You Matter to Me

by juniron

Summary:

Tulsa, 1968. Ponyboy Curtis spends his nights at the library, chasing the chance at college his brothers never had. One stormy evening leaves him stranded after closing, and Lynn Hall – a young library assistant carrying burdens of her own – offers him a ride home. Darry sees her kindness towards his kid brother as nothing more than a favor, at first. But between late-night study sessions, quiet sacrifices, and the weight of family duty, he begins to realize that Lynn understands him in a way no one else ever has. Somewhere between duty and longing, the possibility of something more for the both of them begins to take root.

____________

Set one year after the events of the musical

Chapter 1: Simple and Plain and Not Much To Ask From Somebody

Notes:

The title is from Waitress and has shaped my vision for the overall narrative of this fic.

The not-so-distant rumble of thunder rattled the windows of the Tulsa City-County library as Ponyboy Curtis’s eyes danced across the page of the book in front of him. He hadn’t meant to get sidetracked from his geometry text, but something about escaping into yet another Dickens classic was too tempting to pass up on. He had meant to read the first chapter as a five-minute study break, honestly. Yet his five minutes had quickly spiraled into two and a half hours, math studying long forgotten.

 

It had not yet occurred to Ponyboy that he was one of the only people remaining at the large mahogany desks in the library, too lost in his thoughts and his story to care. He’d promised Darry that he’d do his best to stay on top of arithmetic this year to have a better shot at college, but he couldn’t help that he wanted a quick break to fall back into what made him feel smarter than anything: English.

 

Not many patrons would have been out at the library at this time anyways. A late evening at the tail end of summer during the second week of school was not calling anyone to their books. Especially not when those books were several blocks away in the heart of town in the middle of a torrential thunderstorm. Pony enjoyed the peace and sanctuary, preferring it heavily to studying at home under Darry’s expectant gaze and Soda’s distracting banter.

 

A clock chime signified it was a quarter to eight, but it went in one ear and out the other; five more minutes to finish up this chapter couldn’t hurt.

 

Five minutes later, a light tap on the shoulder snapped Ponyboy out of his reading fervor with an audible protest. He didn’t take too kindly to being snuck up on. It was one of the library workers.

 

“Hey there. I see that you’re real invested in this one, but it’s almost closing and I have to get everything ready to lock up. You wanna check that one out and take it home? I’ll fill out a slip for you real quick.”

 

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed her before. Maybe he had, in passing – just another face behind the counter, someone stamping checkout slips or shelving books while he was buried away in stories. But now, with her standing close and talking straight to him, he realized she wasn’t like the girls he was used to seeing around school or the rodeo.

 

Her hair was dark and smooth, falling nearly past her shoulders; it had a light wave at the ends, likely curling up from the unrelenting mugginess of a wet, Tulsa August. Her skin had a warm tone to it, not freckled or burnt like most kids who spent their summer under the Oklahoma sun, but not pale and untouched like so many of the powdered-up soc girls; golden in the glow of the desk lamps. And her eyes, dark and focused, stared steadily into his own in a way that he’d never seen before. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he realized he was staring.

 

“Something on my face?” she asked with a slight smirk.

 

“Sorry, miss. I, uh, I didn’t mean to stare,” he stammered, a light blush betraying his embarrassment.

 

“Don’t worry about it, kid, I’m used to it,” she replied earnestly. “And don’t call me ‘miss’, it makes me feel super old.”

 

Ponyboy nodded, not wanting to dig his own hole any deeper. The library assistant gestured to the books at his desk again. 

 

“So, you wanna take those home?”

 

“Yeah, sorry.”

 

“Like I said, no worries. If you didn’t, I’d just shove them under the desk and put ‘em away tomorrow. Bring ‘em up front and we’ll get it situated.”

 

Ponyboy hastily shoved his notes into his bag in a way that would’ve made Darry sigh, grabbing his small stack and following the worker up to the front desk. Her confident, methodical movements as she dated the checkout slips further confirmed that she must’ve worked here for a while. 

“Thanks a bunch, ma’am,” Pony said.

 

“I think ‘ma’am’is worse than ‘miss’. I’m only twenty-one, can’t be ‘ma’am’-ing me yet,” she laughed. “Call me Lynn. Would you mind turning off those other two desk lamps while I lock up these records?”

 

The two moved in quiet agreement as the clock struck eight.

 

“Alright, kid, let’s get outta here.”

 

Lynn’s keys jangled as she moved to open the front door. Howling winds echoed into the darkened library and a spattering of rainwater pelted hers and Ponyboy’s feet, soaking her worn flats and his ragged Converse.

 

“Lord, I didn’t know it’d gotten that bad. Was a drizzle at lunchtime,” Lynn breathed as she twisted the key to lock the entrance.

 

“Sorry for holding you up. You might’a been able to leave earlier if it weren’t for me,” Pony said bashfully.

 

“Nope, I’m on government time. I’d have closed at eight whether the whole town was here or just you.”

 

“Well, I won’t keep you waitin’ any longer. G’night!”

 

Before Ponyboy could step off the stone stoop, Lynn’s hand caught his shoulder.

 

“Nuh uh, there’s no way I’m letting you walk home in this. You a secret Olympic swimmer?”

 

Ponyboy shook his head.

 

“That’s what I thought. Besides, I can’t let you trudge through town and get our books all soaked.”

 

He couldn’t argue with that logic, and he was grateful that he wasn’t going to come home with soggy hair and homework. 

 

“Alright, on ‘three’ we sprint as fast as possible to my car. It’s just down the sidewalk. One… two… three!”

They burst off the landing and into the rain. Despite his heavy backpack, Ponyboy easily cleared the distance quicker, eagerly waiting at the passenger side door.

“It’s unlocked, just get in!” Lynn called as she followed over.

 

An instant later, both doors were slammed shut and the thrum of the engine purred to life as Lynn turned the ignition. She sighed, inspecting her soaked through flats and squeezing the dampness out of her hair.

 

“Pretty tuff car you got here.”

 

Lynn huffed out a laugh.

 

“It’s a beat-up ‘55 Bel Air, I wouldn’t exactly call it fancy.”

“Cooler than our truck or any of my friends’ old beaters. Starts without you havin’ to push it along.

 

“It gets the job done,” she paused, turning towards him, “So… not an Olympic swimmer, but maybe an Olympic sprinter?”

That earned a smile from the fifteen-year-old greaser.

 

“You really think so?” he asked shyly.

 

“I don’t know too much about sports but I think that was real impressive. You on the high school team?”

“Yep, I made varsity my first year. My brothers are hopin’ I can get a scholarship for college”

 

“What’s your name, kid? I oughta have seen you in the paper winning races across the district.”

 

“I’m Ponyboy Curtis,” he said plainly, waiting for the inevitable sneer and questioning that always accompanied his introduction.

 

“Neat. Where do you live, Ponyboy? I don’t exactly know where to drop you off.”

 

“Ain’t you gonna ask why I got a funny name?”

 

“Trust me, Ponyboy, my mom’s got a real unique name too, especially around these parts. I get it.”

 

“You’re probably the first person who ain’t got nothing to say about it. Thanks. I’m about fifteen minutes East from here, I’ll tell you when to turn.”

 

“Right, let’s navigate the downpour together. You’ll be home before you know it.”

 

The pattering of the rain accompanied the comfortable silence of the car as Lynn drove.

 

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what’s your mom’s name? I have an older brother named Sodapop so I’m sure we’ve got her beat in the unique names department.”

 

Lynn’s breath caught in her throat; hesitation sat on her tongue.

 

“You close with your brother?” she deflected.

 

Ponyboy took the hint.

 

“Uh, yeah, real close. I’ve actually got two. Darry’s the oldest, he lucked out with the regular name though. It’s plain and simple, like him. I think it fits real well. Couldn’t imagine Soda bein’ named anything else.”

 

The red ‘55 Chevy pulled onto the Curtis household’s driveway. Warm light poured out through the cracks in the blinds, a sure sign that Darry and Soda were waiting up for Ponyboy in the living room. He sighed, knowing he was gonna catch plenty of flack from his oldest brother about riding home with a stranger.

 

“Thanks for the ride, you didn’t have to do all this,” Ponyboy said.

 

“I try and do good where I can, don’t go thinking too hard about–”

 

“Ponyboy!” Darry’s voice permeated the rhythm of the rain and Ponyboy could swear that God’s timing of the following thunderclap from the storm was meant to scare him shitless.

 

“I’m comin’ Dar, lay off!”

 

Too late. Darry was descending the porch, umbrella in hand, still clad in his work attire. It was clear that he’d had a long day and was beyond irked that his brother was just now getting home in the heat of the storm. Ponyboy threw his head back against the worn headrest of Lynn’s passenger seat, also clearly not in the mood for this ensuing argument. Ponyboy cracked the door open, attempting to keep the interior of the car dry.

 

“Did you ever think to call? Pocket change and payphones exist for a reason, kid brother. Can’t believe you sometimes,” Darry prattled.

 

“It ain’t a big deal, you’re making a big whup outta nothin’. I got home just fine, okay?

 

“I’m sorry my kid brother troubled you, miss–”

 

“Hall. Lynn Hall,” she reached across the seats to extend a hand that Darry moved to shake.

 

“Dar, she said she doesn’t like bein’ called miss,” Ponyboy started.

 

“Noted. Now, get your ass in the house. Soda saved hot water for you to shower, and your math homework better be done because I do not have the energy to help you with it today.”

 

Pony ducked under Darry’s arm and scuttled into the house, shutting the front door a little too harshly for Darry’s liking.

 

“Thanks again for driving him home. I’m not big on charity, but I’ll take it this time,” Darry sighed.

 

“It isn’t charity, just helpin’ out.”

 

“You gonna be good getting home yourself?”

 

Darry had been trying to piece together which side of the tracks this enigmatic woman lived on, whether she was a part of their territory or not. She didn’t look like she fit either box too well.

 

“I’m sure I’ll manage. I’m not too far from the Eastern side of the main train line. Edge of the center of the city limits.”

 

Greaser territory, then, just barely.

 

“You must be the oldest brother, then. Ponyboy told me a lil’ bit about you and Sodapop. Don’t worry, if he needs a quick lift after studying hard and I’m closing up, I’m happy to be his ride if he slips me a quarter or two for gas every once and a while. He seems like a good kid.”

 

Lips pursed, another huff escaped Darry’s nose. 

 

“Yeah, he is. We won’t make this a habit, though. Thank you, Lynn. We owe you one. Get back to your home in one piece for us.”

 

“Good plan. Don’t worry, the good luck will catch up to me at some point. I like to have a few favors stashed away to cash in when I need it most” she smiled as Darry closed the ajar door. 

 

Darry gave a wave as she shifted the car into reverse and pulled out onto the street.

 

Lynn Hall. He couldn’t remember going to school with anyone by that name. Not that it mattered much. He’d come up with a nice gesture to return the favor (his mama raised a polite man who didn’t let loose ends go untied) and that would be the end of it, he was sure. But as her Bel Air’s taillights blurred into the rain, he caught himself wondering why he hoped it wasn’t.

Notes:

The musical is definitely my favorite adaptation of The Outsiders story. Darry is by far my favorite character and I would be lying if I didn't say this was a self indulgent exploration of his character and what I feel could be an interesting look at the lives of the Curtis brothers after their world is rocked by Dallas and Johnny's deaths.

I have no promise for an update schedule, and I've never written OC-based fanfiction, but I have a plot sketched out with lots of cute moments building to an inevitable satisfying romance. I would love to give some layers to the greater social context these characters are living through in the late 60s. I hope Lynn piques your interest and that you give this work a chance as I chip away at this passion project.

Chapter 2: It's Addictive the Minute You Let Yourself Think

Summary:

Weeknights at the Curtis house bring late-night studying, quiet worries, and a few unexpected bright spots. Between test prep, family dinners, and the enigmatic girl helping him shape it, Ponyboy’s world starts to shift in small but noticeable ways. His brothers see the change too—and Darry can’t help but wonder just what's, or who's, behind it.

The Curtis house was like most houses on the East side: humble, homey, and in need of an amount of TLC that nobody living there had time to attend to. The three occupants knew it was far from a mansion, but it was enough, especially when filled with the warm laughter of the gang. After all of the family they’d lost in such a short period of time, it seemed that home was becoming a smaller and smaller circle.

 

Their home always felt smaller when the kitchen table was cluttered, and tonight, buried under Ponyboy’s schoolwork, was no different. A geometry textbook was splayed open against the dull oak; a bright green spiral notebook Two-Bit had swiped for him laid next to it, with a pitiful amount of writing inside. Always one to fidget when anxious, Ponyboy continued tapping his half-dulled pencil on the edge of the table, hard enough to make dents in the worn writing utensil’s soft side. 

 

“You’ve been starin’ at this same problem for twenty minutes,” Darry said, peering over his baby brother’s shoulder.

“I’m thinkin’... It ain’t my fault that they went and mixed math with law. Who even made up the laws? Why the hell do I gotta prove that the triangle is a triangle? They can know that by lookin’ at the damn drawing that it’s a triangle!” Ponyboy groaned.

 

Soda slid a Pepsi fresh from the fridge across the table to his brainiac brother and offered, “You never know, honey. Maybe the triangle is real insecure about itself and needs some encouragement that it’s the shape it says it is.”

 

“Soda, if you ain’t gonna help him, help me and get the laundry started,” Darry said.

 

“Shoot, Dar, I don’t think I could help with the math if I had a heater to my forehead.”

 

“Then go change yours and Pony’s sheets and get a move on, we’d all like clean, dry pants by the morning.”

 

“Aye aye, captain!” Soda grabbed Ponyboy’s sweatshirt from the back of his chair as he fled the kitchen.

 

“Alright, Ponykid, let’s get this done.”

 

“I’m tryin’, Darry, honest.”

 

Darry sighed, his voice was sharp but the underlying worry lacing his tone was clear, “You can’t coast your way through the ACT, and this triangle shit’s gonna be on there. I know it sucks, but if you want a chance at gettin’ into school with a scholarship next year–”

 

“I gotta show them admissions chums that I can score well on their dumbass test. Yeah, I know,” Pony snapped, frustration evident as he dug his pencil a bit too hard into the notebook.

 

Darry clenched his fists around the back of Pony’s chair. In his heart, he knew Ponyboy was just tired and doing his best, but his own nagging anxiety kept seeping through the cracks. He knew to push, but not so hard it tossed his baby brother off the deep end. 

 

Ponyboy squeezed his eyes shut tight. The room was thick with the same old tension; Darry was pushing him, Soda was trying his best to play peacekeeper, and he was caught in between and feeling real lousy about it all. There was months til’ his test, months til’ track and field recruiters would be seriously scouting him for collegiate athletics, but the pressure was already building like a slow cooker crock pot, and his future, if he went and messed this up, was the unappetizing roast.

 

---

 

Two nights later, something was different. Pony came home from the Tulsa City-Country Library, the door slamming shut behind him. Damp, September air came flooding into the house, Ponyboy’s dew-coated sneakers squeaking across the hardwood floor as he made his way to the kitchen table.

 

“Hey, buddy. You want some dinner? We’ve got broccoli and rice I can warm up for you. Been gettin’ back pretty late this week, haven’t you?” Darry said.

 

“Been busy. Studyin’ like you say I oughta be. Besides, I like the library, I can get away from it all for a lil’ bit. It’s real nice,” Ponyboy shrugged, dropping his backpack next to his chair.

 

“I’ll dish out your dinner. The days are just gettin’ shorter and I don’t like you walkin’ home alone once it starts to get dark early.”

 

“Yeah, Dar. I’m savvy. Thanks for makin’ dinner.”

 

Darry paused a brief moment. It had been a long while since he’d been able to talk about curfew without a fight from his growing youngest. ‘I ain’t a baby no more’, Pony would say. ‘It ain’t crazy for me to wanna protect you after everything that went down last year,’ Darry would respond. Darry’s eyes drifted over to where his baby brother was sat, hauling out his chemistry and geometry books, flipping the latter open with a determination neither older brother had seen in a while.

 

Same dented pencil in hand, Pony hunched over his crumpled notes and started working on a section of math problems. No complaints, no stalling, just soft, quiet scribbles and the occasional flip of the page.

 

Soda, who’d been drying the last of the pots and pans, raised his eyebrows at Darry, whispering in a not-so-quiet volume, “where’d our baby brother go? You sure that’s actually Pony sittin’ there? Normally math is done kickin’ and screamin’.”

 

“Buzz off, Soda,” Pony mumbled, not even looking up from his work.

 

Darry scraped Ponyboy’s dinner onto a plate, watching how his little brother’s shoulders weren’t so tense tonight. Soda was right, usually he had to push Ponyboy into his least favorite subject like a stubborn pack mule. ‘Kickin’ and screamin’’ may have been a little dramatic, but the heart was accurate enough. Now he looked… steady. Focused. Like someone had cut the weight off his back, even if just a little.

 

He wanted to ask what was so different about tonight, but decided not to spook the mule. For once, Ponyboy was studying for math without a fight. Better not to break the spell.

 

---

 

The next night, a not-so-uncommon September heatwave and a less-than-functional ceiling fan had Soda sprawled across the couch while Darry cleaned up the kitchen. The door smacked shut and Ponyboy dropped his bag on the floor near the coffee table with a resounding thump announcing his arrival home. He plopped down on the floor next to Soda as he began settling in to ‘be brainy’, as the middle brother put it.

 

This time, instead of just grabbing his school notes, he pulled out a thick paperback lined with dog-eared pages and a worn cover: College Entrance Test Strategies 4th Edition.

 

“What in the world is that?” Soda asked, craning his neck to see. An indent from the couch armrest left an ugly red mark across his neck. Pony kept his mouth shut. “That don’t look like your usual Jane Aster or whoever.”

 

“Jane Austen,” Pony corrected. “And, it’s a library book. Maybe you should try one sometime.”

 

Soda sat up, cracking a smile. “A library book, huh? That the one you’re readin’ for fun, or the one she gave you?”

 

“She?” Darry asked from the kitchen doorway.

 

“The assistant who drove me home the other day. Lynn,” Ponyboy admitted, not looking up to meet either of his brothers’ eyes. He held up the prep book, picking through the dog-eared sections like it was a holy tome of knowledge. “She said it might help. Showed me where it was on the shelf and said she used it when she was takin’ her own exams. Wished people hadn’t gone and bent the pages like this though, really ruins it for the rest of us.”

 

That piqued Darry’s interest.

 

“She in school?” He asked.

 

“I dunno. Didn’t think to ask.” Pony shrugged, though his ears were tinged pink. He let out a small huff, “she said that she knows tests can feel bigger than they are. Said most of the fight is the nerves, and if I can sprint like a racehorse over hurdles for a quarter mile, I can sit through a few hours and a bubble sheet.”

 

Soda laughed brightly, laying back down across the couch armrest, “sounds like she’s got this whole ‘Pony college prep’ thing more figured out than we do.”

 

“Don’t start. I’m focusin’” Pony said, snapping his head back to playfully nudge Soda’s side.

 

But Darry didn’t laugh. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded like they so often were these days, watching his brothers. Pony had brushed off a million pep talks from Soda and frustrated scowls from him, yet one suggestion from a library assistant had him copying vocab words and memorizing formulas like it was gospel.

 

And that name–Lynn–stuck in his head long after he returned to sweeping the kitchen.

 

---

 

By the fifth night of the week, Pony’s words and mannerisms carried traces of her without him even realizing it. She’d clung like lingering department perfume. Not unpleasant, just, unexpected. Different. He leaned over a diagram in the prep book, muttering to himself under his breath, “if you can run a mile in the coldest troughs of winter, you can ace one test. It’s simple, like she said.”

 

Soda welcomed the happy, focused energy from his baby brother. He seemed to be using so much energy on school and ACT prep that his brain was too tired to conjure up nightmares when he finally hit the sack at the end of the night. It was a welcome change for all parties involved.

 

But Darry, Darry didn’t chuckle lightly like Soda each time Pony repeated a different mantra. He only watched, a tight knot of curiosity building in his gut. This woman, whoever she was, had managed to get through to his little brother in ways that Darry hadn’t; that felt… strange, uncomfortable, even, not knowing. He had to know: What about her clicked differently?

 

Later, after all the lights in the house were out and his brothers were asleep, Darry lingered in the quiet kitchen. His pile of overdue bills were sitting next to Ponyboy’s finished homework and half-completed test prep book on the table. His eyes danced across the artistic scrawl of Pony’s handwriting adorning the stack of notecards detailing the vocabulary words that whatever college admissions gods had deemed important for an upstanding young man to know. 

 

Burgeon - (verb) to begin to grow or increase rapidly; flourish

 

He thought of the stormy night from about a week ago, of what Lynn’s presence under faint library lights might feel like, and the way Pony had carried her comforting words home like a new personal code.

 

Maybe it was just gratitude. Maybe it was more. Either way, Darry knew one thing: Next time, he’d find a reason to stop by the Tulsa City-County Library himself.

Notes:

In between labs and lectures, this has been the only thing on my mind the past few days! I keep thinking about where I wanna take you on my story, and I'm happy to say I have my plot sketched out. I hope you enjoy my style of writing with the Curtis brothers smacked into it, I know it's not super reminiscent of SE Hinton, but I think that's what makes fanfiction fun. If you are so inclined, please leave me a comment about your thoughts so far!

Chapter 3: The Things That I Say Just Might Matter to Someone

Summary:

Darry finds himself rolling up to the Tulsa City-County Library to pick Ponyboy up from his study session. He's got no ulterior motivations. He definitely isn't desperate to learn more about his little brother's new friend and justifying it with a very shoddy cover story. Definitely not.

The Friday shift at the construction site seemed to drag on forever. Roofing houses always made the hours pass like days, but something about this particular day was really creeping along. Darry’s arms ached from hauling crates of supplies up and down the ladders in the late afternoon heat; his patience for this occupation was just as sore. Normally, he’d be clamoring to get home, shower, and collapse into their dad’s old armchair until one of the gang came along begging for help, money, or, most often times, food.

 

But today he was restless for different reasons: Curiosity, mostly. And as much as he hated to admit it, a bit of anxiety.

 

He waved a halfhearted goodbye to the guys at the site and climbed into his truck. Normally the drive home gave him a few minutes of peace, a quiet stretch of roads where he could just let his mind go blank, focusing only on the stoplights and the hum of the engine. Sometimes he’d let the radio play softly in the background, tuned to whatever station Pony and Soda had left it on previously. 

 

Pony had been staying late at the library each night this week, diligently pushing himself for the exam he feared would define his future. Darry should be proud of him. He was. But there was a twinge underneath that pride, something he struggled, even hated, to name. Ponyboy seemed… steadier, more confident. Less panicked about all that college business than he’d been at the start. And the one making that happen wasn’t him, it wasn’t even Soda, it was some library assistant.

