Swing for the Fences

Tommy and I stepped out onto the porch, the morning air already warming with that sticky humidity that promised thunderstorms by dinner. Mr. Bojangles let out one lazy bark from inside before collapsing back into his bed like, You guys handle it – I’m retired.

 

“I really don’t know what got into him,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “That was… the complete opposite of who Jack is.”

 

Tommy tipped the last of his pop can back, crushed it casually in one hand, and shrugged. “Don’t sweat it, bro. He’s probably just feeling a little jealous. Possessive. It’s not the end of the world.”

 

“But it feels like it is.” My voice cracked more than I wanted. “Jack’s always had… issues. And we’ve been working through them. He’d mostly been doing really well since the beginning of the semester, when he had a couple of episodes. Our dorm parent told me that Jack had a long history of breakdowns and stuff. Last night was just a major step backward. He’s not an asshole – he treats me and his friends really well. He just… he’s got a lot of shit from his past that keeps him from moving forward sometimes.”

 

Tommy nodded, leaning against the porch railing like he owned it. “Be patient with him. He’ll figure it out. He’s not dumb – he knows you’re worth more than blowing up over some dumb jealousy trip. And, honestly, I think maybe you’re mom pushed him too fast when he really just needed some time to adjust before forcing me on him. I kept trying to find ways to leave, because I could tell he wasn’t happy with me there, but your mom just kept insisting, and I didn’t know what to do.”

 

I gave him a side-eye. “Damn, Tommy, you’ve got that quiet, low-key wisdom thing going on.”

 

He grinned. “I read when I’m bored, which is a lot. Psychology, Eastern Religions – especially Buddhism and Buddhist Psychology – you’d be surprised.”

 

Tommy? The guy everyone thought was a total stoner in middle school? People surprise you every day.

 

I laughed, but then my shoulders sagged. “I just don’t know. Last night scared me. He flipped this switch, and it was like… I didn’t even know him.”

 

For a minute, Tommy didn’t say anything. He shifted his backpack, staring at the driveway. Then he looked at me again. “Can I be real with you for a sec?”

 

“Go for it, bro.”

 

“I always wanted to be friends with you,” he said, voice low but steady. “Like, in middle school? You were the only dude I thought was actually cool – even though you barely talked. You were… distant. I figured it probably had a lot to do with your dad, and I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t want to push you. You’d chat in class or at lunch, and that was it. No hanging out after school. No sleepovers. We lived, what, three blocks apart? It kinda sucked. I figured you didn’t really like me and were just being polite.

 

“I still kept trying, though, ’cause you were stupid smart and didn’t care what anyone thought. You just did your own thing, kinda like me in a way – like you were headed somewhere and nothing was gonna knock you off it. And I guess that ‘somewhere’ was boarding school.”

 

“I may have been ‘book smart,’ but I was totally socially retarded. I don’t think I trusted anyone back then because of the way people bullied me all the time. I guess I figured you would eventually do the same.”

 

“I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I really did just wanna be friends,” he said softly.

 

The words stung in the way truth usually does. I swallowed hard. “It wasn’t you, Tommy. I swear. I’ve just… always been a loner. I didn’t know how to let people in, and honestly? I couldn’t believe anyone would want to. It felt safer to keep my head down than risk finding out I was right. And then, when my dad died so suddenly a few years ago… I kind of shut down completely. I buried myself away from everyone. That loss… it broke me in ways I didn’t even have words for back then. Friendships didn’t feel important when I was just trying to breathe and make it through the day.”

 

Tommy’s whole face softened. His voice was low, almost guilty. “Nick, I’m so sorry. I knew your dad passed, but I didn’t know what it did to you. I should’ve come to you. I should’ve been there. We’d known each other since sixth grade – you didn’t have to go through that alone.”

 

I blinked hard, trying not to get teary. “I didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t know how to let anybody in. I figured it was my burden to carry alone. And I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

 

He nodded slowly, then added, “And just so you know, the whole gay thing? It doesn’t bother me one bit. Not at all. I’d never get weird about changing in front of you, or act like you were gonna make a move on me or something. I know you, Nick. Being gay’s just one part of you, not the whole deal. Please tell Jack I’m not interested in you that way. I just want to be your friend again. No ulterior motive, no conditions, no strings attached.”

 

He let out a breath, then gave me a small, real smile. “Truth is, I don’t have a lot of friends either. Would be nice to keep one.” Then he straightened up a little, looked me right in the eye, and held out his hand – not joking, not half-hearted. “And honestly? I’d really like us to be something like best friends – before this summer’s over … but only if Jack’s cool with it. I don’t wanna cause any more drama.”

