Introduction to Chapter Six

 Hey there—Kendra Cassidy here. You know, there’s something about the inside of a car that turns it into a confessional booth. Maybe it’s the road slipping past the windows. Maybe it’s the way the silence gets heavy between gears. Or maybe it’s just the fact that you’re side by side with someone, facing the same direction, with nowhere to run.

This chapter? It’s not just about a drive.

It’s about trust—the kind that wavers, the kind that breaks, and the kind that maybe begins to heal. It’s about holding your breath as you cross that invisible threshold from fear into vulnerability. And it’s about what happens when someone doesn’t flinch at your silence, your anxiety, your trauma—but instead, keeps the engine running and says, “Take your time.”

The Promise Keeper doesn’t romanticize the hard parts. And that’s what makes it real.

Buckle up. You’re not just a passenger in this chapter—

 You’re part of the journey.

The Promise Keeper

Chapter Six: Our First Drive

The jangle of his keys was all it took.

I'd leap off the couch and rush to the door like an excited dog, tail practically wagging for the ride to come.

“Wanna go for a drive?” TJ would ask, grinning.

I’d nod, and we’d head out to the driveway, where his under-driven pickup sat waiting—half truck, half therapy session on wheels.

I wasn’t always so eager.

Our first drive was different.

It wasn’t just a casual outing. It was a test—of vulnerability, of fear, of trust. For TJ. And for me.

And it would be the first of many.

“I don’t mean to sound weird or anything,” TJ said one night, a little shy. “But… would you want to go for a drive with me sometime? You can see what my Agoraphobia’s like.”

I froze.

Not because I didn’t want to. I did. I’d wanted to go for a drive with him long before he asked. I wanted to understand what he lived with, to see it, not just hear about it.

“I w-would,” I replied.

But the second the words left my mouth, anxiety flooded in.

We were never truly alone in the house—someone was always home, somewhere. But in his truck? It would just be us.

What if this was all just a pretense?

What if he touched me?

What if he tried to take advantage of me?

I shivered.

No.

No. I couldn’t let those thoughts destroy the trust we had built. He had never given me a reason to doubt him.

Had he?

I thought I trusted him. I had the evidence. The kindness. The patience. The laughter.

So why was I spiraling?

Later that night, lying on the couch after hugging him goodnight, I stared at the ceiling, frustrated with myself.

Desperate, I texted Alisha.

“I’ve known TJ since I was thirteen,” she replied. “I really don’t think he’d have any ill intentions taking you on a drive.”

I wanted to believe her.

I needed to.

But something inside me still hesitated.

And then I found it. The root.

I hadn’t paid much attention to the movies we watched that week. I smiled and laughed in all the right places, but in truth, I was busy digging. Digging through memory. Through trauma.

And there it was: my sexual abuse.

Statistically, over 90% of children who are sexually abused know their abuser. It’s someone in a position of trust. Someone the child looks up to. Someone who should keep them safe.

That had been my story, too.

So how could I possibly trust my own judgment now?

The revelation struck like lightning—my distrust wasn’t aimed at TJ.

It was aimed at me.

At my ability to protect myself.

And that… wasn’t my fault.

The day of our first drive was overcast, the sky a dull sheet of gray. It was the perfect day for TJ. The clouds were like a shield between him and the sky he feared.

Still, the moment we got into the truck, he flipped the visor down—just in case.

“Who’s th-that?” I asked, pointing to a picture clipped to the visor.

“Oh,” he said, smiling softly. “That’s my dad.”

His eyes lingered on the photo. I saw the memories flash through them.

“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” he asked, pulling a pack from the glovebox.

I shook my head.

He murmured a quiet “Thanks,” rolled down the windows, and lit up.

“It helps with the anxiety,” he said.

He exhaled a long plume of smoke, then turned to me, his expression gentle.

“You ready?”

I nodded.

“Yep.”

But as soon as we clicked our seatbelts, my body lit up with pins and needles.

He’s not going to hurt you.

I froze slightly when his hand moved to the clutch.

He’s safe.

The truck rolled forward.

You’re safe.

We pulled slowly down the block.

No one will ever hurt you like that again.

I looked out the window. The houses, the sidewalk, the muted colors all bled into one another in the pale light. My eyesight struggled to separate the details. Everything looked faded.