 

It wasn’t that Darry was unwilling to share the credit, not really. Lynn seemed to have the time, the patience, and a way of talking that coaxed the soft, confident side of Pony out without making him crack under the pressure or feel condescended to. Time, patience, and softness; all things that Darry knew deep down that he craved he had more of. A net good for his brother was easily acceptable, even if it wasn’t driven from home.

 

What needled him was how quickly it had worked, how much she’d managed to steer the ship in such a short span of days. He’d been busting his ass for years to keep his ship afloat; hold his family together, and now here was some outsider stranger they barely knew easing his baby brother’s adolescent worries like it was second nature. 

 

Like the sunburn Darry was now painfully aware of on the sides of his forearms, the curiosity about Ponyboy’s new… friend was an uncomfortable, unignorable presence lingering on his mind. It’d gnawed at him throughout the week until he found himself making excuses to take matters into his own hands. It was early September. It wasn’t unsafe, necessarily, but the sun was dipping earlier, and unfortunately, the Tulsa streets at night and the Curtis brothers didn’t exactly have the best track record.

 

Ponyboy had been just fine taking the bus or making it home on foot so far, but tonight Darry convinced himself he ought to swing by the library himself. Just to be sure his kid brother was safe. Just to check in. No harm in that, right? Except the fact he hadn’t let Pony know he was dropping by to drive him home. Guess he just had to go inside and find him, right?

 

He rolled his shoulders back against the worn leather seat as he pulled into the parking lot, trying to justify the tightness in the pit of his stomach. If anyone stopped to ask, he was only there to make sure Pony had a ride home. He deserved a lift after such an exhausting week of working his mind so hard. Have to save the leg stamina for track in the spring, right?

 

The further he thought, the less sense his excuses made. Oh well, he’d already made it this far. May as well actually follow through.

 

The harsh fluorescent lights inside the library, paired with the blazing orange of the setting sun pouring in through the windows, made everything feel too sharp, too awake. To call Darrel a fish out of water would be too limiting a description. The second he stepped in and amongst the stacks of books, covered in dust and sweat from his job site, muddy work boots scuffing up the polished floor, everything was a blaring visual reminder that he didn’t belong here. The musty air of long-kept paper pages and pencil shavings permeated the room, contrasting heavily with the blue-collar musk clinging to his clothes.

 

It was busier than Darry expected for a Friday night, though it was mostly seniors and younger kids. All the kids around Pony’s age were hitting the Dingo or the drive-in at this time. He stood in the entranceway, shoulders suddenly feeling too broad, scanning for Pony. He spotted her first.

 

Lynn was bent precariously over the circulation desk at the heart of the room, helping an older woman sort through a stack of books that he knew she had no hope of finishing in the three-week borrowing period. Lynn spoke with a patience that didn’t sound too rehearsed, even if she was repeating herself like a broken record; the sincerity and softness lingered in her tone like the soft hints of a song. Her smile was genuine, seemingly unburdened: the sort of smile Darry himself hadn’t had the energy to wear in years.

 

She slid the woman a new library card across the counter, offering her assistance to carry the books to her car, which was quickly denied. She shook her head with a light laugh, wished the old woman good night, and finally looked up. At him. Her gaze landed on Darry’s tall form like she wasn’t the least bit surprised to see him there. Just a regular patron, like any other.

 

Darry wished his own nervous system would act the same.

 

“Hi,” she said, readjusting her hair behind her ears.

 

“Hi,” Darry replied plainly.

 

“You’re Ponyboy’s oldest brother, right? He’s studying at one of the back tables. Says he likes the way he can see the sunset on the walls without bein’ blinded when it don’t hit the trees right. I can show you his lil’ spot if you’d like.”

 

“Yeah,” he replied quickly, a little too quickly. He shifted his weight onto his heels, like the mud coating his boots was throwing off his stance. “I’m, uh–, I’m here to pick him up. Gettin’ darker earlier this time of year and I was headed home from work. Figured I’d save ‘im the walk.”

 

“That’s real nice of you. Not quite drivin’ himself yet, is he?” she asked with an inquisitive lilt.

 

“No, Miss. He just turned fifteen this past July. I guess it is ‘bout time to take him down to get that learner’s permit, though.” Not that the Curtises had the funds to ever afford a second car for either younger brother to claim as their own. The truck would be a sufficient learning vessel. Worked for Darry, worked for Soda; it’d work for Pony just fine.

 

“Hey, I thought I told you, or at least Ponyboy told you, no ‘miss’-ing me. I know the pencil skirt is real confusin’. Keep tellin’ myself it makes me look more official,” she joked.

 

“Sorry, Lynn. Lynn’s fine, right? Our mama raised us to be as proper as we could be.”

 

“Well, it’s appreciated, but just call me Lynn. Don’t like feelin’ older than I got to, you know?” She paused, “you know, he’s been coming in every night this week.” Darry knew that. “Works real hard–more than most kids his age. The ACT ain’t for a long while, right? Tryin’ real hard to be prepared for that whole college circus. You oughta be proud.” Darry was.

 

Something about hearing it from her, though, like she saw Pony the same way Darry, Soda, and the rest of the gang wanted the world to, it hit him harder than he liked to admit. It was rare to find someone who could see underneath all the grease and bruises and focus on the brilliance inside. She didn’t act like someone who’d grown up living the East side-West side split; didn’t necessarily look like it either.

 

The pit in his stomach had morphed into a tightness in his chest. He didn’t wanna leave yet. Didn’t want this to be the end of this conversation. He had to know just a little more.

 

“Also, uh,” he added clumsily, “I was wonderin’ if y’all had any books on, y’know, uh, plumbing? I’m a roofer so we don’t do much handiwork inside and our shower at home’s been actin’ mighty cranky lately.”

 

Her expression shifted to one of amusement, but she kept her tone polite, “Plumbing, you say? Sure, I can take you to those first. It should be on the far-right wall in the 690s. I think it’s 690.1? Not one-hundred-percent sure, though.”

 

Before she could exit her spot behind the circulation desk to guide him to the fabled 690 section of the Dewey Decimals, a familiar voice piped up from behind him, “I don’t know, Dar, the shower was fine this morning.”

 

Darry spun around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. Ponyboy was standing there with a hellish half-grin that he usually reserved for egging on Steve when Soda wasn’t there to intervene.

 

“Fancy seein’ you here, Darry,” Ponyboy drawled like he was filming his own drama, “Did a pipe burst at home while I was at school? Seems real unlikely.”

 

“Pony…” Darry warned, his voice low.

 

Pony averted his gaze, the grin never leaving his face. “I was just lookin’ for Lynn to let her know that a bulb in one of the desk lamps where I normally park myself for studying went out. But this? This is way more fun. Don’t remember you bein’ all that interested in plumbing, but hey, I ain’t gonna begrudge my tuff oldest brother from pickin’ up a new interest.”

 

Heat rose in Darry’s ears. Lynn, to her credit, smiled politely, if a bit awkwardly, though the crinkles near her eyes betrayed her inclination to laugh at the exchange. Before he could sputter out a reply, Lynn slipped a pen out from behind the desk and said lightly, “well, if it is a new interest, no shame in it. We’ve got a good few tomes on home repair and improvement. If you’re lookin’, I’m more than happy to show you to em’.”

 

Her voice had that knowing tone, laced with enough playfulness to make Darry feel caught, embarrassed as all hell, but just enough of that warmth to make him want to stay caught.

 

Ponyboy stood on the balls of his feet to whisper not-so-quietly into Darry’s ear, “Guess you ain’t foolin’ anybody. You were never a good liar.”

 

“Alright, Curtises, you comin’ or should I just bring you the one I think fits this shower conundrum the best? Gotta go fix that lamp anyways!” Something else lingered at the corners of her smile, something that made Darry’s tight, anxious chest constrict in a way that the Friday sunburn never could.

 

“We’re comin’,” Darry affirmed, sighing. As soon as Lynn freed herself from behind the circulation desk and started off, Darry whipped around to his youngest brother and quietly growled, “Go get your damn backpack.”

 

Darry turned on his heels, following the short girl with the straight, dark hair deeper into the library. Pony merely watched on in amusement; it was all too rare of a sight to see his oldest brother-turned-guardian be so uncollected and out of his element. Preparing for college applications this early definitely sucked. Fridays at the library instead of the drive-in or the rodeo were not ideal, but this? He was gonna have some fun with this, and maybe get his overburdened big brother to have some of his own.

Notes:

This is the quickest I've ever found the motivation to write and update! Even if there isn't a ton of interest, I'm finding a lot of joy in bringing my vision to life. We're sowing the seeds for my dramatic slow burn, so hang in there, I hope you find it to be well worth your investment. Comments encouraged (please be kind, this is my embarrassing side hobby that's getting me through my degree, haha)!

Chapter 4: Come Out of Hiding, I'm Right Here Beside You

Summary:

Pony and Soda can't turn a blind eye to their big brother's thoughts, before he himself has the words to describe them. Scheming to arrange another meeting between Darry and Lynn ensues.

Notes:

Thank you to @OneLastThought for beta-reading my work! You're the polish that will make this whole thing shine. Love you :)

Saturday rolled around like clockwork, and, unlike his younger brothers, Darry still had somewhere to be: the jobsite. The onset of autumn meant that winter would be rolling around soon enough, meaning jobs would slow down and he’d be trying to scramble for shifts at his second job at the warehouse to cover the difference. So, at the break of dawn, Darrel was up scrambling eggs, tossing whatever was left in the cupboards into his lunch tin, and scribbling out a grocery list for Soda and Pony to grab sometime during the day.

 

Darry scraped his eggs onto a plate and sat down with his reliable cup of black coffee held comfortingly in their dad’s old ‘GO SOONERS’ mug with the bright scarlet ‘OU’ on the back. Using it used to sting, a constant reminder of the lack of a full paternal unit in the Curtis household, and an even deeper cut that Darry would never don one of those ‘OU’ jerseys in a stadium of roaring fans. But now, it served as an ever-present reminder of the future Darry hoped he could provide for his kid brother and drinking out of it felt like sharing a warm, quiet morning with their dad gently guiding him by the shoulders. A comforting warmth, as if to say: Keep goin’, Jr. It’ll all be okay.

 

Darry found his eyes wandering from his usual newspaper to the Household Plumbing for the New Homeowner tome sitting at the corner of the kitchen table. He slid it over and started picking through the table of contents. Maybe he’d get around to tightening the head to get some better water pressure, lord knew his sore shoulders would thank him for it. Engrossed in the peace of his morning, he was startled by the appearance of his middle brother in the kitchen doorway.

 

“What’re you doin’ up, Pepsi? You don’t gotta go in today, I thought.” Darry asked.

 

“I don’t, just feelin’ extra awake,” Soda yawned, padding barefoot across the kitchen. His ungreased hair was flying all sorts of directions atop his head as he flopped down into the chair to Darry’s right. 

 

“Lookin’ real ready to tackle the day, buddy.”

 

Soda shrugged, reaching across the table to grab a stray clump of eggs right off the edge of Darry’s plate and receiving an exasperated look from his older brother.

 

“Sure, don’t even ask. S’not like I was enjoying my germ-free breakfast.”

 

“Aww c’mon, Dar. I may be a dropout, but I’m pretty sure we all got the same germs in this house anyways.”

 

“I suppose,” Darry mumbled, eyes drifting back to his book.

 

“Looks like my big brother’s got himself a new interest. Don’t remember y’all doing repairs inside your client’s houses,” Soda teased.

 

Darry shut the book a little too quickly, replying, “It’s just good information to know. I’m bein’ responsible. Thinkin’ of adding some more odd job skills to my resumé for when the outside gigs slow down.”

 

“The warehouse not guarantee you the part-time hours this year?” Soda asked, suddenly serious, like a bit of air had been sucked from his lungs.

 

“No, no, they did. S’just something else someone’d be able to pay me to do, savvy?” Darry assured, hyperaware that his poor excuse had brought financial reality crashing down on his little brother’s shoulders. The youthful sparkle that was always present in Soda’s eyes turned slightly somber.

 

“Yeah, I’m savvy.” Soda paused. “You’d tell me if I needed to pick up some more overtime, right? Weekends off are nice, but I’m always willin’ to do a double or miss goin’ out to get the bills paid.”

 

“‘Course, Pepsi. Don’t go worryin’ your pretty little head about it too much, though. You’re just a kid, I want you to have your weekends still. Besides, we’ve been doin’ good. Been able to set aside a lil’ somethin’ from each check for Pony’s college fund. Trust me, Soda. We’re doin’ okay.”

 

Darry placed his hands on Soda’s shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze. It seemed to placate the younger enough, his characteristic smile returning to his face.

 

“I gotta head out soon. You two know the drill. The guys can come over but y’all gotta clean up after yourselves and run to the supermarket at some point before I’m back. Won’t be dredging back super late, just finishing up from yesterday so I oughta be home in the afternoon. Here’s the list. There’s twenty bucks by the radio. Let Pony get a little reward if there’s enough left over after the list, kid’s earned it with how hard he’s been workin’ at his test prep.”

 

“Sounds good. We’ll get it done. Maybe Two-Bit’ll be able to drive us. If not, we’ll walk. Looks nice outside.”

 

“Do not, and I mean it: Do not let him put anything he swipes into your bags at the end. Tryin’ to keep you two outta trouble. I best not be gettin’ a call at noon that y’all got pulled down to the station for petty theft, ‘cause I ain’t gonna be too happy.”

 

“We’ll be fine. When was the last time Keith got busted for swipin’ anything? He’s too good at it now.”

 

“Not the point, Soda, and you know it.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just givin’ you shit. Now hurry up before you’re late!”

 

Darry pulled Soda in for a quick hug, his younger brother’s rogue cowlicks tickling the underside of his nose. The younger reciprocated, and Darry’s resolve to conquer his shitty Saturday shift found renewed strength. It was all for them, after all.

 

“Bye, kiddo. See you later.”

 

---

 

Ponyboy’s Saturday started when his sleep was interrupted by Soda’s poor attempts to rifle through their dresser for an outfit quietly. His eyes peeled open, assaulted by the light breaking through their bedroom’s cheap shades. He felt absolutely drained from his late nights at the library all week, but also deeply pleased to feel like he was legitimately making progress.

 

“Christ, what time is it?” Ponyboy groaned to nobody in particular.

 

“S’almost ten. Figured I oughta get dressed if we’re gonna be an errand duo today,” Soda said as he held up a pair of jeans and gave them the sniff test.

 

“What, you don’t wanna roll up to the store in your boxers and the shirt with the holes in the armpits you refuse to toss out?”

 

“It’s a comfy shirt, Pony! Don’t knock it til’ you’ve tried it! You can use it next time if you’re so concerned.”

 

“I’m alright, but I’ll be sure to let you know if I change my mind.” Pony swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Darry leave already?”

 

“Yeah, a while ago. Said he’d be done by the afternoon, though, so we might actually get to hang with him later. Groceries first, though.”

 

“There anythin’ left for breakfast?”

 

“You can make oatmeal, but there ain’t any milk left so it’s just gonna be oats, water, and blueberries.”

 

The suggestion had Ponyboy pulling a face of disgust. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done the combo, but that didn’t mean he was a fan.

 

“Depends how desperate I get within the next twenty minutes,” Pony said, getting fully out of bed and reaching over Soda’s shoulder to grab his own clothes for the day. Soda crossed the hall to the bathroom to start on his hair.

 

“Hey, did you tell Darry to get that book? Said he’s tryin’ to learn more handy shit so he’ll be more likely to land those odd jobs once it gets cold. Figured the next time you go to the library you can grab him a few more, maybe for fixin’ stoves and fridges and the whatnot since you’ll be there anyways.”

 

Ponyboy huffed out a laugh, “That’s what he told you?”

 

“Ain’t no need to laugh at him, Pony. He already works too hard,” Soda chided, smoothing down his hair with a well-practiced greasy comb streak.

 

“Nah, I know. I didn’t get the chance to tell you last night since I knocked out soon as my shoes were off and my head hit the pillow, but that definitely ain’t the reason he had yesterday.”

 

“Whaddya mean?”

 

“I’m pretty sure he just wanted an excuse to talk to Lynn. He was real awkward about it. Soda, you shoulda seen him. Pretty sure she knew he was bluffin’.”

 

“No shit, your library chick?!”

 

“She ain’t my library chick. She’s just a real nice lady who works there, drove me home that one time, and happens to think I’m a good kid. She’s smart too, seems to know this college prep garbage real well.”

 

“Well, I’m happy he’s bein’ social. Lord knows he needs friends that aren’t the guys or his coworkers,” Soda smiled. Darry’s old group from high school hadn’t stuck around too long after he made the choice to take up guardianship after their parents died. It’d showed them all who his real friends were, and had shuttered his walls to most new folks. Darry didn’t have the time or the energy to be invested in anyone other than his kid brothers and the gang; he barely had the effort to spare for himself most days.

 

“Soda, I ain’t no matchmaker… but I reckon he likes her. I’ve never seen Dar be flustered like that. Was real weird.”

 

“Well, I don’t know about you, little Colt, but I reckon that we oughta nudge this along.”

 

“Yeah,” Pony grinned. “I figured we’d be pulling a few strings. As much as I do not wanna be studying for the damn ACT on a Saturday, I feel like it’ll be a fine excuse to get him outta the house to come and grab me. Wouldn’t want his poor, helpless baby brother walking home in the broad daylight of the afternoon now, would he?”

 

“You ever give her a proper thanks for last week? I’d say you owe her extra with all that advice she’s been handin’ out for free,” Soda said. “Mom and Dad didn’t raise ungrateful rugrats. Might be time to be extra courteous… can’t let chivalry die on our watch, can we, little brother?”

 

“You have a plan?”

 

“A damn good one, if I do say so myself.”

 

---

 

When Darrel Curtis Jr. stepped into his own house from the hazing beams of the sun, he had only two things on his mind: a shower and a nap. That was quickly interrupted by the realization that he’d only heard a ‘welcome home’ from one brother, not two.

 

“Hey, Soda. Where’s Pony? Did y’all get the groceries?” Darry asked as he set down his lunchbox and started untying his work boots.

 

“Yep! We are fully stocked up for the week. Pony headed off to the library again. He said he’s got some exam comin’ up in one of his classes next week that he wanted to get a move on,” Soda replied naturally.

 

“Library again? I’m proud of him for workin’ so hard, but I know he’s itchin’ to be anywhere else but studyin’ on a Saturday afternoon.”

 

“That’s what I thought too. But he said he needed to go and then he was gone. Figured you and I could pick him up in like an hour and cut him off from the books before he overcooks his brain with too many smarts.”

 

“That ain’t such a bad idea, Soda. It’ll be nice to have y’all help out with dinner, too. Now that we’ve actually got food, I can cook somethin’ up. He get somethin’ fun at the store?”

 

“Actually, we got something we could all enjoy,” Soda said, steering Darry towards the kitchen, empty lunchbox in hand.

 

At the center of the kitchen table was one of their mother’s old glass vases filled with a humble bouquet of carnations and baby’s breath. It wasn’t too much of a sight, but the Curtises didn’t exactly have the funds to be decorating with something that expired so quickly like this.

 

“Well, it ain’t what I was expectin’ him to get, but they’re real nice lookin, I guess,” Darry confessed.

 

Soda leaned back against the countertop, arms folded against his chest, “Yeah, he said they’d brighten up our place a bit. Said he wants them to be a thank you gift for the gal at the library. The one who helps him with all the school stuff and drove him home. It’s Lynn, right?”

 

Darry’s lips pulled into a tight line, brows raised. He allowed his gaze to rest on the flowers, almost tauntingly near his home improvement book. “He didn’t have to do all that. She’s just doin’ her job, bein’ kind and the like.”

 

“Maybe. I don’t know. Ain’t too often some stranger goes out of their way to make sure you don’t melt in the rain or have a nervous breakdown about college shit. You gotta admit, it’s a cute gesture, ‘specially comin’ from Pony. I said we coulda picked some flowers from the park but he said it ain’t the same.”

 

“Yeah, he’s got a good heart. And you, of all people, should know gals prefer the store flowers to the garden ones, Mr. Lickin’ Your Gets.” Darry teased.

 

A pregnant silence filled the kitchen.

 

“Y’know, you could thank her too,” Soda suggested.

 

Darry blinked. “Me? What for?” Although, in his heart of hearts, Darry knew exactly what.

 

Oh, I dunno. For helpin’ Pony – helpin’ all of us in a way. She’s givin’ you a break from always worryin’ about him flunkin’ out and bein’ on his case about his grades. You can’t say you haven’t felt less like pullin’ teeth to get Pony to sit down and get his homework done.” Soda nudged his older brother playfully. “You’re always talkin’ about bein’ polite, keepin’ up with how Mom and Dad would’ve wanted us to turn out. Maybe you oughta invite her over for a family dinner, give her a proper Curtis ‘thanks’ and all that.”

 

Darry sighed, suddenly hyperaware of the creaky floorboards littering the living room, the one kitchen chair that didn’t match the others, and the cupboard above the stove whose door didn’t quite shut all the way. Soda, with his sixth sense for reading people, sensed his brother’s apprehension, but he wasn’t about to give up on this plot just yet.

 

“C’mon, Dar. It don’t gotta be nothin’ fancy. Just a home-cooked meal. You could do the hamburger mystery surprise and some potatoes. We’ll say it’s a Curtis Brothers’ Special. Women love it when you name shit after yourself.”

 

“That work on the gals at the DX? Whaddya got named after you there?”

 

“The Sodapop Special, of course. I’ll pump your gas and flex my arms while I do it. Really gets em’ goin’, I swear it.”

 

Another sigh escaped Darry’s exasperated form as he shook his head, but Soda could see the faintest smile and slightest tinting on the tips of his brother’s ears. “You are a pain my ass, you know that?”

 

“I like to think I’m at least a loveable, helpful-at-times pain in the ass. C’mon, what’s the worst that happens? She says no? Least then you gave a real attempt.”

 

“At a thanks.” Darry finished. He then declared to nobody in particular “This ain’t no date.”

 

“‘Course, Dar, whatever you say…” Soda chuckled. “But first, you should go shower. She won’t wanna come over to eat dinner if you smell like death warmed over.”

 

Darry didn’t move right away, staring at the little flower arrangement on their table. Sure, he thought to himself, just a proper thanks. Gotta show the world that their parents didn’t raise boys with no manners, no chivalry. Darry’s tired eyes locked with his eager middle brother’s. He could see the scheming glint behind his irises. 

“Fine. I’ll be done in five. Get the peas out. If I’m cookin’, I want ‘em defrosted before they go in the dish. It don’t cook right if they’re frozen still. We’ll grab Pony once I’m outta the shower, savvy?”