 

My throat did that stupid knot thing it always does when I’m trying not to get emotional in front of people. “That… means a lot, Tommy. Really.”

 

“Sweet,” he said. “We can text and video call when you’re in school and hang out whenever you’re home for the weekend or on vacation. I think we can make it work if we both try harder this time.”

 

“I’m totally up for that, so let’s do it,” I agreed.

 

We shook hands, awkward at first, then Tommy pulled me into a tight, back-slapping hug that caught me off guard. I held on longer than I probably should have. Not because I wanted anything from him – thank God there weren’t any sparks that way – but because it felt good. Really good. Steady. Safe. Comfortable. I could even smell his Calvin Klein cologne.

 

When we finally let go, Tommy gave me a lopsided grin, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed down the driveway. “Later, Nicky.”

 

“Later, Tommy.”

 

I watched him head down the driveway, the air heavy with humidity – and with something else I couldn’t quite pin down. And, okay, yeah… my eyes drifted to his ass. What can I say? I was a hormonal teenage boy, Tommy was cute, and that ass was doing criminally good things in those shorts. Besides, didn’t all gay boys have a wandering eye? It’s not like I was planning to make a move – window-shopping didn’t mean I was buying.

 

Still, that wasn’t the part that mattered. What mattered was that, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel entirely on my own. The fact that someone like Tommy had waited all this time – still wanting to be my friend even after I’d kept him at arm’s length – meant something. More than I could put into words. It was proof that maybe I was worth sticking around for.

 

***

 

When I got back inside, the house was quiet except for the muffled groans of The Walking Dead drifting up from the basement. I followed the sound down and found Jack curled on the pullout, spooning Mr. Bojangles like nothing in the world was wrong, using that ridiculous high voice he reserved for the dog – syrupy and soft, the kind that always made Mr. Bojangles’ eyes roll back in bliss.

 

For a second, I just stood there, stunned. Ten minutes ago, I’d been ready to rip my heart out, and now… he looked normal.

 

“What the hell, Jack?” I blurted.

 

He didn’t even glance up. Just kept whispering to Mr. Bojangles, like I was background noise.

 

“I thought we talked about the Tommy thing,” I said, stepping closer. “We said we’d be open, not shut each other out. You really hurt his feelings.”

 

His voice was flat, almost to himself. “Maybe there’s nothing worth talking about.”

 

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Cool. Great communication.”

 

“Maybe we’re not as solid as you think,” he said quietly.

 

That one hit like a punch to the throat.

 

“Jack… what does that even mean?” My voice cracked.

 

He still didn’t look at me. He just kept petting Mr. Bojangles, slower now, like the rhythm was the only thing keeping him steady.

 

“This isn’t you,” I said, heat rising in my chest. “Not the you I know. Please – just talk to me. You promised.”

 

He finally turned his head, just enough for me to see half his face. His eyes were hollow, his mouth drawn tight. “Maybe this is me. Maybe you only ever saw what you wanted. Maybe I’m just a jerk. You saw what my parents said.”

 

I staggered a step back. It was like someone else was speaking through him – someone who hated himself and wanted me to hate him too.

 

“Do you even love me?” I whispered. “Or was this just something to do? Because I love you, Jack. You. Just tell me you don’t, and I’ll walk away.”

 

“At least you’d have Tommy all to yourself,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “Mr. Popularity.”

 

His gaze finally met mine – red-rimmed, glassy – and then slid away again, like it hurt to hold.

 

“I should just end it,” I said before I could stop myself, testing him, desperate for any reaction. “Maybe it’d be easier for everyone. Apparently, you wouldn’t care very much.”

 

His head whipped toward me. “Don’t you dare say that, Nicholas.” Only the second time he’d ever called me that. It should’ve calmed me. It didn’t.

 

“Then stop acting like this,” I said, voice breaking. “You’re shutting me out, hurting me.”

 

“I’m not trying to,” he murmured. “Maybe I’m giving you an out – before you see who I really am.”

 

“I don’t want an out,” I said louder now. “I want us. Everything was fine before. What happened?”

 

Was this just jealousy? Or something more profound – something that came from way before Tommy? I couldn’t tell where Jack ended and whatever was wrong with him began.

 

“Do you want to end it?” I asked. “Because I’m not the one doing it. If you want out, say the words.”

 

He shrugged, too casual. “Maybe I’ll just use Nana’s money and move to Seattle. Like she said, there are good schools out there, too.”