We neared the end of the block.

TJ let out a low sound of frustration.

“Right here is where it starts to get rough.”

I turned to him. His hands were tight on the wheel.

We reached the stop sign. He looked both ways, then hesitated.

I watched his chest rise, slow and deliberate—a breath he had to force.

And in that moment, every lingering fear I had about him vanished.

How could I have doubted him? I should’ve–

No. Don’t should on yourself.

TJ groaned as he turned the corner.

It wasn’t pain I heard in that sound—it was effort. Sheer mental effort.

Empathy surged inside me, almost painfully strong.

I wanted to say something. I wanted to reach out. But I didn’t.

Touching him without permission would cross a boundary. Speaking would mean stuttering, adding my anxiety to his.

What if that made it worse?

Later, I’d learn that talking actually helped him—that conversation distracted him from the panic.

But right then, I didn’t know. So I stayed still. I observed.

TJ picked up a little speed.

He drove with one hand on the gearshift, the other on the wheel. A cigarette between his lips. He flicked ash out the window, took another drag, coughed lightly.

“God, I wish I could go on longer drives.”

His voice cracked just a little.

And it made me want to cry.

I heard the grief in it. The quiet ache of someone longing to be free.

All I wanted was to talk like everyone else.

All TJ wanted was to drive like everyone else.

Yet another thing we shared.

“I wish I could work on these yards, too,” he said, nodding toward the rows of unkempt lawns.

TJ took pride in the work he did around my brother’s house—mowing, weeding, repairing. I’d watched him from the swing set or trampoline, always moving, always fixing.

But these houses were too far.

His Agoraphobia wouldn’t let him go that far.

He’d explain it to me later—how walking made things worse, how driving gave him the illusion of control, how even four houses down could trigger panic.

I saw it firsthand when we got stuck behind another car.

At first, he was patient. But soon, his fingers drummed against the wheel. His shoulders tightened. He reached for another cigarette—then stopped. His hand returned to the wheel.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered.

The driver ahead of us, completely unaware of the growing storm in the cab behind them, sat frozen at the corner.

TJ’s eyes flicked between mirrors, windows—searching for an escape.

My anxiety spiked.

What if the truck broke down?

What if we got pulled over?

What if we crashed?

I didn’t even hesitate to answer those questions in my mind.

I’d get him home.

TJ would be the priority. Not me.

“Dammit.”

He shifted into reverse.

We backed up, slow and awkward on the narrow street. TJ groaned as he turned the wheel sharply, flipping the truck around.

The engine revved, loud and jarring. The truck shuddered beneath us.

I flinched.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly.

He slowed the truck, his breath steadying.

“Sometimes, my driving gets more erratic when I feel the panic coming on,” he said. “But don’t worry. That’s as bad as I’ll ever let it get with you here. I’ll never put you in danger.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest.

He meant it.

He was protecting me.

He cared.

As he drove us home, TJ began to talk about his dad.

How strong he was. How reliable. How he never cracked under pressure. He called him a superhero disguised as a father.

It was easy to see the resemblance. TJ had inherited so much from him—his work ethic, his kindness, his quiet strength.

But TJ didn’t see it.

“It took me years to accept that I’ll never be as strong as my parents,” he said, pulling into the driveway. “Not with this panic disorder. It separates me from who I thought I was supposed to be. It makes me feel… fragile. Less than. I try so hard to be strong like them, but I know I never will be.”

He turned off the engine, sighed, and lit another cigarette.

And I realized something.

I hadn’t just seen his Agoraphobia on that drive.

I had seen his vulnerability.

He had let me see the part of himself he hated most. The part he tried to hide.

And that meant he felt safe—with me.

Beside me, TJ melted into his seat, slowly relaxing.

“This is what I do after a drive,” he said. “Just sit. Let my body calm down.”

He glanced at me. “You can do this too, you know. When you stutter. Don’t force it. Just stop. Breathe. Try again when you’re ready.”

He took a drag.

“And if you really can’t get the word out… type it. There’s no shame in that. You’ve got to give yourself grace, remember?”

I nodded.

We sat there in the quiet hum of the truck for a while.

Eventually, he asked, “You wanna go again?”

I looked at him, finally relaxed.

“No,” I said gently. “Not today.”

That was enough anxiety for one day.