 

“Savvy,” Soda echoed, grinning ear to ear as Darry trudged down the hall. He opened the fridge, letting out a nearly-inaudible mutter of satisfaction as he set the meat and peas on the counter. “Already thawed, Superman. Ain’t I just the best wingman this side of Tulsa?”

 

Under the stream of the shower he’d already forgotten he was going to “improve”, Darry put his forehead against the cool tile. “Just a ‘thank you’,” he said under his breath; though, even he didn’t quite buy it.

Notes:

Meet cute part two: Electric Boogaloo is up next, folks. I've had an unbelievable amount of fun working on this all so far.

Chapter 5: I Could Find The Whole Meaning of Life In Those Sad Eyes

Summary:

Darry extends an offer with a sincerity that Lynn isn't accustomed to; they're both uncertain how to proceed. A vignette into her life at home tells all.

With his borrowed copy of Household Plumbing for the New Homeowner in hand, Darry Curtis stepped into the Tulsa City-County Library.  The afternoon was ebbing into the first inklings of dusk, warm sunlight coating the stacks and shelves in a homey glow. Despite having done this song and dance just a day ago, Darry felt just as out of place; he was never prone to dancing out of his regular circles anyways, and this was no exception.

 

At least this time he wasn’t coated in a day’s worth of grime and sawdust, wearing what he and Soda had declared was a perfectly acceptable outfit for going to pick up their youngest brother. Soda had left Darry to his own devices, saying he wanted to make sure the house was ‘extra nice’ for the first guest they’d had in what felt like ages; they’d decided that drop-ins with the gang and the scheduled visits from state social workers didn’t count. Darry had given up without much of a fight, silently hoping that the faster he came back around, the less likely their dinner ingredients would be a different color than they started as.

 

The only mantra grounding Darry was the repeated assurance that he was just here to grab his brother, return the book, offer gratitude, then get the hell out. That was all. The cyclic, reassuring lies lasted about as long as it took him to spot Lynn across the large, open room. She was shelving a sizeable cart of returned books, mumbling something about each title before finding where it ought to be put back correctly. That warm blanket of sunlight was breaking through the shelves, coating her upturned hair in bars of coppery light. 

 

He froze halfway between the circulation desk and the row of shelves she was arranging, caught somewhere between wanting to turn around through the exit and wanting to go over and get to know her like she was any other old friend. His instincts took hold of his legs and carried him towards the right choice.

 

Lynn heaved a set of particularly bulky leather tomes against her hip with one arm, using the other to steady herself on the ladder set against the shelves.

 

“Damnit, I need a third arm,” she huffed.

 

“I’ve got two free ones if you’ll take some quick help.”

 

Lynn whipped her head around, trying to place the familiar voice. Her dark brown eyes glanced down ever so slightly to meet Darry’s expectant green ones.

 

“Well shoot, Darrel, you barely need the damn ladder,” she laughed. “I might actually take you up on that. Here, hold these and hand ‘em up once I’m ready.” She dropped the stack into his waiting arms, his own book laid patiently on the floor at his feet.

 

“I’m mighty surprised to see you back so soon, although I guess I was mighty surprised to see your brother comin’ in on a weekend to crack open his schoolwork. Don’t tell me the pipes gave you too much trouble at home.” 

 

She gestured for the first book. Darry obliged.

 

Sheepishly, he responded, “Heh, yeah. Shower didn’t fix itself, but this was real helpful with everythin’. Came to return it and grab my kid.”

 

“Well, once I’m done with these I’ll show you the book drop and you can kill two birds with one stone and get on your way.” The second book made its way to her deft hands.

 

“Yeah, they musta moved it since the last time I was here. Before yesterday I hadn’t been here since high school,” he paused, considering if he should probe. Curiosity won out. “Pardon if I’m bein’ forgetful, but I don’t remember doin’ any classes with you. Tulsa ain’t exactly New York, so I swear I’d’a recognized you if we came up together.”

 

“I reckon my looks have me stickin’ out real good too,” she said with a hint of sourness, the first Darry had heard from her mouth. “My family hasn’t been here all too long. I came up in a real little town up North just a lil’ bit East of the panhandle. Been in Tulsa just over a year now.” She held out a hand for another book in the stack. 

 

“You got anyone else around these parts? Not too many folk itchin’ real bad to move to Tulsa. Though we’re real well known for our fancy beaches with the palm trees, it’s a big plus,” Darry’s pitiful attempt at a joke earned a tiny laugh from Lynn.

 

“Nope, just me and my dad.” She paused, as if thinking whether or not to continue. “Dad’s been needin’ some ongoin’ care, and the VA clinic here’s way better than the one back where we were livin’. I’ve been workin’ this lil’ gig since we got settled.” Darry passed up the final book from the stack she’d given him.

 

“You like it?”

 

“It pays the bills, ain’t a factory or a mine, and is about as good as I can get without a degree. It does the trick just fine.”

 

Darry couldn’t help but notice how her tone softened. She was still gentle and kind, but it was almost as if admitting herself had left a crack in the mask. He saw the weary tension lacing her posture as she shelved the last tome. 

 

Lynn sighed, a warm but bittersweet smile gracing her lips, “He’s doin’ better now, mostly. Some days are… better than others. I’m just glad he’s gettin’ what he needs now, y’know?”

 

He wanted to say: ‘Yes. More than I want to admit. Been walkin’ through hell for almost two years to get my brothers what they need.’ But all he offered was a simple, but honest, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

 

A beat passed between them, a silent conversation occurring between their earnest expressions.

 

“I’ll take you over to Ponyboy. The last ones in the cart need to get reshelved in a section right next to his usual spot. Wrappin’ up my shift once I get these ones done and shown you where to drop that fella,” she pointed at the household plumbing guide Darry had almost forgotten about already.

 

Darry quickly gathered the book and followed after Lynn, his strides were much slower to keep pace with her short stature. She guided them through the tall shelves with a clear familiarity that came with her occupation, the low hum of the overhead lighting made the air feel close and quiet, accompanied only by the squeaky wheels and rattling of the books in her cart.

 

“You read much yourself?” Darry asked, mostly to fill the silence.

 

“When I can,” she said, keeping pace. “Always liked it growin’ up, but I guess I do it now to feel less like I gave up on the whole college thing. Feels less like quittin’ and more like a pause when you’re still hittin’ the books every now and then even if it ain’t leadin’ to anywhere or anything.”

 

He soaked in her words, how matter-of-fact they came out. Not one bit of self-pity, no apologies, just her way of keeping an all-too-familiar dream alive. Darry wondered to himself about the last time he’d grabbed one of Mom’s old favorites off the shelf at home to keep himself in line. The newspaper counted, surely… surely not.

 

“I get it,” he said. “Ain’t too much time or money for extra learnin’ when you’ve got folks to feed and lights to keep on.”

 

That earned him another small smile. No questions meant that Pony had shared enough about their home situation for her to feel the weight behind his ‘I get it.’ A cruel connection.. “So, Darrel. You roof homes, fix showers, and wrangle teenagers into bein’ good members of society. Sound about right?”

 

“More or less,” Darry said bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mostly the wranglin’ part, ‘specially on our side of town. Call me Darry, by the way, my dad was Darrel. I’m only Darrel to the state and folks who’re real mad at  me.”

 

They reached the end of the aisle where Lynn made quick work reshelving the last of her books. Darry easily spotted his brother, gazing down at his notebook with the occasional scribble from his pencil. As if he’d been waiting for the two of them, Ponyboy’s head shot up with renewed life. 

 

“You look beat, kid. Good thing your ride’s here,” Lynn jested softly to the boy, pointing a thumb towards the older Curtis.

 

“Good. I feel like I mighta just taken a nap right here on the desk,” Pony moaned, head lain against the table.

 

“Be my guest, just know I’m not closin’ today, so it’ll probably be one of the library ghosts wakin’ you from your beauty sleep,” she warned with a little grin. “I’m gonna show your brother the book drop and then head out. See you Monday, Ponyboy.”

 

They started back towards the entrance where the book drop awaited. Darry should’ve left it there–followed Lynn to the front, said his thanks and gone. But her voice, bright, joking with his kid brother, but worn at the edges, did something to him. He could feel it in his chest. Before he could second-guess it, he heard himself speak, “Lynn,”

 

She halted, once again turning to face him.

 

“We were thinkin’ of makin’ dinner tonight,” he said, the words half tripping out of his mouth. “And, uh… we were wonderin’ if maybe you’d like to come by. I reckon that we owe you more than a proper ‘thank you’ for everythin’ you’ve done. For Pony.”

 

For a moment, her expression froze; something flickered in her dark eyes that was hard to place. A deep mix of surprise, gratitude, and an undercurrent of sorrow swirled within her, only crossing her face for the briefest second.

 

“That’s… real kind of you, Darry. Truly.” She said finally. “But, I can’t tonight. My dad’s expectin’ me home.”

 

There was that same warmth in her voice, the softness, but distance too; it was like she’d practiced keeping folks at arm’s length for a while. And God, didn’t that make Darry’s chest ache more, because he’d done the same. The knife twisted deeper than he thought once he realized she hadn’t added ‘maybe some other time’. She reached for the cart handle, like it was grounding her, giving him a smile he only now saw the depth to.

 

“Tell your brothers I said thank you for the invite, Darry. G’night,” she added quickly before turning the opposite direction and fleeing into the rows of shelves.

 

Darry looked down at her now-empty, abandoned cart, his borrowed book still held in one hand.

 

Ponyboy quickly caught up to his brother, reading the remnants of the scene immediately. “Well,” he said lightly, “guess there’ll be hamburger mystery surprise another time.”

 

Darry blinked, not quite catching how Pony knew what dinner was currently prepped at home. He just nodded and followed his brother towards the main doors, the weight of the unfulfilled moment trailing behind him. Lost in his own thoughts, Darry didn’t even notice the way he still cradled his book as they exited the Tulsa County-City Library, subconsciously carrying his small piece of Lynn Hall home. Something in his chest continued to twist: not anger, not even disappointment, but the familiar ache of recognizing someone else who kept their whole life running on promises made to other people.

 

---

 

The house that the Hall family now called home sat tucked behind an old service road a few miles East of downtown. The streetlights hummed louder than the few cars that passed beneath them and, of course, the rumble of the Eastbound train that rolled through like clockwork at least twice a day.

 

By the time Lynn pulled into the gravel driveway in her old Bel Air, dusk had begun to settle into that blue-gray hour where everything felt too slow and quiet. The trip to the pharmacy on the West side of town always added an extra thirty minutes to her journey home; she was well acquainted with the blue-gray hour.

 

The kitchen light was still on inside; her father never remembered to turn it off anymore.

 

The air inside smelled distinctly of camphor and the faintest bite of cigarette smoke. Bill Hall sat on their worn loveseat, a thick blanket draped over his lap despite the lingering warmth of the early Oklahoma September seeping into the house. The steady wheeze of his breathing filled the room in place of small talk conversation. Every few inhales, like clockwork, would be the telltale popping rattle of his lungs that was only remedied by the half-spent inhaler sitting next to him on the coffee table. He didn’t look up from the glow of the daily war report on the television news.

 

“Evenin’, Daddy,” she sighed softly, setting her things on the kitchen table. “I’m home.”

 

He finally seemed to notice her presence and looked up with the sort of smile that didn’t quite reach the edges of his eyes like it used to, too worn to shape to its former form. She crossed the room, seeing remnants of an attempt at dinner: a third of a can of tomato soup sitting idle in a bowl at the counter. She peered into the living room, checking the clock on the wall. The pills lined up beside his ashtray, his coffee mug, like the tomato soup, long gone cold.

 

“Clinic called earlier,” he rasped. “Said my refill’s ready.”

 

“Yeah, I picked it up on the way home. Let’s see if we can get this one,” she held up the inhaler from the table, “to last the rest of the week.”

 

He nodded, sinking back into the comforting embrace of the worn sofa. Lynn gathered her father’s pills off the table into her hand and wordlessly held them out for him to accept. She let out an impatient sigh as her eyes glanced over to the ashtray that he swore he kept around for ‘sentimental purposes’; it was currently holding a cigarette whose ember hadn’t fully gone out.

 

“Daddy, I thought you said we were done with the cigarettes. Doc said it ain’t doin’ your lungs any favors.”

 

“Keeps me awake, ‘m sick and tired of bein’ tired all the damn time,” Bill grumbled with exasperation.

 

Lynn bit back her frustration, “Give ‘em to me. Now.” 

 

Bill didn’t move.

 

“Please,” she pleaded quietly.

 

A beat.

 

“They’re behind the toaster… ‘m sorry, honey,” Bill warbled with a cough.

 

Lynn squeezed her eyes, letting a deep breath escape her nose, and allowed the smallest smile to warm across her face.

 

“Thank you, Daddy.” She squeezed his shoulder, depositing his pills into his palm with her other hand. She grabbed his coffee mug. “Let me make you a cup of tea. Maybe it’ll help you feel a lil’ more awake and it’ll give you somethin’ nice and warm to take your medicine with.”

 

“Two minutes to steep, one and a half cubes of sugar.”

 

The ‘just like how your mother made it’ lingered, unspoken, like it always did.

 

Like any other blue-gray hour, Lynn busied herself with the small things–setting the kettle to boil, rinsing out her father’s soup bowl, wiping down the same counter she’d wiped down this morning. It was easier than staying still.

 

When she’d finally stopped moving, the heavy silence pressed in again. Her eyes drifted to the front window where the reflection of her father in the living room blurred against the darkening sky outside. For a fleeting, hopeful second, she thought of the library–of the tall man with the kind eyes and the way he’d called out her name like it meant something. Then the kettle began to hiss, and the thought slipped away like rising steam.

Chapter 6: They Say Things You Never Quite Say, But I Hear

Summary:

A chocolate cake is baked, thank-you flowers finally find their way to their intended recipient, and Darry and Lynn let their walls down just enough to fuel a growing spark between them.

The days blurred together after that night at the library. Work, dinner, chores, sleep, repeat. The kind of week that didn’t ask much from a man, except that he kept showing up. Darry half-expected the feeling to fade–the thought of her voice under the humming fluorescent lights and the way she punctuated every word, every action, with a smile. But every morning, as he started his pot of coffee before the sun broke over the horizon, he passed that stupid plumbing book and the flower-filled vase on the kitchen table; the feeling came back.

 

By Wednesday, he thought about moving the vase. Maybe it would be be best out on the porch or in the trashcan beside the house, somewhere where he wouldn’t have to look at it. But he didn’t. He kept refilling the water every time the stems drank it dry. Habit, he told himself. Practicality, he repeated, in not letting his little brother’s gesture wilt. Courtesy, he assured himself.

 

Life rolled by like normal in the Curtis house: the static from the television’s too-bent antennae, the rhythmic clatter of dishes used at every meal, and the clattering of the front door as greaser boys scampered off to work, school, or the lot. Darry only half-heard any of it. His mind was elsewhere.

 

By Friday, the carnations had started to dry at the edges, the baby’s breath had turned fragile and was drooping a tad. The flowers were turning in on themselves like they knew something he didn’t. Yet still, they stayed well-kept in that vase, waiting. And so did he. 

 

Darry caught himself biting his tongue every night at dinner, expecting Ponyboy to prattle on about school and the routine library visit that surely followed. God, it felt so stupid and wrong. He had a million and one worries in his life, the last thing he needed to keep track of was the wellbeing of some woman who’d softly rejected him. He couldn’t help but wonder if she and Ponyboy had talked that day, what they discussed; if they discussed him. Every night, as dinner rolled around, Darry couldn’t help but think back to her eyes and the quiet burdens she held. It was like staring into a damn mirror. 

 

Saturday rolled along, easy and gray, even before the break of dawn. The darkening sky promised rain: no roofing, then. A call at 7am from Darry’s boss confirmed it. It was the sort of morning for coffee, chores, and balancing the checkbook. He wasn’t thinking about her, not really–he was just tired of thinking at all. His torn-up hands were searching desperately for something to do, lacking the steady weight of a toolbox or a bundle of shingles.

 

So he pulled the flour from the cabinet, popped open their well-loved cocoa tin, and started a Curtis family classic: chocolate cake. No reason for it, except his ravenous teen brothers would eat it and maybe the house would smell nice for a while. Something simple. Something sweet. Something to share.

 

By the time Soda wandered in, the kitchen was bathed in the warm hum of the oven, smelling like cocoa and vanilla extract. A grin grew on Soda’s face at the sight of his brother carefully stirring a dark brown batter, his hands dusted white up to the wrists. Cake was always something special in their house, to be made with care and love, even if it was a staple in their diets. Soda scanned the room for the Betty Crocker box, but turned up empty. From scratch, then. Something must really be on Darrel’s mind.

 

“Morning, Superman,” Soda greeted, leaning up against the doorway. “Didn’t think we had any birthdays comin’ up.”

 

“We don’t,” Darry answered, scraping the batter into an awaiting pan. His voice was warm and his tone to-the-point.

 

“So… what’s the occasion?”

 

“Nothin’. Just felt like doin’ somethin’ nice. You ain’t never complained about havin’ it for breakfast before.”

 

Soda didn’t argue. He just smiled, knowing better than to push when his big brother’s voice went soft like that. 

 

“No complaints here.” Soda dipped two fingers into the batter-filled pan, ignoring the warning glare that followed. “You gonna share this masterpiece with anyone else, or we keepin’ it in the family?”

 

Darry stilled, not answering right away. His eyes flicked to the table, and that damn vase of flowers he couldn’t bring himself to move or toss out. The tired flora were valiantly fighting against gravity and time as they drooped closer towards the rim.

 

“Well, I’m glad the oven’ll kill all your hand germs, ‘cause I’m thinkin’...” Darry paused, sighing out of his nose “that maybe I’ll take a piece over to thank somebody,” he finished, more to himself than to Soda.

 

Soda walked over and rested his head on Darry’s shoulder with a smile, “I think that’d be real nice, Dar.”

 

Minutes after the pan found its home in the oven, the irresistible smell of chocolate roused Ponyboy from bed. He tumbled into the kitchen, half-awake and hopeful for a fresh slice before the pastry fully cooled. The natural, playful chatter of the two younger brothers filled up the kitchen, and for a while Darry let it drown everything else out.

 

But once the dishes were done and the telltale rain began to tap its pattern across the window, he caught himself glancing at the flowers on the kitchen table; they were wilted, but alive. He set aside a slice in one of their mom’s old tupperware bowls, slipping it into the fridge. 

 

The pile of bills sitting next to their telephone was calling his name, most with red warning stamps scrawled angrily across the envelopes. Darry went to gather the stack of papers, but stopped when he realized they were sitting atop the phone book. An obnoxiously long strip of paper hung out between the pages. He grabbed the bills in one hand and the phone book in the other. He flipped to page marked by the notebook paper, realizing the paper contained a note in neat blue-ink scrawl:

 

Knew you’d be lookin’ for this one some point sooner or later. Figured I’d save you the work of flippin’ through. You’re welcome. 

-PB  ;)

 

And there it was: Hall Lynn K. Her address, her phone number, just laid out to see. It sat above the taunting wink his kid brother had drawn. What was he getting himself into?

 

That night Darry laid awake staring at the ceiling. For once, he was the one kept up by racing thoughts and fanciful what-ifs, not Ponyboy. The thunder rolled low in the distance. The stormclouds were on their way out, promising a sunshine-filled Sunday. As the hours ticked on, Darry wondered what the hell he was doing–and what on Earth he’d say when the morning came.

 

Sunday morning, the house was quiet for once. The day of rest. The rain of yesterday was replaced by the pattering stream of Soda taking a shower down the hallway.

 

Darry stood at the counter, staring down at the bright yellow tupperware he’d pulled from the fridge. It looked smaller than it had yesterday, like it had shrunken overnight alongside his confidence in this decision. He was dressed in one of the button-downs he used for work: pressed, clean, free from holes; mostly out of habit rather than reason.

 

By the time Soda wandered in, hair damp from the shower, towel hanging loosely from his hips, Darry was folding up what remained of the kitchen table’s bouquet in a ripped up paper grocery bag. Soda watched his big brother tenderly wrap up the flowers with a gentleness he reserved for chasing away Ponyboy’s nightmares or taking their temperatures when they were sick.

 

“You goin’ out, Dar?” Soda asked.

 

“Go put on some clothes. I’m just runnin’ a lil’ errand,” Darry said, tucking the paper folds neatly into one another.

 

“An errand, huh?”

 

“Won’t be too long, Pepsi. I promise.”

 

Soda gestured to the flowers and the tupperware, “You actually takin’ that to the library lady?”

 

Darry froze, almost imperceptibly. But Soda noticed; he always did.

 

“It’s just a thank-you,” Darry said, quieter this time, his lips drawn into a tight line, eyes sincere.

 

“Sure,” Soda drawled with a knowing tone. “You want me to let Pony know where you disappeared to?”

 

“I’ma be back before he even notices. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t wake ‘im up.”

 

“I’m savvy.” Soda’s smile softened from teasing to fond. “Good luck, Superman.”

 

Darry just nodded, grabbed the cake and flowers, and slipped out the front door before he could change his mind.

 

The streets were slick from yesterday’s rain, but the sky was a bright blue; the kind of clear that made the air smell sharp and new. The truck rattled down the road. Darry had rolled the windows down to let the soft rush of the wind push away his nerves.

 

The previous night’s spiral came rushing back. He’d rehearsed what to say over a dozen times–just a thank-you, nothing more, don’t make it a big deal, it’s just being proper–but none of it felt right. Every version of his script felt wrong. It was too careful, too cold, and not telling the whole truth.

 

Before he knew it, he was turning onto the street he’d memorized from the phone book. The Hall house was a humble place, not too unlike the Curtis residence. It had faded green siding with flower boxes that needed refilling to live up to their name. Darry’s heart thrummed in his chest as he surveyed the surrounding area. There were no threats, no soc rolling up to deck him with a set of class rings, yet his hands had gone clammy around the tupperware; he could feel his pulse beating in his fingertips.

 

He sat there for a moment, letting the engine idle, and debated the idea of turning around and pretending like he’d never looked her up at all. But he could see the worn porch from where he’d parked. It held a sun-bleached bench, not too dissimilar to their own porch swing. Sunlight was beaming across the threshold of her world like it was waiting for him to enter.

 

So he got out of the truck.

 

The front steps creaked under his weight. The faint mumbling of a television news station leaked out from somewhere inside. No turning back.

 

He knocked.

 

---

 

The sound startled her enough to drop the ratty towel she’d been folding. Sunday mornings were her day to be uninterrupted. No work, just the quiet rhythms of keeping the household afloat: the scent of citrus cleaning solution, the whirring of the overhead fan, the soft ruffling of her father readjusting on the sofa.

 

Lynn wiped her citrus-scented hands on her jeans and glanced to the clock. Almost quarter to eleven. Too late for deliveries. It was Sunday, too, so no newspaper. Her father didn’t drive much anymore, so she doubted he’d invited any company over. 