 

“Okay,” I said through my teeth. “If it’s over, say it. I’ll help you pack.”

 

He said nothing.

 

I turned and walked away. I missed my friends so badly it hurt, but they were all off living summer lives. I felt small, twelve again, trying to be the “strong one” when I had no idea how to do that.

 

At the stairs, I whistled for Mr. Bojangles. He bounded after me, tail wagging. I took him upstairs with me – I didn’t want Jack to have even that small comfort, and I needed something warm that wouldn’t argue.

 

Upstairs, I collapsed into my old bed fully dressed and yanked the covers over my head. I tried to be stone. I wasn’t. The sobs came anyway, stupid and muffled, until exhaustion finally dragged me under.

 

“Baby,” Mom whispered later, touching my shoulder. “It’s dinner time.”

 

I sat up groggy. My throat burned. Mr. Bojangles was still curled beside me, awake now, tail thumping softly.

 

“You’ve been crying,” she said. “What happened?”

 

“I don’t know,” I croaked. “Something’s wrong with Jack. Really wrong.”

 

I told her everything – the fight, the blank stare, the way he went mean and then went empty, like someone had unplugged him from himself. “I thought maybe it was Tommy, but this isn’t jealousy. It feels older. Like he fell through some trapdoor, and I can’t see the bottom.”

 

Mom frowned. “That’s strange. I just talked to him. He seemed perfectly fine. Didn’t mention Seattle. Said he had a nice time with you and Tommy.”

 

My stomach twisted. “Nothing else?”

 

“Nothing. He laughed at my terrible joke about the peas.”

 

I exhaled hard. “I feel crazy. He was doing better, and now it’s like someone swapped him out.”

 

She rubbed my back. “Something must have triggered him. I should’ve given him more time to settle in before setting up the thing with Tommy. I just wanted him to be around friends – like you have at school – but it may have been too much, too soon. I’ll keep a close eye on him, and I’ll call his psychiatrist first thing to get him in, although sometimes it can take a little while – maybe he needs a med adjustment. Tonight, let’s keep it calm. If anything feels off, wake me. And remember: this sounds like the illness talking. The real Jack loves you. He isn’t trying to hurt you.”

 

“He’s jealous of Tommy,” I said.

 

“That could’ve been a trigger, but I think it’s probably way more than that. Between what happened with his parents, that awful letter they sent him, school pressure, a totally new environment now, and even … relationship pressures. It’s a lot for him to handle at once. We’ll try to get him to the psychiatrist before it gets any worse, and get him feeling better so he can enjoy the rest of his summer. I’d rather keep him out of the hospital if we can. I think that really freaked him out, too. I think it made him feel like a prisoner more than a patient that we were trying to help.”

 

“Thanks, Mom,” I said.

 

Dinner was creepily normal. Jack demolished three helpings of meatloaf, teased Mom about the seasoning, and helped clear plates. To me, he said only, “Nicholas, could you pass the gravy, please?” – polite, distant, like we were lab partners. And he kept calling me “Nicholas.” What the fuck was up with that?

 

Later, we brushed our teeth, showered, and climbed into the pullout. He tucked his head on my shoulder. “Movie night?”

 

“Sure,” I said carefully, even though the word felt like a lie. With his weight settled against me, a tiny part of me loosened. The rest of me stayed braced, like I was holding a door shut against the wind. He went from hinting about breaking up this afternoon to wanting to cuddle and watch movies tonight. Something was not right. Something smelled fishy in Denmark.

 

“Jack?” I whispered after a while. “Do you still love me?”

 

He looked up, appearing genuinely confused. “Of course I do, Nicky. Why would you even ask that?”

 

“You don’t want to break up?”

 

“Nicky,” he said softly. “Never.”

 

“Okay,” I muttered. “Let’s just go to sleep.”

 

I tried to stay awake, to keep watch. The sedative I’d taken pulled me under like a riptide.

His breathing steadied. I drifted.

 

A noise cracked the dark. I jerked upright. The bed was empty. 12:35 A.M.

 

Then barking – frantic, high-pitched. Shouting. Adrenaline flooded. I grabbed the biggest hammer from the utility shelf and sprinted upstairs. If it were a burglar, they'd end up with a big dent in their skull.

 

At the top step, I froze.

 

Jack stood barefoot in the kitchen, boxer-briefs and goosebumps, the back door gaping. Night air poured in, damp and metallic. He was yelling into the yard like daring the dark to answer. A glass lay shattered on the counter; moonlight winked off the shards. His hands shook so hard his fingers kept trying to close, then forgetting how.

