to.”

“no,” paul says, pointing at him. “no, this isn’t what you have to do. this is you settling. this is you being scared.”

“you shut your mouth, holden. i ain’t scared.”

“bullshit. you are. you’re scared to want something for yourself. you’re scared to try, ‘cause if it doesn’t work out, then what? at least if you stay here, you get to pretend it’s noble instead of just sad.”

darry’s eyes go cold. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

paul doesn’t back off. “you used to talk about getting out of here like it was the only thing keeping you breathing. now you’re telling me you’re just gonna stay in this house until you rot?”

“i can’t go,” darry says, quieter this time. like the truth costs something. he looks down at his hands, like he’s ashamed of what they’ve become. “i got two kids to raise now.”

paul stares at him like he’s waiting for a punchline. when none comes, he shakes his head.

“i can’t believe this. you’re throwing it all away.”

darry lifts his eyes, sharp and tired. “you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. the minute they died, it all went with them.”

paul looks like he’s been slapped. he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. just stands there, in the quiet that feels heavier than shouting.

“you should go,” darry says.

paul doesn’t move at first. then he nods, once, and turns for the door. his hand hesitates on the knob.

“you were supposed to make it out,” he says again, not looking back.

“yeah,” darry says, voice barely above a whisper. “we were.”

the door closes behind paul, and the silence that follows feels final.