 

She had just finished scrubbing the kitchen, her hair pinned up and sleeves rolled. There were wet marks on her knees from where the floor hadn’t completely dried as she worked. Sundays were her one day to catch up with life–to sort the week’s mail, wash the linens and their clothes, make sure Bill’s medications were in line, and to prepare for any of his doctor appointments. A quiet, careful life that was measured in routines.

 

Maybe it was the wind.

 

Another knock, polite but firm. 

 

Definitely not the wind, then.

 

“Coming,” she called, trying to mask her exhaustion and tinge of annoyance. Nobody messed with her Sunday routine; it was her slice of peace. She crossed the living room, floorboards under the carpet creaking beneath her.

 

When she opened the door, the sunlight of the day poured in. And with it, the last person she’d expected to see on a Sunday morning. For a moment, she thought her mind had finally gone from the stress of her life. Darry Curtis stood on her porch, broad-shouldered and with that slightly uncertain look on his face. His large hands held a small tupperware bowl and a half-wilted wrapping of flowers like they were fragile, precious cargo. Her mouth hung open in an ‘O’, unsure of what to make of the sight.

 

“Mr. Curtis,” she said before she could stop herself.

 

He gave a sheepish nod with a cautious smile. “Didn’t figure you’d be expectin’ company. Umm… Just, uh, wanted to drop these off. We got these last week and me and my brothers did some bakin’ yesterday. It’s, uh, chocolate cake. Sorta a Curtis family tradition.”

 

She blinked, taking in his slightly wind-swept hair, the way his forearm muscles tensed out of the pressed work shirt, and the careful way he avoided meeting her eyes for too long. She finally asked in disbelief, “Y’all baked?”

 

“Mostly me. They help eat the batter and clean the pans after.”

 

“You came all this way to bring me a slice of cake?”

 

He shrugged awkwardly. “It’s for you and your dad. For, uh, helpin’ Ponyboy out in the storm and with his ACT and stuff.”

 

Lynn couldn’t help it–her disbelieving slack jaw turned to a small smile, one that only made Darry’s grow. “That’s awfully kind of you.”

 

Her father’s voice called from behind her. “Lynn? Who’s at the door?” His attempt to raise his voice was punctuated by a characteristic bout of coughs.

 

She half turned to answer, “Just someone from the library, Daddy. Nothin’ crazy.”

 

Before she could usher Darry away and back to his truck, Bill appeared in the doorway behind her, leaning heavily on the doorframe. His gaze, sharp beneath tired eyelids, drifted from the cake and flowers up to Darry’s face, sizing him up with the slow, quiet calculation of a man trying to protect what he had left in the world: his little girl.

 

Darry shifted, straightening his posture, taking in her father all the same. If he was surprised at his blonde hair and green eyes that stood in stark contrast to her own features, he didn’t let it show on his face. Darry let out a small breath from his nose, shifting the flowers to rest in the crook of his arm as he stuck out his hand to her father.

 

“Sir,” he said. “I’m Darrel Curtis Jr.; Darry, if you’d like. Just wanted to say thank you, uh, for your daughter’s kindness. She’s been a real help with my kid brother and his schoolwork.”

 

Bill nodded once, curt but polite. “That so? Well, we’re always glad to help. ‘S why Lynn’s so good at her job.” He grabbed Darry’s hand with a firmness one wouldn’t expect from such a frail man. “I’m Bill.”

 

The pause between the three of them stretched on. Lynn felt it pressing down on them–that awkward weight of courtesy trying to keep unsaid things at bay. She looked to her father, then back to Darry, whose hands now hung lamely at their sides. The quiet that had been filled by the steady beat of productivity was replaced by one just begging to be filled with more small talk.

 

Bill’s gaze flicked back to Darry’s humble offering in his worn, workman’s hands. “Well, you’ve come all this way, be a shame not to sit down for a spell. Lynn, why don’tcha pour us up some coffee?”

 

Lynn hesitated, caught between the discomfort of surprise and anxiety of bringing Darry into her world. But she nodded nonetheless. “Of course. Would you like to come in, Darry?”

 

Darry looked to her eyes for answers; for the correct response. Lynn averted her gaze. He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again, settling for the Curtis classic, “Wouldn’t want to trouble y’all.”

 

“Wouldn’t be any trouble. Sit,” Bill said, already limping back towards the kitchen. It clearly wasn’t a request.

 

Lynn stepped aside, motioning Darry in. He hesitated for only a breath before fully crossing the threshold, the door swiftly swinging shut behind him.

 

The inside of the Hall house mirrored the outside: small, run-down, but homey and tidy, the sort of clean that came from constant effort. He knew exactly how that felt. Faded family photographs lined the narrow entryway–most of them were of Lynn and her father, but one caught Darry’s eye. It was of a woman with soft upturned eyes and long dark hair laughing, her arms wrapped around the little girl sitting in her lap. The resemblance was unmistakable.

 

He felt something twist tightly in his chest. That woman clearly wasn’t around anymore. Another feeling he knew all too well. He didn’t take too long, but he spared another glance back at the picture before he followed Lynn the short distance to the kitchen.

 

Bill settled at the table, his movement slow but sure. It was clear that the brief trek from the front of the house to the back had winded him as Lynn hooked the nasal cannula back around his head, moving towards an oxygen tank tucked away in the living room to up his flow. She returned to the table, passing by an idle wheelchair next to their fridge.  She set three plain mugs down, the coffee steaming between them.

 

“This smells real nice,” she said, popping open the tupperware ever so slightly before setting it on the counter behind her. “Chocolate?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Darry said, receiving a pointed side glance from Lynn. Bill gestured for him to sit, so he did. “Sorta a Curtis family recipe, if you wanna call it that. My kid brothers and our friends devour it like there ain’t no tomorrow.”

 

Lynn hummed as she moved the paper-wrapped bouquet to her own well-worn vase, “then you’ll hafta write it down for me. If it’s good I’m sure my dad will be joining the line to get more.”

 

The three of them spoke in measured, gentle half-sentences. Everything was polite and careful. Darry answered Bill’s questions: about his brothers, his jobs, the sort of hours he worked, the life he lived. The older man listened carefully, quietly absorbing Darry’s words, inspecting his character like a piece of fruit at the grocery store.

 

When Bill was shook by rattling coughs that left him wheezing, Lynn’s hand went to his shoulder without thinking. Like it was instinctual. Darry caught the motion–quick and practiced–and the quiet weight in her face when she looked at her father.

 

That small moment told him more than words could, and more than what he knew she’d be willing to share: the worry that never left her, the patient smile that she wore like a second skin. Every breath, she stood there, ready to catch if anything were to fall. And damn, if it didn’t break him to finally view his own life through different eyes.

 

After a while, the chatter died down and Darry drained the last of his coffee. He gently set the mug down, hyperaware of his every move. “I oughta get back home,” he said. “My brothers’ll sure be wonderin’ where I ran off to.”

 

“Of course,” Lynn replied, standing with him and moving to help her father back to the sofa. “I’ll show you out. Thanks for stoppin’ by.”

 

Bill nodded. “Appreciate the cake, son. Give your brothers a thanks from us.”

 

“Of course, sir.” Darry tipped his head respectfully, then followed Lynn to the door.

 

Outside, the late morning had bled into a soft afternoon. That sharp and new smell from earlier had shifted to a bright scent of damp grass. Darry lingered on the porch, one hand picking idly at the peeling paint on the rail.

 

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said quietly. “Didn’t wanna make a fuss comin’ by, but…” his voice seemed to catch a bit. “I’d like to, uh… see you again. Not at the library, not drivin’ my kid brother home, just… you. Maybe dinner. Somewhere nice.”

 

She blinked, startled and unsure, but her lips curled up into that same gentle smile that had permeated his thoughts all week. “I think I’d like that.”

 

A dumb grin found its way to Darry’s face. She looked up at his warm green eyes, a sparkle glinting in her own. “You’ll call me?” She asked.

 

“I will.”

 

He stepped down from the porch, footsteps seeming lighter and more certain. She watched him go until his truck rounded the street and disappeared from view. When she finally stepped back inside and closed the door, she realized she was still smiling. Not the one with usual reserved politeness, but one that glowed with a vibrancy she wasn’t sure she had anymore.

 

“Lynn?” Bill called. “What took so long with the goodbye?”

 

“Nothin’, Daddy,” she replied, tempering her joy slightly.

 

Bill was a sick man, not a stupid man. He’d been young and knew that smile. He used to see it every day.

 

“‘Nice guy’ don’t mean ‘good guy’, honey.”

 

“It’s just dinner, Daddy. Don’t worry about it.” 

 

Lynn found herself scrubbing down the coffee mugs, gaze drifting to the carnations and baby’s breath that now sat on the counter. Something tugged at her heart, a feeling she hadn’t known she’d been missing. As she settled down to write out the week’s schedule on the fridge’s calendar, she found herself wondering when their dinner might be. Appointment cards sprawled out in front of her and with a fork in her dominant hand, she bit into her slice of cake, and found that her skipping heart hadn’t quite settled back into its rhythm. 

Notes:

The next chapter is a big one. Shit goes down. Kudos and comments are appreciated! I'm having so much fun exploring everyone's dynamic and this world.

Chapter 7: I'll Stay There as Long as You'll Let Me

Summary:

The Date (TM) - it was thoughtful, it was perfect, until it wasn't.

Notes:

This chapter is a big one. I've been dying to share it with you all.

The issue with promising ‘something nice’ on a greaser budget was actually finding something nice without breaking the bank. Fresh out of the shower after a long day of work, Darry sat staring at the kitchen table rifling through promotional pamphlets for restaurants in town. 

 

“Gotcha another one. Some gal who just started waitin’ tables there dropped by and left us a huge-ass stack of ‘em at the DX counter. Looks like a newer place, I can’t even pronounce it,” Soda said as he tossed another paper onto Darry’s pile.

 

“Thanks, lil’ buddy.” He picked up and inspected his brother’s offering reading aloud, “Two dollars off any ‘signature’ complete dinner when this coupon is presented with the bill.”

 

“Ay, that ain’t a bad deal.”

 

Darry sighed, “It don’t matter much if everything on the menu is over six bucks.”

 

“Maybe the steak’s filled with liquid gold, Dar, you never know.”

 

“It’s gonna be over half of what we pay for groceries for the week. It just ain’t practical.”

 

“She’s got her own wallet, you kn–”

 

“That ain’t gonna happen. The man pays. You ever make Sandy pay when y’all went out?”

 

“No, but there’s a big difference between The Dingo an’ this place. I betcha they got candles on the tables and shit. Real soc-type joint.”

 

Darry didn’t really understand why thicker cloth napkins, detailed centerpieces, and sticks of burning wax added so much to the check; it wasn’t like they made the food any better.

 

“Maybe she’ll be fine with diner food? We could always go to Carl’s downtown. That food ain’t priced like a new car.”

 

Soda frowned. He could see the battle raging on in his brother’s mind.

 

“We ain’t shillin’ out a ton of electricity for the fans now that it’s gettin’ cooler out.”

 

Darry bit his lip, unconvinced.

 

“C’mon, Dar. With my tips from last week and that extra bit we’ve got to spare with the utilities? It’ll be alright.”

 

“Soda, you know I can’t take that from you. That’s yours for the rodeo and havin’ fun with the guys. Wages for the house, tips for your stuff.”

 

“Yeah, well I ain’t givin’ you a choice. My ‘stuff’ this week is makin’ sure you can take your lady out for a proper date somewhere real nice.”

 

“She ain’t my lady. S’just dinner,” Darry weakly protested.

 

Soda dug into the pocket of his work shirt, fishing out four dollar bills and some odd change, thrusting it into his brother’s face. The determined look in his eyes said all Darry needed to know, even as the gnawing guilt took hold.

 

“Take it.”

 

Sighing, Darry held out a hand. Soda smirked, knowing he’d won.

 

“Seriously, Soda, you don’t hafta do this for me.”

 

“Don’t mention it. S’what family’s for, ain’t it?” Soda turned out of the kitchen with a wink and salute.

 

Pamphlet in hand, Darry made his way to the telephone. He flipped back to Ponyboy’s bookmarked page and found Lynn’s name and number. But before he could dial anything, his youngest charge came bursting through the front door, the flush of a cool fall evening dusting his face.

 

“Hey, Ponykid. You have a good day at school?” Darry asked.

 

“Yeah, it was fine. Got somethin’ for ya,” Ponyboy said, digging through his backpack. “And before you ask, my homework’s done.”

 

“You need me to look it over?”

 

“I think I’m alright. If it makes you feel better about it, be my guest.”

 

Darry bit his tongue, not wanting to start a mountain out of a mole hill getting riled up by his baby brother’s attitude.

 

“What’re you even lookin’ for in there?”

 

“Just wait a sec, it got stuck behind my notebooks.”

 

Ponyboy produced a pale orange sheet from his bag that Darry was already very familiar with. The Will Rodgers High School athletics department permission form and liability waiver. Ponyboy had already filled out his information for track and field, sliding the form and a pen to his big brother.

 

“Indoor training starts up next month for the varsity team,” Pony said simply.

 

“Damn, that time of year already? Remember to put your meets on the fridge calendar so Soda and I know when we can watch you strut your stuff.”

 

Darry gracefully signed and dated the bottom of the paper. He stifled the urge to remind Ponyboy that just because track and field was starting back up didn’t mean that the ACT or his other classes stopped. He’d need speed and smarts to get into college with a big enough scholarship. Ponyboy snatched up the form, stuffing it back into his backpack with a big grin. Another time, Darry decided. Ponyboy was fifteen, a junior in high school, and he knew the weight of this school year better than anyone; he didn’t need his guardian breathing down his neck about it unless he proved otherwise.

 

“That all, kiddo?”

 

“Oh, actually. I grabbed this for you off the bulletin board at the library.”

 

Right, the library. The date. The cash burning a hole into the table.

 

Ponyboy slid another paper into Darry’s view; it was a pale pink half sheet that advertised ballroom dancing lessons at half price on Wednesdays at the community center.

 

“And what exactly is this for?” Darry asked with a cautious laugh.

 

“You.”

 

Darry stared dumbly until Ponyboy rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s somethin’ cheap an’ fun. Thought it’d be a nice date-type thing for you and Lynn.”

 

Heat rushed to Darry’s neck.

 

“That’s real funny, kid.”

 

“I’m serious, Darry! Clearly you think it’s a dumb idea…” Pony deflated.

 

“It ain’t dumb, Colt. I just…” Darry sighed, “I got two left feet, and I reckon that Lynn likes her toes untrampled.”

 

“Says the guy who’d bob and weave through hordes of lineman every Friday for four years.”

 

“Hate to break it to you, but football is a whole lot different than ballroom dancin’.”

 

“It’s fine, I’ll just toss it.”

 

Ponyboy moved to crumple the sheet, but Darry stopped him.

 

“Pin it to the fridge, Pony. Thanks for thinkin’ of me.”

 

“Wasn’t really for you,” Pony drawled sarcastically as he stuck his paper to the fridge. “I was just makin’ sure you don’t bore her to death at dinner.”

 

“Alright, you lil’ shit, get your ass in the shower,” Darry huffed.

 

---

 

The receiver was warm against her ear; her voice deliberately quiet as she tried not to rouse her father down the hall. She caught herself smiling as he relayed the plans–settling on an evening they’d both be off early. She idly scribbled circles onto a notepad by the phone, not needing to write down any real details. “See you Wednesday,” she said softly, and the words hung in the quiet of her home long after the line went dead.

 

---

 

By Wednesday evening, Darry had already changed his shirt twice, only stopping the cycle through his sparse closet when his brothers forced him to. His heart had been kicking up a fuss since their phone call. She’d said yes twice now. Quiet, maybe as unsure as he was, but ‘yes’ all the same. And now, with their plans set in stone, there wasn’t much left to do but show up.

 

The drive over felt shorter than last time, but the minutes stretched out all the same. The sky was painted with the faint orange tint his mother used to like to point out; the same one that Ponyboy always took a few extra moments to appreciate. His tense hands left faint imprints on the steering wheel by the time he’d parked on the curb.

 

He took a moment before getting out–straightening his collar in the rearview mirror’s reflection–and took in a steady breath. It wasn’t like Darry had never taken a girl to dinner, so why did it feel like he was sixteen again, freshly licensed to drive, pulling up for his first ever date? He didn’t let himself linger on the thought too long.

 

He climbed the creaky steps, pulse quickening under his skin once he caught the faint, petite shadow moving through the frosted glass window of the front door. She was waiting for him. He knocked lightly against the sturdy wood.

 

A brief moment later, it swung open, and he couldn’t help but stare. Lynn wore a baby blue blouse tied up in the front and tucked neatly into a knee-length pleated skirt adorned with a faded, floral pattern. A worn, white wool-blend cardigan that was missing all of its buttons sat loosely on her shoulders. She’d seemingly grown an inch, opting to swap the flats he’d always seen her in for blocky mary jane pumps. Their eyes met, and he soaked in the light dusting of blush across her cheeks, framed by the thick, dark hair she’d clearly tried to turn up at the ends.

 

“H–,” she started.

 

“Hi,” Darry stammered.

 

“You clean up real nice,” she offered quietly.

 

“I could say the same ‘bout you,” he replied. “I oughta greet your dad.”

 

“You don’t have to, I ain’t a doe-eyed teen with a curfew.”

 

“Well, I’d like to regardless. It’s how my mom and dad raised me.”

 

She stepped aside to let him in. The living room was dim, illuminated mainly by the flickering glow of the television and the table lamp beside the sofa. The hum of the oxygen therapy flowing filled the space as background noise none of them acknowledged.

 

“Good evenin’, Mr. Hall,” Darry greeted, adjusting his posture to stand straighter.

 

Bill glanced over, eyeing Darry with that same sharp gaze he’d held on Sunday. “Curtis,” he said slowly and deliberately. “So, this is that ‘somethin’ nice’ you promised her?”

 

“Yes, sir. Just dinner at a new place in town,” Darry replied politely.

 

Bill’s mouth twitched, somewhere between a reserved smile and something more thoughtful. “Dinner’s nice. Don’t know the last time she’s had much of a reason to get dolled up for one, though.”

 

“Figured it was about time,” Darry said, confidence and kindness seeping into his words.

 

Blush that wasn’t part of her makeup crept onto Lynn’s cheeks.

 

Bill nodded faintly. “She works hard–too hard, sometimes. I’m sure you get that. Don’t let her fool you into thinkin’ otherwise.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

Another pause filled the room. Bill’s gaze lingered on him, not unkind, but measuring and weary. “You drive careful. She don’t need any more worry on her plate.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

Lynn crossed the room, giving her father a peck on the forehead. “We’ll be back ‘fore it’s too late. Don’t wait up for me. You don’t need to. Take your meds before you go to bed.”

 

Bill’s eyes softened, letting out a wheezy sigh, “go on, then.”

 

Darry opened the door for her, the crisp evening air spilling in with the glow of the sunset. As they stepped out, Lynn glanced back just once; her father’s figure sat framed against the lamplight, still watching, still weighing, still worrying, but with the quiet sort of love that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

 

---

 

Darry had barely shut the driver’s side door when Lynn turned to him, “I’m sorry about my dad. He’s… protective.”

 

“Don’t be, I really don’t mind,” he replied. “If I’m bein’ honest, he kinda reminds me of how I can get with my brothers. Just want to protect what we’ve got left, you know?”

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

The two drove down the Tulsa streets, making small talk about work and the weather. 

 

“I want you to know I’ve really been lookin’ forward to this, Darry. I hate to admit when he’s right, but I can’t remember the last time I went out for myself.”

 

“It’s pretty rare for me too. I’m glad you said yes.”

 

“Well, I couldn’t turn you down after that cake, could I? I wasn’t jokin’ when I said I wanted the recipe,” she chuckled.

 

“Glad you liked it. S’our mom’s old recipe. She used to bake it on our birthdays.”

 

And just like that, Darry felt the breath sucked from his lungs. It never did get much easier to talk about their parent’s deaths. Before he got swept up in the spiral of his own thoughts, he felt a delicate hand squeeze his shoulder, grounding him back in reality.

 

“Ponyboy told me about them,” Lynn said softly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

 

Darry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He nodded solemnly.

 

“Ain’t nothin’ we can do about it ‘sides keep movin’ forward. Keep a good head on our shoulders and keep showin’ up.” A breath, followed by a playful invitation. “What else did Pony tell you about?”

 

“Mostly how much he hates geometry, sometimes askin’ me for ACT help. You and Soda come up every now and then… He really looks up to you two, you know.”

 

“Hard to believe it sometimes. Love the kid but he’s got me goin gray way before my time.”

 

“Family’ll do that to you. But he’s a real smart kid, real sweet too.” Darry felt pride bloom deep inside him, and then Lynn added quietly, “He must get it from his big brothers.”

 

The dusk gave way to a blanketing dark sky; the stars were drowned out by the Tulsa streetlights. Soon enough, they were pulling into the freshly-paved parking lot of the new restaurant. Shutting the door to his banged-up pickup surrounded by freshly-painted sports cars, Darry felt gnawing embarrassment chipping away at his pride. He wasn’t ashamed to be a greaser, but that didn’t mean it stung any less when he was constantly reminded of the shitty hand life had dealt him. Shaking off the shame, he did the chivalrous thing and opened the passenger door.

 

“Thank you kindly,” she said, wrapping her sweater tightly around her torso.

 

The glittering lights of the restaurant marquee were blinding–freshly installed bulbs, no doubt. Soft, jazzy piano rifts drifted out through the revolving door. Stepping inside, Soda was proved right: There were candles on all the tables. Fancy as all hell.

 

Lynn followed Darry up to the host desk, taking in the opulence of her surroundings. She couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about her buttonless cardigan or the scuffing on her shoes. Darry felt similarly. The silent weight of being underdressed amongst the upscale patrons sat heavy on their shoulders.

 

“Hi. I called on Monday for a reservation. Should be under Darrel Curtis,” he stated with a certainty that asserted that they had the same right to eat overpriced meat and potatoes like any other customers.

 

The host inspected his list with a raised brow. He collected one menu and asked, “Is she joining you sir?”

 

Darry was baffled by the question; he’d made his reservation for two people. “Yes. Why wouldn’t she be?”

 

The host wordlessly gathered a second menu, marking something on his paper behind the podium and guiding them to a table along the wall. He handed them the menus–weighty and premium like the rest of the establishment–then left without another glance. A waiter swiftly took the host’s place, an artificial smile as bright as the outside marquee plastered onto his face.

 

“Welcome to the Chez Laurent of Tulsa. Can I start you off with something to drink? Our seasonal wines are on the back of your menus. Appetizers follow on the front.” The waiter turned a pointed look towards Lynn. “Our menu might be a little different than what you’re used to.”