 

Mr. Bojangles pinged around him – barking, whining, shoving at Jack’s legs like he could herd a person from the open door.

 

How had Mom not heard this? Wake her or handle it? Maybe he was just sleepwalking.

 

Jack’s pupils were blown, glassy, not-here. That gray, raw post-nightmare face. Breathing like the air was too thin. Every click – the fridge, the AC – made him flinch and scan the room like it had teeth.

 

For a heartbeat, I wasn’t sure he knew me. Worse, I wasn’t sure he knew him.

 

“Jack,” I said quietly, dropping the hammer so he saw it leave my hand. It thunked on the mat. “It’s me. Nick.”

 

He didn’t turn. His gaze swept the yard, hard and searching. A muscle jumped in his cheek.

 

Don’t rush him. Don’t spook him. I kept my voice low, like to a skittish horse. “I’m right here. You’re safe. It’s our kitchen.”

 

His shoulders twitched at “safe,” like the word hurt.

 

“Door first,” I told myself, palms up. “We’re just going to close it, okay? It’s cold.” I edged sideways, keeping my body between him and the glass. Mr. Bojangles did dog math – me, Jack, door – then pressed his shoulder to Jack again.

 

My fingers found the edge. The night smelled like wet grass and electricity. I clicked the latch. Jack flinched so hard he stumbled into the counter, hip bumping glitter. I stopped myself – touch might help, or blow him up.

 

“Easy,” I whispered. “There’s broken glass. Watch your feet.”

 

He finally spoke, thready. “They know.”

 

Ice slid down my spine. That was beyond creepy. Who knew? What? Had he been communicating with aliens or something?

 

I hesitated. “Who?” I asked.

 

He blinked like the word hurt. “Doesn’t matter.” His eyes kept tracking phantoms. Ground him, my brain said. Here, now, simple.

 

“Count with me,” I tried. “One light over the sink. Two oven mitts. Three magnets. Hear the fridge hum? Smell the meatloaf? Mom over-seasoned it.” I forced a laugh. “It’s just our kitchen.”

 

His breathing hitched – not better, but different, like the words gave him something to hold.

 

“Let’s go downstairs,” I said. “Warmer. Softer. And Mr. Bojangles is losing his mind.”

 

At his name, the dog yipped and nudged Jack’s thigh, then backed up, then nudged again – shepherding. Jack let himself be moved. Not trust – gravity.

 

We took it inch by inch. Past the counter. Around the glass. Down the first step. His hand hovered over the rail, shaking, then clamped on like it was the only solid thing. I walked backward, watching eyes, feet, and the dog. “One step. Two. Feel the carpet? Scratchy. That weird basement cold. We always say we’ll buy a rug and forget.”

 

He blinked slowly, like each blink took a decision.

 

On the pullout, he sat, then sagged, then curled – muscles unwinding in jumpy little releases. Skin clammy; he smelled like soap, panic, and night. I pulled the blanket over his shoulders, tucking it under his arm like he might crack if I moved too fast.

 

His breathing slowed by millimeters, still thin and papery. Up close, his eyes slid past me, unfocused, like I was behind fogged glass. I wanted to shake him back. I wanted to hold him till the shaking stopped. I did neither. I stayed.

 

Mr. Bojangles hopped up, turned twice, then pressed along Jack’s side, head across his ribs – watchful, not sleeping – protecting one of his humans.

 

He seemed slightly steadier – for now – and the dog would sound the alarm if anything changed. I sprinted up to sweep the glitter of glass; stepping on that at dawn would be bad, especially for Mom. As soon as the counter and floor were clear, I hurried back. Jack hadn’t moved; the dog was still posted, head on his ribs like a guard.

 

I lay on Jack’s other side, close enough to feel their heat. Every twitch jolted me. Every pause in his breathing flipped my stomach, and I waited for the next inhale like punishment. “Jack,” I whispered, just to throw him a string. His fingers twitched in the dog’s fur. Maybe nothing. Maybe he's tugging back.

 

I wanted to stay up all night, but the sedative dragged at my eyelids. Two more minutes, I told myself. Then two more. Then just till his breathing evened.

 

Before sleep took me, I made a promise – carved where I wouldn’t lose it: first thing in the morning, I’d tell Mom exactly what happened. Jack was not okay. We needed to get him some real help.

 

And I was done pretending I could fix this alone.

 

Mr. Bojangles lifted his head to check Jack’s face, then set it down again, heavier, like a shield. Only when the dog settled did my body let go. The unsung hero of tonight: Mr. Bojangles. I slipped under, uneasy, holding that promise like a rope.