 

A beat. She gave a tight, almost pained smile, “Water is fine.”

 

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asked, turning to Darry.

 

“I’ll do the same,” he said, mentally tallying the cash in his wallet.

 

The waiter disappeared and the two of them were left in a hush thick enough to chew, the light tapping of the piano faded into the background. Around them came the low, rumbling murmur of silverware against fine china, muttering and laughter that stopped a beat too late when Lynn glanced up. She busied herself unfolding the thick linen napkin onto her lap, her fingers smoothing it out flat again and again.

 

Darry let out a low whistle, scanning the prices. “Guess Soda’s coupon don’t stretch too far,” he said, trying for humor.

 

She smiled at the joke, but it didn’t reach her eyes. A few tables over, a man in a pressed uniform jacket caught sight of the two of them and frowned, leaning over to whisper something to his equally-fancied wife. Her pearls clacked against each other as she shook her head, eyes flicking towards their table and away again.

 

“Unbelievable…” Lynn’s ears picked up on another conversation brewing at another table just behind them. “Got kids fightin’ and dyin’ overseas while folks here cozy up with the likes of that.”

 

She pretended not to notice. “You ever had a steak this fancy before?” She asked quietly, attempting to swallow the lump in her throat.

 

“Can’t say I have. Better be sprinkled with diamonds or somethin’ with how expensive it is,” Darry replied, forcing a small laugh.

 

The waiter reappeared with ice water in sparkling glasses, setting them down onto the table. “If it is your first time with us, I suggest the signature sirloin,” he said, directing his words to Darry alone. “It’s very popular at our other locations.”

 

“I think we’re going to take another minute, haven’t gotten a chance to look through all your options yet. Can we start with…” his eyes danced down the menu, searching for the cheapest appetizer, “two of the house salads?”

 

The waiter nodded. “I’ll bring over some bread as well.”

 

Darry glanced back up to Lynn, her eyes trained on her empty plate. One hand squeezed tightly, fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan, the other smoothing out the same crease she’d already pressed out in the napkin on her lap.

 

“Oughta be ashamed,” another party chimed in, loud enough to be heard by both of them. “A nice young man that handsome must be really down on his luck if he’s resorting to imported dates.”

 

Lynn’s hand began to tremble as she reached for her water. Darry noticed.

 

“So, umm…” she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.

 

The unsubtle staring felt like daggers. The muttering and scoffs echoing loudly in her ears. 

 

“Do you need t–” Darry started.

 

“I’m fine,” she exhaled, still unable to glance up from her plate.

 

From the corner of his eye, Darry caught another table staring. Two older men in suit jackets glared with disapproval bright in their eyes. Their conversation didn’t hush as Darry locked eyes with them.

 

“Wonder how dinner with the enemy tastes,” one of them scoffed.

 

“Whole damn world’s gone backward,” the other replied with disdain.

 

Lynn froze mid-sip, placing the glass back onto the table with a bit too much force, rattling the flame of their centerpiece candle. Her breathing hitched, too shallow and too fast. The room felt too bright, too loud, and like it was caving in on her. Heat and pressure building up in her chest with no reprieve.

 

Darry wasn’t entirely sure what to do; this was not a world he was used to fighting in. He was used to standing up to socs in the street, scaring off any bullies that ever threatened him or his kid brothers. But this? This was something that hit low and left no bruises or cuts to point to, and it riled the temperamental protector inside him up to a degree he hadn’t known was possible.

 

That’s when he reached across the table, calloused fingers brushing the tops of her clammy, white-knuckled fists. “Hey,” he said softly, silently pleading for her to look at him. “We don’t gotta stay.”

 

She shook her head fervently, eyes glossy. “I know you went through an awful lot of trouble for this… so I’m not gonna ruin it. It’s… fine.”

 

But the tremor in her voice said otherwise. Another stifled laugh from the men at the adjacent table–mocking, deliberate–sealed it. Darry tossed his napkin on top of the table, stood, and closing his hand around hers.

 

“C’mon. Let’s get outta here.”

 

He left a wad of cash and some loose change on the table; it was too much, even for undelivered salads and bread, but he didn’t wanna owe them anything. 

 

Wordlessly, Lynn stood and retreated into the safety of his towering figure, eyes glued to the floor. With Darry’s hand at her back, he kept on walking them forward until they hit the cool night air. Only when they had completely retreated back to the safety of the parking lot and both doors to the truck were closed did she allow the tears to fall.

Notes:

Thoughts, opinions? Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Chapter 8 is already finished, but I am waiting for my beta reader to look it over with me, so you won't be waiting too long for the follow up to this cliffhanger. Take care!

Chapter 8: Without an Ounce of Selfishness

Summary:

The aftermath of it all, and the comfort that comes with able to open up.

Lynn stared numbly at the dash. She hated that she couldn’t stop replaying it–the stares, the scoffing, the way her throat had closed up when she tried to speak. Even more than that, she hated that her father’s voice was already ringing in her head, worn, steady, and certain: ‘The world has always been a cruel place, honey. You can’t afford to forget it.’

 

He’d been right. That was what hurt the most. For one night she’d wanted to prove him wrong; to put her guard down, walk through a door, and not have to brace for impact. To hope that things could be different. Now all she could think about was how she must have looked to all those people, to Darry: fragile, sensitive, weak. Her tears had stopped, but the shame lingered hot behind her eyes.

 

The silence in the truck was so thick you could swim in it. Lynn’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so she pressed them together between her knees and tried to breathe slowly. Darry hadn’t started the engine yet. The restaurant marquee still glared through the windshield, white and gold against the dark sky; she couldn’t look at it.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered; it came out small, hoarse, and broken. “I didn’t mean–I’m sorry I ruined it.”

 

Darry exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on her trembling form; she’d curled in on herself, trying to become as small as she felt. He wanted to tell her that she hadn’t ruined a damn thing–that the night had gone sour long before any tears were shed–that the judgy, critical eyes of that soc establishment were all to blame. But he had never had a way with words, and he feared that anything that would leave his mouth would be too clumsy for the wounds she was nursing.

 

Her apologies came in fragmented pieces–half breath, half sob–and every word scraped at his heart. He’d heard the same cadence and seen the same look before on a younger Ponyboy’s face after a fight he hadn’t started, trying desperately not to cry because, in his mind, crying meant losing.

 

Darry wasn’t built to comfort; all of those genes had apparently gone to Soda, who always knew just what to say. But he could fix things. He always had to fix things. He’d been doing that with as much grace as he could manage since their parents died. And right now, the only fix he could think of was to drive–to take her away from this place.

 

He turned the key in the ignition, headlights flickering on in the dark. 

 

“Are you still hungry?” He asked quietly. She met his question with dark, sad eyes and an unsure expression, like she couldn’t believe he wanted to extend this catastrophically bad evening with her. “I know a place with food that actually tastes good. It’s a local staple.”

 

She blinked at him, hesitant. “You don’t have to–”

 

“I know.” His voice was low and steady. “But I want to.”

 

For a long beat, she said nothing, still tense and weary. Then, with a small nod, she reached for her seatbelt and clicked it into place. Almost imperceptibly, she said, “Okay.”

 

He took that as permission to drive, shifting the truck into reverse and pulling them away from the blinding light of the Chez Laurent. As the restaurant faded away in the view of the side mirrors, Darry caught Lynn’s shoulders loosening and the way she allowed herself a small bit of tension to melt away. A soft silence filled up the empty space between them. Tulsa rolled past in streaks of streetlight and shadow, further into the East side of town. When they passed a bumpy stretch of road with the reliable drive-up diner–Carl’s–Darry turned into the parking lot without a word.

 

The lot was half-full, to be expected for a Wednesday night; the air was hazy from the glow of the neon signs and the hot, wafting scent of fried foods. The buzzing of the old speakers hung up around the joint mixed naturally with the idle chatter from the other cars. It was bright and loud, but in complete antithesis of the steakhouse: All-American, cheap and easy comfort food they’d both had a million times.

 

“My brothers really like this place. Pick whatever you want,” Darry offered as he placed his own usual order of a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake.

 

The growing ache in the pit of her stomach pushed her to answer, but the overwhelming exhaustion at the idea of choosing anything undercut her actions. God damn, did she feel pathetic. Her blank stare, the slight purse of her lips, was all Darry needed to understand.

 

“Double that, if you could? Thanks, that’s it,” he added quietly.

 

That prompted a reaction.

 

“That’s too much, I can’t eat all that,” she tried to protest.

 

Darry offered a soft smile and a shrug. “Don’t gotta. Just wanted to make sure you had a say if you wanted it… if it makes you feel any better, I’ll eat whatever you don’t. Or I’ll take it home and somebody’ll get to it eventually.”

 

It didn’t take long for the food to make its way to them. He passed her cup and bag over to her. The familiar scent of greasy take-out filled the truck, but to Darry’s concern, Lynn made no move to open any of her meal. A part of him was worried he’d made the wrong choice, said the wrong thing, but the longer he watched her, that fear melted away.

 

The cold paper cup sat clutched in her hand, though not as tense as the crystalline water glass from earlier in the night. Her thumb traced a faint, repetitive ring in the condensation forming on the side as she zoned out on the neon sign reflecting in the window. 

 

Darry knew that thousand-yard-stare; it was the same look Ponyboy got when he was missing Johnny or the world was just too loud. Wordlessly, he folded over the opening of his bag and started to drive.

 

The road gradually quieted, lights thinning out behind them again. But this time, no new artificial glow replaced them; the open sky became visible through the windshield. A blanket of darkness dotted with stars that only seemed to grow in number the further they travelled.

 

When he finally stopped, it was beside a little clearing that he knew well. A small patch of overgrown grass sat under a strong oak tree. A humble brook painted the air with the faint sound of running water. The breeze was cool, the expanse above enormous. He cut the engine and leaned back. “Hope you don’t mind sittin’ out here a while.”

 

“It’s so quiet,” she commented softly.

 

“Yeah… Thought maybe we both needed that.”

 

Lynn’s fingers tightened around the paper bag in her lap, the grease already starting to soak through the bottom. “It’s perfect.”

 

They climbed out and into the bed of the truck, food spread out between them. Without the light pollution of the town, their eyes adjusted quickly to using nothing but the moon and the stars to illuminate their dinner. For a long while, neither of them spoke–just the sound of quiet chewing, the crinkling of wax paper, and the hum of whatever insects had survived to this point in the fall.

 

The burger was messy, uneven in its construction, and had the faint dryness of a patty that had been sitting frozen just a bit too long to be in its prime, but the flavor was familiar–real–like the kind her family used to share when the cabinets were near-empty after a long work day and joy had to be made for cheap. It grounded her. Each bite seemed to ease the tremor in her hands a little more.

 

Finally, she said softly, “My mom used to take me to places like this: out past the edges of town. She always kept a picnic blanket in the back of the car so we’d have a place to lay out and actually see the stars. After a long ass day at the tailor’s, she would say that quiet like this made her feel human again.”

 

Darry glanced upwards, then at her. “Sounds like she knew what she was talkin’ about.” 

 

She smiled faintly. “She did.”

 

He paused, debating whether to push. “You don’t gotta answer, but… she been gone long?”

 

Lynn wrapped the front of her cardigan tightly around herself. “Yeah… s’been about… nine years? I was twelve.” She took a breath to steady herself. “There were complications–she was pregnant, and… I was supposed to be a big sister. It didn’t go right and… we lost ‘em both.”

 

“I’m real sorry to hear that,” he said, feeling dumb for not being able to offer up anything more than an apology. Sincerity permeated his words. There was a deep sympathy interlaced with it all: the kind that came from knowing loss like that up close.

 

“She always told me to be strong. To keep my head high,” Lynn said, voice fraying at the edges. “Normally, I get by. I manage just fine… but nights like this make it so damn hard. It’s like… people look at me and only see what they think I am. Not who I really am. They don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

 

She swallowed down the lump of emotion growing in her throat. Candor didn’t come easily, especially with her walls up, but something about the peaceful air, the warmth of his presence, it made those walls come crashing down. “It’s always been like that, though, even in our old town. The other kids used to ask what I was, not who. Where I came from, why my mom didn’t look like theirs.” A bitter laugh slipped through her breath. “It’s real funny. I don’t even know half of what they think they’re seein’ when they look at me. My folks fell in love during the second world war, just like everyone else their age, but since my dad was deployed to China, I grow up getting the disapproving stares. My mom… she didn’t get to teach me much about ‘over there’ before she passed. And Dad–” Her voice faltered again. “He tried. He really tried. But he’s never known what to do with all the parts of me that remind him of her. I guess it’s sweet, in a way, but it’s so hard. He worked himself sick in that damn oil mine, and I think that was his way of lovin’ us. Lovin’ me. Just keepin’ things runnin’, keepin’ me safe.”

 

Lynn was staring beyond Darry’s shoulder now, moreso at the horizon line. He listened quietly, elbows on his knees and hands laced loosely together.

 

“I don’t blame him,” Lynn continued, eyes turning distant again. “But it’s lonely. Not just ‘cause people stare, but because there ain’t no place to fit. Too much for some, not enough of another for the rest of ‘em. I can’t change it, or what the world decides to see when they look at my face, but sometimes, all the bullshit makes me wish I could.”

 

Her voice cracked slightly as she strung her final sentence together. That quiet rage–the sorrow–was finally out in the open. She wasn’t sure if it had been worth it to share.

 

Darry’s jaw flexed. “You shouldn’t have to change,” he said quietly. “None of that’s on you.”

 

She looked at him, surprised by the firmness in his tone, the conviction.

 

“I ain’t gonna pretend I get what it’s like, not really. But, I’ve read the papers, I’ve walked the street, and I seen how people talk; I know the world’s mean ‘bout things it don’t understand. When you’re angry and confused, it’s easier to point and blame.” He shook his head, eyes fixed on the surface of the truckbed. “But where I grew up, you can’t afford to be that way. East Side of Tulsa don’t care what you look like or where your folks were born, so long as you’ve got their backs when it counts. Your people are your people. S’all that’s ever mattered to me.”

 

He’d said it so plainly. No dressings, no sugar-coating, just heart. The night folded in around them: It was quiet, patient, and vulnerable.

 

“You make it sound so simple,” she breathed, gaze drifting back to the stars.

 

“Maybe it ain’t. I know it ain’t,” he admitted. “But it helps havin’ someone else tryin’ right alongside you.”

 

And suddenly, the stars and the moon couldn’t compare to the brightness and warmth she felt at her core. She moved closer to him, eyes locking with a soft, teary intensity. This time, the silence between them didn’t feel heavy. It felt safe. 

 

She nudged her empty cup and wrappers aside, then reached across the narrow space and brushed her soft fingers across his. He didn’t jolt or pull away–just turned his hand over until their palms met.

 

The stars shimmered above them, imperfectly scattered, but gleaming nonetheless. Lynn leaned her head against Darry’s shoulder, letting the crisp night air and the tenderness of his words fill the long-neglected, quiet ache in her chest.

 

For the first time all evening, she wasn’t sorry for anything.

Notes:

Comments are appreciated! Lynn's parents' love story is based in the historical rise of "War Brides" in the US after WWII; this was very common among US troops stationed in Europe, but would also have been possible for those who were stationed in East Asia after the 1945 War Brides Act that enabled immigration for the foreign spouses of servicemen. I am no historian by any means, so pardon any erroneous interpretation. The prose surrounding Lynn's complex feelings on identity stem from my own experiences, and the words I wished could have been said to me in my vulnerable moments, so thank you for the space I've been given to express it all.

Anyways, chapter 9 is definitely a reprieve from the melancholy, so I hope you're excited for soft domesticity (and dates that don't end in horror). I know I sure am :)

Chapter 9: For the First Time, I'd Consider the Stay

Summary:

Amidst the chaos of their lives, Darry and Lynn find time for one another, and learn to cherish every second.

OR... they fell in [redacted] in October

OR... a series of domestic vignettes after all of the pain

Notes:

The romantic fluff, as promised.

For a few evenings after the restaurant, the world seemed to loosen its grip. Tulsa had eased into the first nights of October. The heat finally broke for the season, leaving the air cool and crisp. Amidst the continual push of work and family duties, Lynn and Darry found each other in quieter ways: late-evening phone calls becoming a habitual routine. What had started as a quick check-in after work would stretch well past midnight, trading anecdotes until the line hummed soft and sleepy in both of their ears. Sometimes they spoke until one of them trailed off mid-sentence, receiver being filled only with the sounds of steady breathing and the comforting feeling of being heard. Each call ended the same way: a quiet ‘good night’ that felt heavier than it sounded, interlaced with unspoken promise between dial tones.

 

---

 

After a long day of mindless politeness and reshelving, Lynn wanted nothing more than to get into her Bel Air and drive home. Much to her dismay, the vehicle that had never given her anything but a reliable ride didn’t sputter to life. She flicked the key back and tried again. Nothing. She closed her eyes, rested her forehead on the steering wheel, and mumbled, “Damnit.”

 

Reluctantly, she fished a dime out of the pocket of her sweater. The walk to the payphone was short, and she found herself dialing the number that had become a familiar reflex over the past week. It felt less natural than calling from the comfort of her own kitchen, but the flutter in her heart as she awaited the pick-up was all the same.

 

One ring. A second ring. The line clicked to life halfway through the third.

 

“Curtis residence, this is Darrel.” He said plainly, his own day’s worth of work evident in his tired tone.

 

“Hi, Darry,” she replied timidly.

 

“Lynn? It’s a lil’ early to be goin’ to bed,” he laughed. “Wasn’t expectin’ you quite yet.”

 

“I’m sorry, I hate to bother you, but my car’s dead as a doornail right now and I can’t call my dad about it–he wouldn’t have a way to get over here anyways. I gotta get home, but I really can’t afford a tow or some fancy repair shop. Sorry, I’m ramblin’. I didn’t know who else to call.”

 

The response was instantaneous, “I’ll be there in fifteen, assumin’ you’re stuck at work.”

 

“Uh… yeah. I’m sorry, I–”

 

“Already grabbin’ my keys. Sit tight.”

 

The line clicked off before she could protest.

 

He’d insisted fifteen minutes–he made it in twelve. However, he was not alone; another greasy-haired figure leaned out the passenger window with a broad, easy smile and motor oil stains across his face. The pickup truck had barely been parked when Sodapop hopped out of the cab, moseying up like the parking lot was his brand new stage.

 

“Guessin’ we found our damsel in distress, Dar,” Soda said, cracking his knuckles.

 

“I reckon so,” Darry sighed, mostly amused, only partially exasperated. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

 

“Bullshit, I woulda been pissed if you didn’t ask. You might be able to lift the machinery, but I’m the one that knows how to make ‘em run right.” Soda turned his attention back to Lynn, his signature charisma dripping off his every word. “You must be the lil’ librarian I’ve heard so much fuss about.” 

 

She smiled despite her embarrassment, a hand moving to fidget with the hem of her sweater. “I ain’t a full librarian, just an assistant who knows the stacks. Don’t have the degree for the real deal.”

 

“Well shoot, those fancy papers never did mean too much did they? Take it from the guy who left school as soon as he could: If you know where the books go and you help folks check ‘em out, that’s plenty librarian enough.”

 

“Tell that to my paycheck,” she chuckled. “Anyhow, do you think you can fix this? It just… died on me. It’s never done this before; I’m not too sure what happened.”

 

“Pop the hood for us, will ya? Dar, grab my–”

 

“Here.” Darry deposited Soda’s toolbox at his brother’s feet, handing him the rod he used to prop open their own truck’s hood for maintenance. The clack of Lynn’s car sounded, and Soda took that as his invitation to dive in. His handheld flashlight clicked on as he inspected the intricacies of the mechanisms in front of him.

 

“Alright, pretty girl, let’s see what’s goin’ on with you. Bel Air, what–’58?”

 

“It’s a ‘55,” she corrected.

 

“Well, she’s in pretty good shape for bein’ thirteen years old. Treat her right and she’ll return the favor.” Soda leaned deeper over the open hood and let out a low whistle. Despite knowing next to nothing about her car, Lynn mirrored his movements; as if she could absorb Soda’s expertise by osmosis.

 

“See anything, lil’ buddy?” Darry asked.

 

“Yup. Battery cable’s loose,” Soda replied, nodding.

 

Lynn blinked. “That’s all?” Not that she was complaining. The last thing she needed on her plate was an expensive repair.

 

“Mhmm,” Soda hummed as he held out his hand. Darry smacked the wrench into his waiting palm, letting his kid brother work the magic that got him his DX gig.

 

The brothers fell into an easy rhythm, like they’d done this a million times before. Soda talking up a storm and cracking jokes that eased Lynn’s tension, and Darry being the steady and efficient assembly line from the toolbox, handing Soda whatever tool he needed without any words shared between them. She found herself laughing earnestly, arms folded against the autumn chill and watching their silhouettes move under the parking lot lights.

 

“Try it now,” Darry called.

 

Lynn held her breath as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine gave a small sputter, a small pause, then settled into a familiar, low rumble.

 

Soda thunked a proud fist across his chest. “See? Didn’t even take twenty minutes.”

 

She cracked the door open, relief flooding her voice. “You two are miracle workers.”

 

Darry shut the hood with a solid thunk. “Just need to tighten those cables again soon. They start to wiggle loose after a while.”

 

“Guess I owe y’all a favor,” she said with a smile.

 

He shook his head. “I recall someone sayin’ that they like to keep a stash of favors for when they need ‘em. Looks like you’re just cashin’ in.”

 

Soda piped in. “You could at least lemme drive her ‘round the block to make sure she’s purrin’ right.”

 

“Nice try,” Darry cut in, his tone fond. Soda threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender with a smirk as he walked back to their pickup truck to stash his tools. Darry reached for Lynn’s car door, steadying it as she stepped out, and the small subconscious gesture made her heart skip. “You okay gettin’ home?”

 

“I will be now.” She hesitated, the content hum of the engine filling the silence. “Thank you–and Soda–for comin’ out late… for me.”

 

Darry shrugged halfheartedly, a shy grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t mind one bit… Hearin’ your voice every night is real nice, but seein’ you? It’s better.”

 

Soda leaned on the truck horn playfully, causing both of them to jump. “Don’t let me interrupt whatever’s happenin’ over there, but some of us have work in the mornin’!”

 

That earned another laugh from her, lightly patting his forearm. “Go on, before you freeze out here.”

 

She watched the brothers climb back into their pickup. Darry looked back at her through the windows, mouthing: ‘Good night’. She slipped back into her car before offering her own silent: ‘Good night’ before they both pulled out of the lot.

 

---

 

Darry felt like a little kid on his first full day of school with how eager he was for his lunch break. Nothing in his lunchbox was out of the ordinary–just leftover roast from the night before, a bruised apple, and a ham and cheese sandwich Soda had made from the butt ends of their loaf of bread. Because his team had finished their last job ahead of schedule, he was taking overtime to help the company he worked for finish up the town hall’s new roof; that meant he was only a five-minute walk from the Tulsa City-County Library.

 

With such a convenient distance, they’d agreed to take lunch at an overlapping time, so he waited with a dumb little smile that his brothers would have surely teased him for, lunch tin resting on the bench beside him. This October day was bright with a crisp breeze cutting across the air. He was still watching the library doors when he saw her. Lynn’s hair and shirtwaist dress were windblown from her short walk to his spot. A brown paper bag was tucked against her chest, the other hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” she sighed as she reached him.

 

“You’re not,” he said. “Don’t worry, I just got here.”

 

She handed him half of her sandwich before he could comprehend the offering. “Try this. Some of the older ladies in the Tuesday book club group brought each of the staff a half-loaf of this bread from some new bakery on the West side.”

 

Darry took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s nice. It’s… textured. Fancy bread.”

 

“It’s ‘artisan rye’. You sound suspicious of it.”

 

“Just not somethin’ we’d buy. Us Curtis boys were raised by good ol’ Wonder Bread. Here, you get this half since I got half of yours,” he said, ripping his own sandwich in two and handing her a piece.

 

She took it gently and laughed. “I know you love your brothers cause you’re eatin’ the worst part of the loaf.”

 

“The ends get a bad rap; they ain’t that bad.”

 

She went to take a bite before she stopped, pulling the sandwich away and inspecting it closer. 

 

“Why’s the middle blue?” She asked as her face scrunched up.

 

“Ask Soda,” he said plainly, finishing his half in two bites. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with the way it tastes, promise. He says it makes the ham more ‘fun’. Whatever the hell that means.”

 

Lynn shrugged, taking a tentative bite. He was right, just ham and cheddar, even if they weren’t quite the right color. They ate in companionable silence for a while, sharing their slice of peace that felt earned. The precious minutes of their breaks slipped by with the slow rolling of the sparse clouds above. Lynn brushed a few crumbs from her skirt, then caught him watching with that soft, intentful look in his eyes.

 

“What?” She asked.

 

“Wait,” he said quickly.

 

She froze. “What’s wrong? Do I have–” Her brows raised, eyes going wide. “Do I have shit on my face?”

 

He grinned, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

 

Her eyes flicked down as he brushed his calloused thumb over the corner of her mouth; his touch was feather-light. He let his fingers linger, just slightly. She didn’t move until he pulled his hand back.

 

“Well,” she said finally, a little breathless, “thank you for the quality control.”

 

“Anytime,” he offered softly.

 

The word, along with his phantom touch, hung there; it was more tangible than it should’ve been. For another moment, neither of them said anything, just a silent conversation between their eyes. The small space between them on the bench felt alive with everything unsaid.

 

A breeze picked up just as the nearby church’s bell tower tolled out that it was one o’clock and half an hour had passed.

 

“I should get back,” he said, a twinge of disappointment in his tone, like he wanted to linger there with her, just a few minutes longer.

 

“Me too, my break’s almost over.” She crumpled her paper bag and tossed it in a nearby trashcan. “Same time tomorrow?”

 

He nodded, trying not to seem too eager. “As long as they don’t put me on a roof halfway across town… yes.”

 

“Perfect. Then I’ll see you again here tomorrow, Curtis.”

 

He watched her cross back toward the library, the light catching in her dark hair before she slipped through the front doors. When he turned back to start walking towards the worksite, he realized that he was still smiling, replaying the electrical sensation in his fingertips as his thumb grazed her soft lips. He couldn’t remember the last time a half-hour went by that fast.

 

---

 

The idea started as a well-intentioned, but far-fetched, probably-never-going-to-happen scenario. Ponyboy had brought home a flyer from the library weeks ago: ballroom dancing lessons for beginners, half-priced on Wednesdays at seven o’clock. To be honest, Darry had forgotten about it. After a few days, the light pink paper with the swirling cursive print just became a part of the permanent material clutter of their kitchen alongside the mortgage notices, the grocery list, and their family calendar.

 

Now he was standing in Lynn’s kitchen, steadying her pantry door while she fiddled with a shaky hinge, replacing old stripped screws in the doorframe. 

 

“Think this’ll hold?” She asked, taking one side of the door and shaking it vigorously. The door gave a characteristic groan, but no longer tilted in a way that didn’t allow it to fully close.

 

“For a bit,” he said. “I’ll get you some longer screws next time I get the chance. It’ll stop pullin’ loose.”

 

“As long as it ain’t crooked anymore, I could care less,” she laughed, setting her screwdriver on the countertop. He offered her a hand to help her up, which she took with no hesitation. When he straightened, his gaze landed on the refrigerator: A familiar pink flyer was pinned beneath a chipped magnet.

 

“Dancing lessons,” he read, giving her a grin. “Didn’t figure you for the waltzin’ type.”

 

“Didn’t figure you for the judgin’-people’s-fridges type.”

 

“Ponyboy brought home the same one,” he admitted, tugging at the sleeves of his flannel. “Guess I didn’t picture you wantin’ to dance with strangers.”

 

“Who says I’d be dancin’ with strangers? Besides, I ain’t plannin’ on goin’ unless you’re volunteerin’ to be my partner.”

 

That earned a small huff of a laugh from him. “Are you askin’?”

 

“Hintin’, implyin’, maybe even suggestin’.”

 

He shook his head, but there was no denying the boyish grin that crept onto his face; the kind of smile he couldn’t resist letting loose the more time he spent with her. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to spend a Wednesday.”

 

And that was how they ended up in a small community center room that smelled strongly of floor wax and cheap coffee, surrounded by half a dozen couples twice their age. Each pair moving stiffly to the record player’s staticky Nat King Cole LP playing through the speakers at the front of the room by the instructors.

 

Darry stood beside Lynn, already tugging at the collar of his shirt. His hands had been shaped for labor–calloused, tense, and restless–and he kept flexing them like he’d rather be holding a hammer than anyone’s waist.

 

“This is already a bad idea,” he muttered, immediately uncomfortable in the space.

 

“It’s a half-price bad idea,” Lynn said, smoothing out the soft pleats of her skirt. “Which makes it low-stakes fun.”

 

“Fun for who, exactly?”

 

“For me,” she said, tugging him gently onto the floor.

 

He wasn’t bad at it–not really. His body knew rhythm instinctively. Years of sports and roofing had given him balance and control over his movements, but the problem was his the swirling prison of his mind. He was hyperaware of everything: his hand sitting lightly at her waist, the other loosely grasping her palm, the minute distance between them, and how her breath caught when he moved too close.

 

“I feel like I’m gonna step on you,” he admitted quietly.

 

“You might,” she teased, “but I think that’s part of the charm.”

 

“Don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.”

 

He was concentrating too hard to notice that she was the one butchering the steps. After a few more measures in the music, her heel came down squarely on the top of his boot.

 

“Hey, I think that’s my foot you’re standin’ on,” he blurted. It didn’t hurt by any means, she was too small to leave any lasting damage, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant.

 

“Sorry!” She gasped, unable to contain her laughter as she tried to correct. Instead, she misjudged the turn and collided into his shoulder.

 

“Maybe I oughta be worried about you steppin’ on me,” he said as he steadied her by the elbows, readjusting his hands once she was fully upright again.

 

“Now might be a good time to tell you that I’m probably ‘bout the clumsiest girl in the state of Oklahoma.”

 

“Then I guess we’re even. Wanna try again?”

 

His grip was gentle, unsure about the music and the moves, but sure about her; his fingers flexed against her spine as they found the count again. She’d laugh every time she stumbled, and he’d laugh every time she tried to apologize. The voices of couple instructing the class cut through the music, calling out numbers that neither of them were following too closely anymore. They were at their own pace, and for once, neither minded falling behind the pack.

 

“This feels backwards,” he whispered.

 

“I think that’s ‘cause you’re s’posed to be leadin’,” she said, failing to hide her smile.

 

He blinked, like the obviousness of the response had flicked him across the nose. “I am?”

 

“Yes,” she chuckled. “And for the record, I think you’re doin’ just fine.”

 

It wasn’t perfect by any means–his steps were too careful, hers too clumsy–but together, somehow, it worked. The world narrowed to the sound of squeaking shoes, staticky piano, and the synchronizing beatings of their hearts. Without thinking, she reached out to fix the crooked fold of his shirt collar, and her fingers brushed against his throat. Warm skin, peeking stubble, and the thrum of his pulse beneath it all.

 

The final song began, a slower ballad humming through the speakers. This time, their steps fell into the rhythm. Her clumsiness softened under his steady lead, and his buzzing nerves quieted with every breath she took against him. His thumb–the same one he’d used to brush stray rye off her face–traced a slow, absent circle against her shoulder as they entered the final turn.

 

Her heel grazed his shoe once again, tumbling out of their steady hold, and her sweet laughter resonated against his chest. “Sorry. Told you I suck at this.”

 

He let out his own laugh, his voice low. “I don’t mind the bruises.”

 

---

 

When Darry brought Lynn home that night, Bill was still awake. She was humming the melody of their final waltz attempt as they entered the house.

 

“Evenin’, Mr. Hall,” Darry said from the hallway. “M’sorry, didn’t mean to keep her out too late.”

 

Bill waved a hand. “You didn’t. She’s been laughin’ more these past few weeks than I’ve heard in years. I’d say it’s a fair trade.”

 

“She is gonna go get washed up so she don’t stink tomorrow mornin’,” Lynn interjected, squeezing Darry’s hand. “Talk soon?”

 

“Of course.”

 

And like it was the most natural action in the world, Lynn closed the distance and pulled him into a gentle hug. For a moment, Darry froze, unsure whether he should show this level of affection in front of Bill, but the need to reciprocate her touch overtook his judgement as he wrapped her in his arms.

 

“Thank you… for tonight,” she whispered, slowly pulling back. The ‘for everything’ sitting in the unspoken space following it. She disappeared down the turn of the hallway, continuing to hum her tune until the rhythmic stream from starting the shower drowned out the song.

 

“Curtis.” Darry turned back to the living room, everything in it’s usual place, including Bill. 

 

“Sorry, sir. Lemme get outta your hair,” Darry replied as he started towards the door.

 

“No, c’mere. I wanna talk to–” Bill’s demand cracked off into a bone-deep coughing fit halfway through. He pressed a towel to his mouth, dismissing Darry’s instinctual step forward. “Don’t look at me like that, son. Just a tickle. S’what happens when the weather turns.”

 

Darry nodded, though his eyes flicked to the towel anyways. In the lamplight, he saw the faint rusty stain blooming across the cloth before Bill folded it into his palm.

 

“You sure you’re alright?” Darry asked quietly.

 

“Been worse. Nothin’ she needs to worry ‘bout… Now, you gonna keep standin’ there or are you gonna sit down and talk to me like a man?”

 

“With all due respect, sir, if it ain’t just the weather, I think she oughta know.”

 

Bill’s gaze sharpened. “You fix roofs, I can fix my business. Mind your own and call it even.”

 

The words weren’t cruel, just firm. An older man who’d seen so much’s way of drawing a definitive line in the sand. Darry exhaled through his nose, nodding once as he sat down on the creaky ottoman adjacent to the sofa. “Fine. Fair enough.”

 

“Look, kid. You’ve got good intentions, I can tell. And I can’t fault you for that, but she’s all I got left. You understand?”

 

“I do.”

 

“I wanna believe you mean well… Just don’t get so used to fixin’ things that you forget that she ain’t a thing that needs fixin’. She deserves someone who wants her to be exactly who she is.”

 

“I know. I wouldn’t change a thing about her. I swear it.” And Darry meant every single word.

 

“You can talk a good game, Darrel; mean it all you like. But words are easy. What counts–what’s real–is stickin’ by ‘em when it stops bein’ easy.”

 

“I get it, Mr. Hall… I know I can’t promise what the world’s gonna throw our way, but I can promise I’ll try to stand there when it hits. But for what it’s worth–for her sake–I hope I never have to prove you wrong.”

 

Bill responded with a single nod that passed for approval. The older man leaned back against the couch as Darry let himself out the front door. He watched his shadow linger in the porch light, glancing up towards the stars, before stepping off and disappearing down the driveway.

 

Left alone with nothing but the low-volume chatter on the television and the quiet pattering of Lynn’s shower, Bill coughed again. He made no move to reach for the inhaler that sat next to him: he knew it was already empty. The doses that were supposed to last a month he’d blown through in half that time. He unfolded the towel, trying to muffle the sounds that scraped his throat raw. After the fit had passed, he stared down at the dull red blotches once more. Mustering up his energy, he pushed himself up with a grunt and went to rinse away the incriminating evidence in the kitchen sink. He rubbed at the stains, watching the faucet’s stream turn rust-colored, then fade down the drain.

 

Down the hallway, the sounds of the shower stopped, and the melody of the waltz piped up again, this time in the form of off-key vocals. He listened, the sound steading his resolve. “Don’t worry, honey,” he mumbled to the empty kitchen. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout yet.” 

 

---

 

Somewhere between the Curtis family porch and the Hall house windowsills, a utility pole wire stretched on in the dark of the midnight Tulsa sky. The two people on either end of the phone were both a little too tired, a little too happy, mumbling sleep-riddled nothings down the line. The distance between them felt smaller than it had any right to be. They spoke until the words blended into the quiet of the night, both too content to wonder how soon the world might come knocking again.

Notes:

I had so much fun writing each of these beats. It was so fun to build happy, romantic moments for these two as they grow to open their worlds to one another. How will life come knocking for them next? This world tends to demand more than they have to give... I guess you'll just have to wait and see.

Kudos and comments are much appreciated!

Chapter 10: I Promise You Do, You'll See; You Matter to Me

Summary:

Life comes knocking...
are they strong enough to answer the door?

Something about the passing weeks had changed Darry. Neither younger brother would ever describe the oldest as a ‘light’ guy. Even as kids, Darry towered above the rest, always taller and tougher, with an ambition and serious attitude to match. But the domestic rhythm that he’d fallen into was lifting all of the energy up, giving their guardian a ‘lighter” quality about him.

 

Saturday would split the Curtis party once more: Darry opting to help Lynn with the library’s book drive, offering strong hands and a vehicle that held countless boxes with greater ease. Soda and Ponyboy choosing to go watch Steve drag race his old beater against the other barely-running cars down the dirt road by Buck Merrill’s; maybe even participate, as long as their big brother wasn’t there to yell at them for risky behavior.

“Y’all sure you don’t need a chaperone?” Darry asked his charges, only half-joking. He trusted them enough, but that didn’t mean he didn’t worry every time they went out without him.

 

Soda, who was washing dishes while Pony folded laundry, made an ‘x’ across his heart with soapy fingers. “Cross our hearts, big brother. We’ll be angels.”

 

“That right?”

 

“We’ll use our heads, Dar, promise. Curfew’ll bring home two kid brothers in one piece,” Pony insisted as he patted down the growing stack of clean towels and jeans next to him.

 

“It better, or I swear to God I’ll skin you both.” 

 

“Let up a little, man.” Soda teased, flicking sink water at Darry’s face. “You’ll pop a blood vessel before your big date that totally ‘ain’t a date’.” 

 

Ponyboy rolled one of the dishrags between his hands, moving to smack his oldest brother’s backside before he turned around. Ever vigilant, Darry easily caught it.

 

“You wanna try that again?” He asked, laughing. For a moment it felt like the soft mornings they used to share before everything went so wrong; the three of them handling chores while their parents went out for the weekly grocery run. The sight of it all made Darry’s chest ease up. “You two are really gettin’ a hang of all this housekeepin’ stuff. It’s been real nice havin’ the help. I mean it.”

 

“Sorry we didn’t pick it up sooner. Was never somethin’ you should been doin’ all on your own,” Soda said; a slight pang of guilt hung in the undertones of his words.

 

“Just go move your boxes.” Pony groaned, pushing Darry out of the kitchen and into the living room. “Thought you’d be dyin’ to get over there, so why’re you wastin’ so much time? We’ll be able to look after ourselves for one afternoon.”

 

Darry rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed his true thoughts. He grabbed his jacket and the truck keys before exiting the house; the perkiness in his movements did not go unnoticed by his brothers. The door shut behind him, leaving the two younger Curtises in content quiet.

 

Soda spoke first, voice soft, “He’s really happy, huh?”

 

“I think so. Hasn’t smiled this much in so long,” Pony said. He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘since our parents died’. “S’kinda freaky. Guess I ain’t used to seein’ this side of him again.”

 

“S’good for him, though. You did good gettin’ stuck in that thunderstorm, buddy. Brought along a miracle.”

 

“Finally managed to fix something for him for once. Feels pretty nice.” Ponyboy moved to start putting away the freshly-washed dishes. 

 

“Funny how that works, isn’t it? One day she just comes crashin’ into your life, changes it all…” Soda’s scrubbing slowed, his voice trailing off as his mind wandered away.

 

“You’ve been sayin’ her name in your sleep again, you know.”

 

Soda froze, sink stream still running down his wrists. Sandy.

 

Ponyboy kept his tone careful, treading lightly and without an ounce of humor. “Haven’t heard it in a while… so I know you’ve been thinkin’ about her.”

 

Soda gave a wobbly smile that didn’t reach his eyes; old scars still ached when pressed on. “Sorta impossible not to, when I’m seein’ him and her so happy together all the time.” He stared down at the murky water, smile turning solemn. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy that he’s happy. So glad he’s got that–he deserves it more than anyone.” He let out a heavy sigh. “S’just hard sometimes, you know? You can love someone so damn hard and not get to keep ‘em.”

 

Ponyboy didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He merely nodded. The swirling sadness in Soda’s eyes lingered. So Ponyboy did what Sodapop would do whenever he had feelings to big or complex to pin down: He pulled him over and hugged him as tight as he could. Soda’s dirty-dishwater dripped down the back of Pony’s shirt, but he didn’t care one bit; he was doing laundry anyways.

 

---

 

By the time Darry and Lynn had finished loading the last of the boxes into the truck bed, the afternoon had settled just like the dust coating each tome. The air was as crisp as the fallen leaves. They’d been at it since late morning, hitting three churches across town; each one’s basement was stacked high with old hymnals, picture books, and other assorted novel donations bound for the Tulsa City-County Library’s book drive.

 

“Third one’s the charm,” Lynn said, letting out a huff. Her voice was light and easy. “I can’t wait to sort through a dozen different boxes labeled ‘Inspirational Literature’ this week. Bound to be real excitin’ stuff. At least I know the kids' stuff will be fun to look through.”

 

“Could be worse,” Darry said, slamming the tailgate closed. “Could’ve been cookbooks, or encyclopedias. Those things weigh a ton.”

 

“And you would’ve just loved showin’ off your arms while liftin’ ‘em all. Make those nuns hot under the collar.” She leaned against the truck, one arm pressed to her side like she was holding something steady.

 

He gave her a look–half-amused, half-concerned. “You okay? You’ve been movin’ stiff since the second stop.”

 

“I’m fine,” she replied, a little too quickly. “I’m just sore. We’ve been doin’ this for hours, and some of us haven’t built up blue-collar endurance for haulin’ objects.”

 

He nodded, though he wasn’t sure if believed her. Her tone was too even, in that practiced calm sort of voice that she used when she was retreating behind her walls and she didn’t want him looking too closely. They’d come to talk every night for hours on end, and he was more than versed on what was candor and what was charade.

 

The ride back to the library was uneventful. The truck hummed along the road, punctuated by the rattle of the boxes in the bed. Lynn talked, and Darry listened–the kind of easy rhythm they’d fallen into without even realizing it. She relayed progress on Ponyboy’s studying for the evenings he made it to the library after track practice, assuring the eldest that he was juggling the two commitments fine enough. How his essays were neater now, vocabulary flashcards always sorted and consistent, and that he was becoming less and less anxious to seek her out when something had him stumped.

 

“He’s got some meet comin’ up,” she said. “Told me he’s lookin’ forward to it.”

 

“Yeah. Fall Invitational,” Darry said, grinning as he drove. “First one of the year. It ain’t scored–just friendly competition to help the coaches figure out the rosters for varsity and JV. They like to get it done before it gets too cold outside to use the football field track.”

 

“Well… I’m ‘invited’. Told me they’ll have good hot chocolate and that I oughta bring a blanket for the stands.”

 

That earned a quiet chuckle out of him, low and proud. He didn’t respond right away; he just glanced her way before focusing on the road again. The air between them shifted to something soft and full: an unspoken knowing that she’d woven herself into the small spaces of their lives, and none of them minded.

Before they knew it, Darry was pulling up to one of the side doors of the library.

 

“Last stop,” Lynn sighed contently as she pushed the door open. Her voice light, but movements careful and deliberate in a way he hadn’t seen before. “C’mon, slowpoke. I’m hopin’ to get this done before sundown; it’s almost after hours and I wanna be able to get dinner,” she said as she hopped down and circled to the back of the truck.

 

He followed, rolling his sleeves up against the cooling air. Together, they started unloading the boxes onto a cart, one after another, in a rhythm that had been established over the stops at the three churches that day. She tried to lift the first one before he could reach it, but her fingers slipped as she misjudged the load.

 

“Hey, I got it,” he said, steadying the box before it toppled.

 

“I’m not an old lady,” she laughed softly. “You don’t have to play hero every time somethin’ weighs more than five pounds. I think I can handle a couple of Bibles.”

 

“Not playin’ hero, just savin’ us the cleanup.”

 

That made her smile, but when she reached to grab another box, she winced, sucking in a breath–a small, sharp sound that didn’t belong to exhaustion. Her left arm stiffened halfway through the motion, her wrist instinctively moving close toward her chest like she was trying to hide it.

 

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked, brow furrowing with concern.

 

“Yeah, m’fine,” she repeated, an echo of earlier. Darry was startin’ to get really sick of that word. “Think I mighta pulled somethin’. It’s just been a long day, that’s all.”

 

He didn’t argue, but his eyes traced the way she switched arms, how her right hand did all the work while her left barely touched the boxes at all. Every time the weight shifted or she brushed up against the edge of a box, she flinched so slightly, he almost thought he’d imagined it. But as one recoil rolled into two, then three, he couldn’t deny the pattern.

 

By the time the last of the boxes were piled onto the handcart, she was breathing heavier, using her fingers to tuck her sleeve down lower to further obscure her wrist. She went to push the cart toward the library doors, using only her right hand. Darry grabbed the handle before she got very far.

 

“Let me, please. It’s heavy. Just show me where to go,” he insisted. And finally, she wordlessly surrendered control.

 

“Sorry, I’m just tryin’ to be useful. This is my job, after all,” she said, looking a bit ashamed.

 

“Well, I tagged along to help, so let me do what I came here to do. You’re bein’ plenty useful by bein’ my guide,” he said. He hoped that answer placated her pride enough. It must have, because she gestured for him to follow her as she walked to the side door.

 

Inside, the library was darker; only the necessary lights for their task were on. The building always felt different after hours, but it still smelled of dust and paper. Lynn led the way down the hallway toward one of the study rooms that had been designated as the sorting location; the cart’s one faulty wheel rattled every few steps until they came to a stop.

 

When she bent to lift one of the smaller books off and onto the table, her hand slipped again. The corner of the box caught on her sleeve, tugging the fabric back just far enough for the light to illuminate the edge of her skin.

 

Darry saw it before she did–before she yanked her sweater down and turned away, shielding her arm from his line of sight. But it was too late. A deep, uneven bruise spread across her forearm, fading from purple to yellow at the edges. He didn’t say anything right away, just stared.

 

“Lynn,” he said quietly, trying to calm his nerves; his temper.

 

She froze, fingers curling around the box’s edge, as if continuing the routine without pause would allow them to just keep moving and ignore everything. “What?”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Nothing.” Her voice was too calm, too measured, too rehearsed. “You know I’m not the most coordinated. Just tripped and knocked up against somethin’, that’s all.”

 

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, trying to tame his emotions, the growing frustration at her from being lied to all day; at himself from not seeing it sooner. “You don’t get a bruise like that from bumpin’ into a desk. Please… please don’t lie to me.”

 

Darry had seen these sorts of marks before; the kinds that were distinct enough you could see where every finger had come down hard on flesh. The sort of bruise that angry people gave those who couldn’t–or wouldn’t–stick up for themselves.

 

She looked up at him, her collected expression crumbling. A combination of guilt, exhaustion, and the pressure of keeping something heavy to herself had weakened her resolve. The light caught her eyes, tired and growing glassy.

 

“It happened a few days ago,” she finally confessed, voice cracking. “I–I don’t know if I should… It’s really not–”

 

He didn’t move, just stared softly into her eyes. Pleading. “Tell me.”

 

She swallowed, the muscles in her throat tightening. 

 

---

 

The library had been nearly empty that night. She was shelving returns like any other evening, her focus on the labels in front of her and the checklist she was crossing off with each stop. Suddenly, a man’s gruff voice cut through the quiet.

 

“Guess they just let anyone work here now.”

 

The comment came from somewhere behind her. She didn’t look up. It was the usual sort of remark she had learned to try to ignore if she wanted to keep her job. “Evenin’, sir. Can I help you find something?”

 

He stepped closer. “Yeah, you can help me understand how the hell they let my tax dollars go to payin’ someone like you to sit behind a counter meant for decent folks.”

 

Her hand paused halfway through shelving. “Sir, the library’s open to anyone. Do you need help locatin’ somethin’ or not?”

 

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you,” he said sharply. “You look at people when they’re talkin’ to you, or do they not teach that sorta thing overseas?”

 

She finally turned, trying to keep her tone polite under the palpable pressure of his anger. “If you need assistance, I would be happy to–”

 

Before she could finish, he closed the distance, too quickly. His hand clamped around her wrist. The pressure was immediate and merciless as he dug his thumb into the soft tissue where  the bottom of her palm met her forearm.

 

“Don’t get smart with me, girl!”

 

She tried to twist away. “Let go of me!”

 

The motion only made it worse. His grip wrenched her wrist sideways before he slammed it into the harsh metal of her shelving cart and sent the returns clattering to the floor. She gasped as pain shot up her arm, a burst that made her stomach flip.

 

“I said let me go!” Her voice came out loud and desperate. A plea for help. For anyone to hear–and to care enough to help.

 

Somewhere behind him, the head librarian and one of the other clerical assistants pulled the man back. He finally released his grip.

 

“Sir, you need to leave. Now.” The librarian stated firmly. “Don’t bother returning to this library again. You will not be welcomed.”

 

The man merely muttered angrily under his breath, eyes flashing between the three workers and deciding whether his fight was worth it. He mumbled profanity as he stormed out toward the exit.

 

Lynn stood frozen for a moment, the throbbing in her arm was wild and sharp. Then, she pulled her sleeve down, flexed her fingers to make sure they still worked, and took as deep a breath as her lungs would allow. Through the panicked breathing, she went back to pick up her returns that had scattered across the floor. It wasn’t like there was anything else to be done except maintain composure and pretend like nothing had happened. Neither the head librarian or her fellow assistant said anything, but they both noticed how her hands trembled as she reached for every fallen book.

 

---

 

Quiet tears were streaming down her cheeks. Darry said nothing. Not yet. His jaw flexed once, then stilled.

 

“Where’s your break room?” He asked.

 

She blinked, choking out, “What?”

 

“Where is it,” he repeated–quieter this time. “Please. Trust me.”

 

Wordlessly, she led him down the dim hall. The overhead lights cast thin shadows from their forms across the floor. The small staff break room sat behind an ajar door; inside held a quaint arrangement of mismatched chairs, a crooked table, and a humble kitchenette with an old refrigerator buzzing in the corner.

 

Darry crossed to the sink, found a hand towel on the counter, then filled it with ice from the freezer tray. His simple movements filled the air between them. When he turned back around to face her, his expression had softened. It wasn’t empty, but no longer burning with protective rage, moreso filled with quiet grief and the need to caretake.

 

“Sit,” he said gently, still not touching her.

 

She obeyed, lowering down into one of the chairs as if she were afraid that the wrong move would shatter the fragile calm between them. He knelt in front of her, the towel between his hands. Carefully, he took her arm–the one she’d been stubbornly guarding all day–and unrolled her sleeve just far enough to fully inspect the damage. The bruise looked just as ugly under the fluorescent lights, dark and angry marks blooming across her warm skin. His breath caught, but he still didn’t say anything.

 

Gingerly, he pressed the towels down. The cold from the makeshift ice pack met her skin and she flinched. He murmured, “Sorry,” but didn’t pull away. His touch was tender, hands steady and practiced in a way that showed how he’d spent years fixing things.

 

They sat in silence for a long while, Darry on his knees staring at her injury, just holding slowly-melting ice to her arm with gentle hands. Then Lynn let out a small, disbelieving laugh, laced with fragility and wet with sorrow. “I didn’t even tell my dad,” she said, shaking her head. “Didn’t want him thinkin’ I couldn’t handle myself at my damn desk job.”

 

Darry’s jaw tightened, his voice low but certain as he finally spoke. “You don’t get to just handle somethin’ like this alone.”

 

“I wasn’t alone, I had my coworkers…” she tried to argue, but it fell flat. “Besides, I can take care of myself. You don’t have to–”

 

“I know you can.” He cut her off, finally tearing his eyes away from the bruise and meeting her gaze. “But that don’t mean I want you to have to.”

 

Her eyes glassed over, tears threatening to spill again against her will. “Darry, you can’t fight every damn person in Tulsa who looks at me wrong.”

 

“I know,” he whispered. “But I would. I would beat that bastard if I knew his face for what he did to you. I’d fight them all… I hate that I can’t.”

 

Her next words were barely above a breath, voice shaking. “Please don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

 

“Of course I mean it.” His voice was roughened by emotion and the words he’d swallowed down for weeks. “Lynn, I love you.”

 

The room went quiet as he let the confession linger and fill the air: quiet but earth-shaking all at once. For a moment, neither one of them breathed, as if any sound would shatter the moment. She smiled through the tears, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Something inside her broke open, all at once; it was soft and timid, but bright and demanding.

 

“Can I believe you?” She whispered.

 

“You already do.” He said softly.

 

It was true.

 

 “Can I kiss you?” He asked softly. The words were so patient, careful, and reverent she nearly cried again.

 

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”

 

He leaned in slowly, as though any sudden movement might wake him from the dream he’d spent so much time tiptoeing toward. Their lips met in a moment that felt impossibly new and eons overdue. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that burned, it was the kind of kiss that bloomed and blossomed; it was steady, sure, and full of warmth that settled in both of their chests and stayed there. Her good hand found his collar, curling loosely into the fabric as if to keep herself from floating away. 

 

When they finally broke apart, she pressed her forehead to his, a breathless laugh spilling from her lips in a whisper of gratitude and adoration. He thumbed away the trails of her tears, still gently cradling her injured arm in his hand, a silent promise: to protect, to heal, to love.

 

Notes:

The first of many "I love you's" and stolen kisses. To my slow burn enthusiasts, I hope the first real kiss and confession was worth the wait; I loved writing it. I'd love to know your thoughts! Happy Halloween :)

Chapter 11: But Dreams are Elusive, the Kind We've Gotten Used To

Summary:

Darry waits for the other shoe to drop. It does, just not in the way he's expecting it to.

Notes:

I've officially run out of fitting and substantial lyrics from "You Matter to Me", so I will now be naming chapters utilizing lyrics from any of the songs on the Waitress soundtrack. What an S tier musical. I sobbed uncontrollably for the entirety of the second act and the entire drive home; I apologized profusely to those sitting around me.

Morning came slow, so unlike the ones Darry had gotten used to. The sun rising typically brought about a sense of haste pulled down by the fact he never had the time to get enough sleep. If it was a weekday, he’d run through his mental checklist and follow through the motions: shake his kid brothers out of bed for work and school, feed said kid brothers breakfast with whatever he managed to cobble together, double-check the fridge calendar for notable events that deviated from his typical schedule, then grab his shit and hurry out of the house. 

 

But today was Sunday, and this one felt entirely unlike all the other Sundays in the subtlest ways.

 

The night was still clinging to him. The drive home, quiet except the familiar hum of the truck and the warm affection buzzing between its two occupants. The way she’d insisted he could just drop her off at home like after any of their previous dates, but the pleading look in her eyes whispered inklings that she didn’t want to be alone–He just couldn’t let her be, not anymore. When he turned the opposite direction of her way home out of the library parking lot, the relaxed silence echoed her approval to go to his house instead.

 

She’d followed him inside, shoulders drawn tight with nerves that melted away the longer she stayed. The Curtis family dinner she had avoided all those weeks ago came to fruition; each brother falling in step with one another as a humble offering of spaghetti and green beans took shape. If either of the younger two noticed the quiet, dreamy aura about their older brother and the library assistant, neither dared to tease, and they took up the dishes without any of the usual fuss.

 

The living room light had been low, and he’d settled her onto the couch with one of their mom’s old quilts and a towel-wrapped bag of frozen peas. At first, she kept apologizing: for being burdensome, for the worry she hadn’t meant to add to his plate, for the bruises she hadn’t meant him to ever see. He’d quieted her in the same way he spoke softly to his brothers after a rumble: “You don’t have to be sorry for gettin’ hurt, honey. Just let me help.”

 

Eventually, she’d fallen asleep like that–her head resting against his shoulder, her breath warm and even, the peas long-melted-through. He’d stayed where he was, unable to fully relax, yet unwilling to move–to break whatever fragile peace had finally come over her. He just let her lay there in his embrace while he traced patterns along the unbruised parts of her arm: along her shoulders, her knuckles, the tips of her fingers. Desperate to anchor her to safety even in sleep. Somewhere between her breathing and the fragments of the day replaying on loop in his mind, he realized how much he meant it when he told her he loved her, and how it’d brought them impossibly closer. Not by accident, not in passing, but in the kind of way one declares something with their whole being. He’d seen it in the way her eyes had widened before softening, the teary smile, and the whispered plea before she kissed him back.

 

It was two in the morning when she stirred awake, disoriented and sheepish as ever. He’d offered, half-teasing, half-serious, to let her stay the night, offering the bed that Sodapop never used now that he and Ponyboy shared a room. But she’d smiled, small and tinged with a hint of regret, saying that he knew she couldn’t: Her dad would worry if she wasn’t there when he woke up in the morning.

 

Darry didn’t argue, though he wanted to, desperate to hold onto the tentative tower of peace they’d built. But he helped her up, out the door, and drove her home without protest. 

 

Now, with the morning stretching quiet and serene across the Curtis household, he found himself yearning to reach for the phone and dial her number. He wondered vaguely if she was still asleep, if his delayed first aid had eased the ache in her wrist, and if she knew how the wounded gleam in her eyes had sent his profession of affection spilling out before he could help himself.

 

He dragged his razor across the edge of his jaw and found comfort in the familiarity. The slick metal running along his skin grounded him as wistful thoughts pulled him from the small confines of the bathroom. There were very few things Darry was sure of, but the main lesson life seemed to keep tossing his way was to never get too comfortable, never be too content, because that’s when the other shoe would drop. So even as he clung to the image of her warm, vulnerable stare, the feeling of her laid up in his arms, and the taste of her lingering on his lips, tendrils of unease wormed their way to the front of his mind. Good things always seemed to crumble in his hands.

 

The quiet groan of hallway floorboards pulled him slightly out of his trance. Soda’s form came to fill the bathroom entryway, hair mussed; his own patchy stubble growing across his face. An overdramatic yawn punctuated his entrance.

 

“Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” Darry chuckled.

 

“You’re up early for a Sunday. I know you ain’t real big on sleepin’ in, but I thought you’d at least be out til’ nine,” Soda mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

 

“Could be sayin’ the same about you, buddy.”

 

“Hey, I gotta piss, it’s different. I’m probably gonna crash again soon as I’m done. Normally you ain’t so eager to be jumpin’ into vacuumin’ the house.”

 

“Couldn’t sleep much.”

 

Soda grinned. “Thinkin’ about her, huh?” Darry turned back to the mirror with pensive eyes, not answering; he didn’t need to. “You look like you’re waitin’ for a twister to hit. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ happy, Dar.”

 

Darry swiped away the last bits of shaving cream before sighing and setting his razor down. He looked over towards his brother with eyes clouded by conflicting emotions and lips that seemed afraid to give into the urge to smile.

 

“Soda, I told her I love her.”

 

That made the younger’s grin grow broader, followed by a disbelieving, quiet laugh. “I’m surprised you hadn’t already said it. This whole thing? It’s good for you. Pony thinks so too.”

 

Darry huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, running a towel along his jaw. “Yeah, well… that’s what scares me.”

 

Soda’s grin melted into a softer smile. “Scares you?”

 

He nodded. “Life… it ain’t ever been this kind to us–to me–for this long. I keep waitin’ for the catch. Somethin’ always breaks when it starts lookin’ too good. S’just how it works.” He paused, hands tensing. “Feels like if I let myself breathe, if I let it all in, that’s when it’ll all cave in.”

 

Soda leaned against the doorframe with crossed arms, watching his big brother fidget with the towel like he could wring the worry out of it. Then he said, low and certain, “Dar, you gotta quit thinkin’ the world’s out to get payback for every bit of good you get. Sometimes things just stay good if you let ‘em be.”

 

Darry looked up at him with doubt written across his features, searching Soda’s face for the sort of faith he couldn’t muster himself. The apprehension in his face seemed to say: ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ Soda closed the distance with a stride, squeezing Darry’s shoulders and allowing his earnest grin to return. “You love her, right? That gooey look she was given’ you all last night tells me that she loves you too. That’s all it’s gotta be. Don’t overcomplicate it.”

 

It was simple and certain in the way that only Sodapop could make it. Darry exhaled and, for a moment, the weight in his chest eased. “Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than to his brother. “Guess I’ll have to give it a try.”

 

“Good,” Soda said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now quit hoggin’ the bathroom. I really gotta go.”

 

That earned a genuine laugh as Darry stepped aside to surrender the space to his kid brother. He lingered in the hall once Soda shut the door. The house was still; too early for breakfast, too early to do anything but think. He made a slow lap through the living room, fixing the haphazardly-draped blanket on the couch arm, mindlessly straightening the furniture and clearing the coffee table of the mugs they’d drank from last night. The faint smudge of Lynn’s lipstick still marked the edge of the rim. 

 

The ache to hear her again came back soft at first, then louder until it felt impossible to ignore. Before he could talk himself out of it, he reached for the telephone. It only rang once.

 

“Hall residence,” echoed her sleep-laced voice.

 

His breath hitched with the surprise at his own actions, at her actually picking up. “Hey, it’s me,” he said, suddenly self-conscious. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“You didn’t,” she mumbled, and he could hear the smile forming as she continued. “I’ve been up for a lil’ while. Been thinkin’.”

 

“Could say the same over here. Always been an early riser, though. Normally I mind it more, but today? S’not so bad.”

 

There was an amused huff and rustling on the end of the line. “What’re you doin’ now?”

 

He glanced around his empty, quiet house. “Tryin’ to find somethin’ to do with my hands so I don’t wear a groove into the floor.”

 

“That bad, huh?”

 

“Sometimes the thinkin’ requires pacin’ with it too.”

 

“Trust me, I get it.”

 

They fell into easy chatter after that: the weather, a headline from a magazine that had been sent to her house by mistake, the stray dog near the jobsite he kept feeding bits of his lunch to. Nothing important, everything comforting. The sound of her voice settled the restless hum under his ribs better than any chore could. He smiled faintly, then realized she was waiting for a response.

 

“Sorry, what was that?”

 

“I said,” she repeated, soft laughter prickling across the line, “that you sound happier this morning.”

 

He swallowed, warmth creeping up his neck. “Yeah,” he replied. “Guess I am…” He paused again. “I’ve got you to thank for that.”

 

This time, she paused. He could picture her sitting at the kitchen table, telephone cord stretching across the room, coffee in hand, and the breaks of light catching the side of her face. 

 

Her voice came through again, sweet and earnest, “You oughta save a bit of thanks for yourself–for takin’ care of me.”

 

“Been waitin’ for you to let me hold you like that.”

 

“Been waitin’ on myself to be brave enough to let you in.” She paused, a content exhale passing through the line. “I love you, Darry.”

 

The pressure in his ribs doubled; last night hadn’t been a dream. His reply was gentle as a heartbeat. “I love you too.”

 

He let go of a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Maybe Soda was right. Maybe it was okay to let things be good. For once, he didn’t brace for the fall; he just stood there, receiver in hand, blanketed by the hush of the morning, and daring the world to let him stay this way a little while longer.

 

---

The hush of the morning unraveled little by little. The house woke up in small degrees: light stretching across the floor, the shuffling of kid brothers’ feet on wood, and the creaking of overused door hinges. Slowly, the smell of frying eggs and brewing coffee fully shook the house awake.

 

The two younger Curtises padded into the kitchen, both equally disheveled by sleep. Ponyboy tugged at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Smells good, you should start servin’ it in bed,” he mumbled, reaching for a glass to make his daily cup of chocolate milk.

 

“Mornin’. Grab a plate, s’almost done,” Darry said, not looking up as he attacked the pan with a slightly-bent spatula.

 

They ate in the easy silence that came with habit. Soda recounted a story from the drag races the day before, Pony adding distracted comments between bites. Darry hummed absently, the muted elation of his phone call rang through his ears instead. Breakfast rolled on–three brothers sharing a table, no edges, no worry.

 

But as Darry turned to pour himself more coffee, he spotted a thin manila envelope on the corner of the counter. The Will Rodger’s High School crest was stamped near the corner, and the edges were slightly frayed from being handled too many times. He reached for it without thinking.

 

“Hey,” Darry said, holding the envelope up. “You get somethin’ in the mail yesterday?”

 

Pony froze halfway through a sip of his milk, eyes darting between his brother and the envelope like he wished it wasn’t there. “Umm, Friday, actually… it’s grades.”

 

“Mind lettin’ me see?”

 

Ponyboy averted his gaze, answering his eldest brother with silence.

 

The cream cardstock crackled too loud in the quiet. Darry pulled the report out and scanned down the list: English III: A. Geometry: B. U.S. History: B. Chemistry: C. Speech and Debate: B. Physical Education: A.

 

His eyes lingered on the fifth class in the list. C. The instructor’s comment read: “Shows ability but lacks focus during lab periods. Bright student–seems discouraged lately.” He read the line twice, then a third time, as if the repetition might change it.

 

Discouraged.

 

The word hit harder than the letter grade. He could picture Pony at his lab table, chin propped in his hand, eyes and attention elsewhere. It wasn’t that the kid didn’t care, he knew that he cared. Maybe too much, about too many things at once.

 

Still, the familiar knot of worry tangled with frustration tightened in his throat. He slid the paper back into the envelope with steady hands.

 

“Why didn’t you think to show me this on Friday?”

 

Ponyboy shifted in his seat. It creaked underneath the movement as his fingers tightened around his glass. “You were late at work,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t wanna make anything worse.”

 

“Okay,” Darry replied, even and careful. “Why not yesterday?”

 

Pony’s shoulders rose and fell in a halfhearted, shallow shrug. “Couldn’t ruin the mood for your date. Figured we could get to it later. ‘Sides, you had Lynn over late. Knew you’d flip when you saw it and didn’t want you houndin’ me in front of her. At least she thinks I’m kinda smart…”

 

Darry froze. The comment hung there, sharp and accidental, but it found its mark all the same.

 

“Watch it,” he said finally, voice low.

 

Pony’s eyes flicked up, finally meeting his brother’s gaze. The next words came out defiant and embarrassed in the same breath. “What? I’m just sayin’–”

 

“Don’t.” Darry warned. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight that usually stopped arguments before they started. “Look, Colt, I ain’t mad… I just wish you’d trust me enough to tell me when you’re strugglin’. We’re workin’ our asses off to give you a chance we never had. You can’t go wastin’ it ‘cause you’re too proud to say you need help.”

 

“Maybe the real waste is you always bein’ on my case about every little thing.”

 

“Ponyboy, we’re tryin’ to help you get outta the East side. You’ve got what it takes, I know it. Soda knows it. So you gotta make the best of it.”

 

“You had what it takes too, Darry. You worked your tail off in school, played ball, did everythin’ right. Still didn’t matter, did it? So what’s the point? Maybe I just… I just don’t wanna get my hopes up about somethin’ I can’t have.”

 

The words hit harder than he meant them to, each sentence pouring out before he could think twice. Soda’s fork clinked against his plate, the sound too loud in the sudden quiet.

 

Darry broke the silence. “You’re right. It didn’t matter for me. That’s why it has to for you.”

 

That made Ponyboy flinch, guilt flashing across his face, but he was too proud–or too scared–to take it back. He could feel stinging in the corners of his eyes.

 

“I’m tryin’ my best,” he muttered. “Guess it just ain’t enough.”

 

Darry let out a slow breath, the kind that was supposed to calm him down but didn’t. “That ain’t what I said and you know it.”

 

“Didn’t have to,” Pony shot back.

 

Soda shifted uncomfortably, his own weary frustration growing as he grew aware that he’d be playing peacekeeper again. “Here we go again…” he mumbled under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Darry’s jaw flexed. “You think I get on you ‘cause I like it? You think I enjoy havin’ to shout the sense into you ‘cause it’s the only way you listen half the time?”

 

“I think you forget I’m doin’ the best I can. I’m sure you think I don’t care, but I do! I’m bustin’ my ass–track, homework, the goddamn ACT, everything–and it’s still not good enough for you!”

 

“That ain’t true, I know you care. I know you’re tryin’. You just–”

 

“What? Need to work harder? Be better? Be more like you? Hate to break it to you, I can’t!”

 

Soda slammed a hand on the table, the other hand running through his hair. “Would you both just quit it? You’re gettin’ worked up way too much over a damn report card!”

 

But they were too far in, too deep in mutual frustration and blinded by the points neither party were truly hearing.

 

“I don’t want you to be me, Ponyboy, I want you to be better. You’ve got a real chance that Soda and I don’t, and I’ll be damned if it slips away.”

 

Pony’s throat tightened, the tears now threatening to well over. His words came out shaky, angry, and true. “You think I don’t know that? I feel guilty enough already! You gave up everything for us. You dropped your whole life, and now somehow I’m the one who’s gotta make it all worth it! It ain’t fair.”

 

Darry blinked, stunned into silence. No, it wasn’t fair. For a second, he saw himself at nineteen, selecting the simplest tombstones for their parents with shaking hands, wondering how he’d raise two teen brothers when he was barely grown himself. The memory burned.

 

Soda’s chair scraped back hard as he stood. “Enough,” he snapped, voice uncharacteristically rough. “You two done? ‘Cause I’m sure as hell done listenin’ to it.”

 

Darry opened his mouth to speak, but Pony beat him to it. “Forget it,” he humbled, turning for the hall. The door to his room closed with a quiet finality that felt louder than anything either of them had said.

 

Soda shook his head as he gathered the remnants of breakfast to start cleaning up. “I thought we were done with this kinda shit. I hate it when you two fight.”

 

Darry sighed, sliding impossibly deeper into his chair. His hands came up to grip his temples, letting out a huff that felt like failure. “Me too.”

 

Notes:

Hi all! If you're seeing this note, I hope you're enjoying still. I haven't had as much time to draft up chapters, so I hope to keep updating at least once a week. I have the framework for the next five chapters, I just need to find the time and energy to write them. Kudos and comments are appreciated (the kind and excited ones give me motivation, as I'm sure you all relate to)!

Also, I'm curious as to YOUR personal headcanon cast for this fic. I was lucky enough to get to travel and see the show in September. My Curtis Brothers Trio (TM) at the performance was: Josh as Ponyboy, JPC as Sodapop, and Dan as Darry. I'm not entirely settled on who my headcanon cast for this fic would be, so I'm eager to hear yours :)

Chapter 12: Ain’t No Saints Here, Baby; We’re All Just Looking For a Little Less Crazy

Summary:

Sunday's fallout after prideful words hit and guilt hits harder. Love on all fronts shows up in the form of phone calls, candy, and receptive ears.

The rest of Sunday settled over the Curtis house like dust after a bad storm: quiet, but you could still taste the grit in the air. The morning’s shouting match had fizzled out hours ago, but the walls of the house held onto the echo. Darry moved through the rest of the day with a carefulness, as if afraid a single wrong step might set everything off again and send his kid brothers further out of his reach. 

 

Ponyboy kept his distance, holed up in his room with nothing but the soft hum of the radio playing through the door. Darry started up the typical Sunday busywork, but it all felt heavier, tainted by the regret of tempers run short and the feeling that he should’ve handled things better. Soda had tried his damndest to act normal while he took up his portion of the chores–to joke, to mediate–but he eventually hit his limit. By early afternoon, he’d snatched his jacket off the back of the couch and muttered something about needing air and going to meet up with Steve before slipping out the front door into the autumn breeze. The silence he left behind felt unnatural, settling over the house like a lasso pulling ever tighter around everyone’s chests.

 

Darry busied himself with chores that didn’t even need doing: half-folded dishes and re-folded laundry, doing anything that felt like fixing something. He was restless in the way he got when ‘sorry’ was too small a word for all he felt. He was never a wordsmith, that was Ponyboy’s realm, never as in tune with the right things to say like Soda. Every so often, he’d glance toward the hallway where the boys’ room was, but Pony never came out long enough for a real conversation, and Darry wasn’t bold enough to knock. Not yet.

 

By the time night pressed against the windows and the house was blanketed in darkness, things felt dimmer than usual. Soda had come home at some point during the evening, but nobody moved to put together a proper dinner at the table. Darry sat at the table, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly as he mulled over his mistake. He cut up ingredients to make two sandwiches, setting them out on the table for whenever his brothers swung into the kitchen. He still couldn’t knock. If anything, he’d wait until Soda came out and make him bring both meals to their room.

 

Darry stared at the phone for a long while before picking it up. 

 

Lynn answered on the second ring, her voice warm and steady, like she’d been waiting for him. The line clicking to life eased a bit of tension in his shoulders. He sighed into the phone.

 

“Hey,” she said softly, concern bleeding into her tone. “You sound tired.”

 

He hadn’t meant to let that part show, not yet. But something in her voice–gentle, not prying–unraveled him a little. “It’s been a bit of a day,” he managed.

 

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?” she asked. In the comforting way that reminded him too much of his late mother, the kind of way he wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of.

 

He swallowed hard. “I… I messed up,” he said simply, surprising himself with how plainly the truth fell out. “With Pony. With all of it, I guess…”

 

“I’m sure it ain’t as bad as you think”

 

“But what if it is?” He hated how open he was being, the reassurance he was seeking.

 

“Darry, just tell me.”

 

And as the inhibition left his body, Darry let himself do exactly that.

 

“Kid’s midterm grades came out, and I wasn’t too keen on his C in chemistry. He was avoidin’ it, and we both kept addin’ fuel to the fire. We’re both pretty stubborn when we get angry… but I’m the oldest, I know better, I shoulda held my tongue. Especially after… after everythin’ I did last time I couldn’t stop myself… I-I could see it in his face, the way he saw me when I started raisin’ my voice. S’like I’m watchin’ history repeat itself ‘cause I can’t stop sayin’ the wrong thing–doin’ the wrong thing. I know better… so why can’t I do better?”

 

Lynn listened quietly, focused and steady as Darry’s own voice softly shook. When she finally spoke, her tone was mixed with honesty and kindness.

 

“You’re doin’ the best you can. But that doesn’t mean you’re gonna be doin’ it right every time. That’s just how life goes, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to get shit wrong, sweetheart. He doesn’t need perfect, he just needs someone in his corner–to keep showin’ up and keep tryin’.”

 

Lynn’s words didn’t absolve him, not in the easy, thoughtless way people sometimes try to make things go away. They didn’t excuse him or soften the truth. But they landed somewhere gentler than his self punishment had been willing to go. And the endearment ‘sweetheart’, it stirred something in his chest, something that told him he was safe.

 

“Darry,” she added, quieter now, “you love that boy–those boys–so much it scares you. That kinda fear makes people say things they don’t mean and forget the things they do. I know you meant well, ‘m sure he does too. It doesn’t make you a bad brother. It makes you human.”

 

A breath looking to escape hitched faintly in his throat. He rubbed the heel of his palm into his forehead. “S’just… I feel like I’m failin’ them half the time. The moment I think I’m gettin’ it right, I go and prove myself wrong and screw it all up again.”

 

“Then why’re you the one callin’ me right now? Why’re you losin’ sleep over it?” she countered, a soft, knowing smile growing across her lips. “Bad men don’t worry about the people they hurt. But you–” She paused, voice softening impossibly more. “You are the kind that worries himself sick ‘cause you care so damn much. Trust me, Darry, it’s gonna be okay.”

 

He didn’t speak, taking in her words. She heard the shift in his breathing; the small unsteady exhale that signaled to her the truth had gotten through to him.

 

“Talk to him tomorrow,” she continued. “You don’t have to fix everythin’, but you’ll show him you’re there. That you ain’t mad, and there’s no reason for him to be either.”

 

Darry leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling with tired eyes like he could will some courage into himself. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah… you’re right, I should.”

 

“Good. And don’t you forget that you deserve some grace too every once and a while.”

 

His laugh was humorless. “Never been too good at givin’ myself that.”

 

“Well, lucky for you, now you’ve got someone who’s real stubborn about showin’ you that it ain’t a crime.”

 

That pulled a smile from him–faint but real. “Yeah. I guess I’m real lucky then.”

 

They lingered on the phone a while longer, neither pushing for anything more than the quiet comfort of their typical evening call and the presence that emanated across the line through sighs and breathing. When he finally hung up and walked back into the kitchen, it didn’t feel quite as cold or uninviting. The sandwiches on the table looked less like obligation and more like a peacemaking gesture that was full of care. He wrapped them in wax paper and placed them into the fridge; they would eat them whenever they were ready.

 

Down the hallway, his kid brothers’ door was slightly ajar. The glow of the hall light spilled onto their worn rug. Darry walked in slowly and cautiously, the weight of the whole day trailing behind him. He took care not to step on the floorboards he knew would creak underneath his weight and alert Pony and Soda that he was dropping in; it was something he’d been doing nearly every night since their parents had died.

 

Soda was sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm draped protectively across Ponyboy’s shoulder, the other hanging limply over his head. Ponyboy was curled in on himself, a tight expression on his face, like the fear of disappointment had followed him into his already-tumultuous dreams. Darry’s eyes grazed over to the desk next to their bed, seeing green-colored ink corrections in Pony’s handwriting scrawled across a lab report. Angry scribbles where he’d crossed out an incorrect response and rewritten it more than once danced across the paper, and something settled in his chest. 

 

Darry stood there for a long moment, taking in the scene, listening to the assuring rhythm of Pony’s sleep-addled mumbling and of Soda’s snores. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he crossed the room and brushed a hand through Soda’s hair, then Pony’s. He took a calloused thumb and smoothed out his baby brother’s tense frown lines, hoping to ease his worries in a way he knew his words wouldn’t. Then, just like he’d done through every lonely night since that fateful evening on his birthday, when their parents passed, he bent down and pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads–a silent, devoted vow in the dark, with only the moon and the stars as his witness.

 

---

 

Monday crept in without fanfare, carried in by the chilling wind that rattled the browning leaves in the yard. The Curtis house woke slowly, each brother moving in that unsure manner that always settled in after a fight.

 

Ponyboy slipped past Darry in the kitchen with a quiet, “Mornin’” under his breath, eyes fixed on the floor. Soda waltzed in soon after, hair slicked over and doing his best to keep things light, but it was clear he didn’t have the heart to push the positivity like he usually did. 

 

Darry didn’t press either, voice gentler and calculated as he asked his typical questions about when Soda was off of work, if Pony had track practice and how he was getting home afterwards. He grabbed the sandwiches from the fridge and passed them to his brothers with a simple, “Lunch. Take ‘em.”

 

The boiling point from Sunday had cooled to a simmer: present, but contained. Nobody eager to risk lifting the lid and letting things bubble over again. So they ate their toast and eggs in cowardly quiet, all eager to go about their days. 

 

Tuesday came and went in much of the same manner as Monday. Afternoon rolled by in the natural rhythm of school into track, but the weight of the ‘C’ sat squarely on Ponyboy’s shoulders. He carried it around like a bruise nobody else but his teacher and brothers could see–a bruise he kept pressing on, checking if it still hurt. It did. Every time he thought about telling Darry he’d fix it, that he felt real lousy that he wasn’t doing better, he heard the echo of that fight and the heat of his own stubborn pride flaring up again.

 

So instead of hopping the bus to go home after practice, he showered off the sweat from all the laps he’d run and headed to the library. He told himself he was going to catch up on it all: redo some practice problems from the ACT book he’d messed up, finish reading ahead in the chem textbook, put his feet forward in front of whatever Darry might ask him about. Fix it fast, and quiet.

 

The hand not busied by a pencil habitually reached into his sweatshirt pocket, fishing for a cigarette. He didn’t smoke as much as he did last year, the reminder of one careless light-up still haunting him, but the old familiar feeling of taking a drag managed to bring him a quiet comfort; just a little something to take the edge off, to remind him of his friends, to feel tuff and in control.

 

And besides, one puff every now and then wasn’t the end of the world. He slipped into the back grouping of desks he usually set up shop at and lit up. He only managed to get two drags in before a sharp scolding cut through the silence like a knife.

 

“Ponyboy Curtis, you better not be doin’ what I think you’re doin’!”

 

Pony nearly swallowed his cigarette whole. He jerked around to see Lynn standing at the end of the aisle, stack of books tucked under her arm, and disappointment written all over her face. Great. Two people he’d made angry in the same damn week.

 

“Jesus Christmas, Lynn! What’re you–”

 

“What am I doin’? I’m workin, kid.” She sighed under her breath, storming quietly toward him. “What are you doin’? Thought you knew better than to be smokin’, least of all in a library of all places. You’re a runner, yeah? You want to screw up your lungs before you’re even an adult? Those things are called cancer sticks for a reason.”

 

Pony winced, embarrassed, but defensive as ever. “I know it ain’t great, but it’s what helps me calm down. God… you sound like Darry.”

 

“This ain’t about soundin’ like Darry. This is about me knowin’ that cigarettes did nothin’ but make my dad sicker and sicker. I let him use those damn things for too long. Said it was just ‘helpin’ him unwind’ after work. Now he can’t even get outta the house on his own.” Her contempt was palpable as she set down her stack of books like a gavel. “Put it out. Now.”

 

“You know, I don’t need another person ridin’ me for every little thing,” he muttered as he crushed it against the desk.

 

She crossed her arms firmly, a solemn expression on her face. She spoke softer, “I only say it ‘cause I like you alive. Your brothers do too. Nobody’s gettin’ on your case ‘cause they want to, kid. It’s cause they care.”

 

“Just ‘cause you’re goin’ out with my big brother doesn’t mean you gotta take his side… ” 

 

“Ponyboy, this isn’t about sides, it’s about givin’ a shit.”

 

That took some of the wind out of his sails. He turned back to his schoolwork, avoiding her gaze.

 

“I don’t know what Darry told you ‘bout Sunday, but I don’t need another person hoverin’.”

 

“That’s a real shame, Pony, ‘cause I enjoy hoverin’ around folks I care about. You don’t seem too upset by my hoverin’ when you need help with your geometry.” She took the empty seat next to him.

 

“That’s different.”

 

“No it ain’t.”

 

Lynn reached over across the desk, plucked the half-smoked cigarette from his fingers and dropped it into the trash can next to the shelves. Pony left out a huff, but before he could dig in his bag for another, she was digging into the pocket of her sweater.

 

“Here,” she muttered, placing a few somethings–small and paper-wrapped–onto his notebook.

 

Ponyboy stared at it. “... Candy?”

 

“It’s peppermint,” she said simply. “My dad’s used them while he’s been tryin’ to quit.”

 

He blinked. “I ain’t tryin’ to quit.”

 

“I know,” she sighed with a shrug. “But if you’re lookin’ for somethin’ to do with your nerves, these work and are a hell of a lot better than breathin’ in poison gas.”

 

He looked back at the wrappers like they were an insult. “Lynn…” he whined, “I ain’t a little kid.”

 

“That so?” She raised an eyebrow, nudging one of the candies closer. “You’d rather me kick you outta the library for smokin’ ‘cause you’re too grown to suck on a peppermint?”

 

His face scrunched up, petulant. “No…”

 

“Then take the damn candy, Ponyboy.”

 

He reached out begrudgingly and unwrapped it with more reluctance than if she’d handed him a live grenade. But once he put it in his mouth, he didn’t spit it out. The coolness hit his tongue and soothed in a way he didn’t expect; it was like breathing real fresh air again. Lynn smirked knowingly.

 

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Yeah, yeah.”

 

For a few moments, neither spoke. Pony shuffled the rest of the peppermints into his backpack when Lynn broke the silence.

 

“So… you gonna tell me what’s really eatin’ at you? I know it ain’t the cigarette anymore.”

 

Pony stiffened. “Darry already chewed me out. I don’t need you–”

 

“I ain’t tryin’ to be difficult, I’m just tryin’ to understand,” she cut in gently. “And, maybe, to give you an ear that’ll listen that isn’t someone who lives with you.”

 

He exhaled hard, the minty feeling catching on his teeth. “It’s stupid–the fight–it’s just stupid.”

 

“Most fights are, but that doesn’t mean you ain’t feelin’ some way about it.”

 

“Lynn, I don’t wanna talk about him right now. I feel shitty enough. I know you’re tryin’ to help, but I just wanna do my school stuff.”

 

“That’s fine, kid. But I’m gonna say this anyway: I don’t think you’re all that mad at Darry anymore.”

 

“‘Course I am,” he retorted instantly. “I–” He stopped and thought. “Maybe… No, you’re right.”

 

She didn’t gloat. She just waited. The rest would come in due time.

 

“I’m mad he yelled, but I stirred the pot. I said some shit I didn’t mean. But I’m also pissed at myself. I–I’m s’posed to be smart. Soda says I’m the ‘Curtis family’s last hope’ and all that nonsense, but I know he’s just tryin’ to cheer me up. I also know I can’t go and waste what they’re doin’ for me.” He sighed, flicking the peppermint to the other side of his mouth. “Darry works himself half to death at a job he hates. Soda had to give up on school just to keep us goin’. And I’m sittin’ here gettin’ a C in chemistry like some dumb–”

 

“Hey.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Cut it out. Nothin’ll get better by bein’ down on yourself.”

 

The rest of the candy melted away on his tongue as he blinked hard at the notebooks and worksheets sprawled out in front of him.

 

“You ain’t wastin’ anything. You’re not dumb either. The dumbest thing you could do is give up, or not ask for help when you need it.”

 

Pony’s eyes flicked up to hers. And for the first time since they’d met, Lynn saw the youth behind it all. The fear of letting the people he loves most swirling in his head.

 

“You’re not alone.” She said gently as she squeezed his shoulder. “You got your teachers, your brothers, and if you want… you got me too.”

 

Another pregnant silence filled the space.

 

“... Thanks,” he said with quiet earnest.

 

“Anytime,” she replied. “Just remember: we all screw up. You. Me. Your brothers. What matters is what we do after. And from what I know about you, and the looks of all of this–” she gestured to the haphazard pile of schoolwork, “– you’re already doin’ somethin’ good about it.” She stood and started to gather her abandoned stack from the edge of the table.

 

Pony shifted in his seat, fingers running down the crooked spiral of his notebook. Finally, he cleared his throat.

 

“There’s my Fall Invitational tomorrow,” he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant in the way an awkward fifteen-year-old always does. Lynn gave him a warm smile. “I mean, it’s nothin’ big, s’just coaches makin’ decisions: varsity, JV, relay teams, all that stuff.” He shrugged like none of it mattered, but the tone of his voice betrayed how focused and anxious he was.

 

“I know.”

 

He blinked. “What? You remember that?”

 

“Kid, you told me last week. I’m no elephant, but I’m pretty good at keepin’ track of dates that are important. My fridge calendar helps. You were all excited about it too, It’s a hard thing to forget. I also remember you tellin’ me to bring a blanket and some pocket change for cocoa.”

 

Pony’s ears flushed pink, he didn’t know what to say, so he settled for the truth. 

 

“Are you gonna come?”

 

“I wouldn’t miss it. I’m off an hour before so I won’t be missin’ any event, no matter where they slot you.”

 

“You don’t gotta…”

 

“I want to. You deserve extra cheerleaders in the stands. And besides,” she smiled again. “It’s a big honor to be on the track star’s invitation list. I’ll be there, Pony.”

 

Something in his stomach loosened just a little. A chuckle building in his chest the same way that one of Soda’s lame jokes would land. He felt lighter, steadier. He’d handed her his fragile trust and she’d held on without dropping it.

 

Lynn watched him for a moment, then stepped closer. She didn’t reach suddenly or make a big deal of it, she just slipped an arm around his shoulders–warm and solid–and tugged him into a soft sideways hug. It wasn’t motherly, or babying him. It was simply care: honest, gentle, and assured.

 

“You’re doing good with this,” she said, nodding her head towards the schoolwork laid out in front of him. “And you’re gonna do good tomorrow. You’ve worked hard, and we’ll be cheerin’ you on each step of the way.”

 

Pony froze, breath caught tight, but only for a second. Then, he let himself lean the tiniest, almost imperceptible, amount into her embrace. Not much. Not dramatic. But real all the same.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered. For the first time since Sunday morning, he didn’t feel like he was carrying the whole world on his own.

 

She gave one final squeeze before pulling back and collecting her stack to continue shelving. “Anytime, Pony. Just make me one promise, okay?”

 

“What?”

 

“Tell me when you run outta the peppermints and I’ll buy you some more.”

 

---

 

The phone rang before Darry could talk himself into or out of anything. He grabbed it fast, hoping he didn’t sound too eager. “Hello?”

 

“Hi.” Lynn’s voice came through warm and familiar, like she’d walked straight into the kitchen instead of calling from miles away. “Wanted to check in.”

 

His shoulders relaxed without permission. “Yeah? ’Bout what?”

 

“You,” she said simply. That startled something in him—soft, stunned. “Pony’s doin’ alright,” she offered gently.

 

“Did he—? I mean… did you talk to him?”

 

“A little,” she said carefully. “Not ‘bout the fight. Just… school stuff. He’s workin’. That’s what matters. He cares about gettin’ things right. He’s tryin’, Darry. Really tryin’.”

 

She smiled—he could hear it. “Then go an' talk to him. Don’t let that boy wonder if you’re proud.”

 

“I am proud,” Darry said, the words tumbling out with more force than he expected. “Always been. I just— I don’t say it right most of the time.”

 

“You’ll get your chance tomorrow to make it up to him. Doesn’t have to be big. Just show him that you care. Bein’ there is all he needs from you, Darry.”

 

Darry closed his eyes, letting the weight of her words settle. “I needed to hear that.”

 

“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s why I called.”

 

Something in him cracked—relief, gratitude, guilt, hope—all bound up in a single breath.

 

“Thank you,” he breathed.

 

“Get some sleep,” she said gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow at Will Rodger’s. If you wanna ‘thank me’, bring me a nickel for some hot chocolate.”

 

That earned a soft laugh. “Deal. Goodnight, Lynn.” He paused before the rest fell out, the same way he paused to breathe it in every time he thought about it, “I love you.”

 

“I love you too, Darrel. Goodnight.”

 

The line clicked, and despite the cool autumn air seeping though the windows, the kitchen felt a little warmer. Darry looked again at the circle on the calendar. 

 

“I’ll be there,” he promised. And he meant it.

Notes:

Just 'cause he means it doesn't mean it's gonna happen (wink wink).

Finals are officially complete, so after a month of having no bandwidth to be creative, I am beyond ready to dive back into this world and this story. This is such a good outlet, so I'm glad I have some time for it now.

I have also officially purchased my tickets for the tour production; February cannot come soon enough! I WILL be dragging my boyfriend to see the show on our three year anniversary. Best way to celebrate in my humble opinion.

As always, kudos and comments appreciated. I'm interested to hear any kind or introspective thoughts!