 

***

 

Another violent jolt rattled the house, yanking me out of what felt like minutes of ragged sleep. My heart woke first; the rest of me lagged. The space beside me was empty.

 

Cold panic. “Jack?” I hissed it toward the dark, not loud enough to wake Mom. No answer. Every shadow grew teeth. I checked the bathroom – empty. No blood in the tub, no pill bottles tipped. The medicine cabinet was a neat little army, all present and accounted for.

 

The silence felt heavy, like it wanted to smother me. I turned toward the stairs.

 

He was on the kitchen floor.

 

For a heartbeat, my brain refused to translate what I was seeing. Jack’s whole body bucked in hard, rhythmic spasms; his heels hammered the tile; his jaw was clenched so tight the muscles rippled. A wet, sour smell hung in the air – urine. Foam flecked his lips. The sounds – God – the sounds weren’t words, just raw, frightened animal noises that didn’t sound like anyone I loved.

 

I fell to my knees, useless – but Mr. Bojangles rushed in tight circles, barking, then whining, then barking again, trying to wedge himself between Jack and the world.

 

Thin, angry lines laddered Jack’s wrists – some fresh pink, others older, dark, and shiny. The same on his thighs when his boxers rode up with the jerks. The sight punched a hole in me. How long had I missed this? How long had he been bleeding right next to me? It couldn’t have started since he got here; some of the scars were too old.

 

Footsteps. “Get back,” Mom said – low, clipped, professional – already kneeling beside him in her nightgown with the old black bag by the door. “Nick, dog in the laundry room. Now. Then come right back.”

 

I herded Mr. Bojangles; he skittered on tile, then let me shut him in, whining through the door. I was back in a heartbeat.

 

“Time the event,” Mom said, sliding a folded dish towel under Jack’s head. “Don’t hold him down. Clear space – move the chair.” Without looking away from his face, she tilted his chin and swept the corner of his mouth with gauze. “Nothing in his mouth. We let it run and keep him safe.”

 

“Mom – what is this?” My voice scraped.

 

“Seizure-like activity,” she said, calm but tight. “Could be epileptic, could be psychogenic. We treat what we see.”

 

She snapped open a plastic case. “Intranasal midazolam – rescue med.” She loaded the atomizer and, between jerks, gave quick sprays in each nostril. “Start the clock.”

 

I stared at my phone like it could save him. “Thirty… forty… fifty—”

 

“Good. Oxygen.” Pulse-ox on his finger; numbers bloomed. “Ninety-four—okay.” Glucometer next, a prick, a glance. “Glucose 102. Airway patent.”

 

The convulsions didn’t stop but shifted – less jackhammer, more rolling aftershocks.

 

“I’m calling 911,” she said, already on speaker. “Fifteen-year-old male, seizure-like activity, intranasal midazolam given, ongoing posturing. Weeks of mood lability, self-injury present. Address is… yes. ER physician on scene.” She rattled details, then met my eyes. “Stay with him. Gentle voice. Orient to now.”

 

I slid to his shoulder, hands hovering. “Jack? It’s me. You’re home. Kitchen, tile floor, stupid humming fridge.” My voice shook. “You’re safe. I’m here. I love you. I’m not losing you.”

 

Two minutes. Three. His jaw eased; the foam thinned. The jerks softened into shudders. His eyes rolled forward, glassy, not quite finding me.

 

“Postictal or dissociative,” Mom murmured, checking his pulse, her gaze flicking over the cuts with a doctor’s eye and a mother’s flinch. “We’ll clean those at the hospital.”

 

“I should’ve seen,” I choked.

 

“Not now,” she said, not unkind. “Breathe for him. In and out.”

 

Sirens drew close; the medics filled the doorway—gloves, monitor, calm. Mom shifted just enough to let them work, never leaving his shoulder. “Onset ≈ three minutes before midazolam IN ten milligrams total,” she reported. “Now decreased movements, still altered. Incontinence. Superficial self-inflicted linear abrasions on wrists and thighs. Glucose 102, SpO₂ ninety-four, airway clear. No head trauma. Unknown ingestion – meds locked. Psych history.”

 

They moved like choreography: pads, leads, vitals cycling, nonrebreather ready but set aside as sats held. One palpated the scalp and neck; the other hung a bag and slipped in an IV fast.

 

“Sinus tach,” a medic said. “BP one-sixty over one-ten.”

 

I knew that was much higher than it should be, and it worried me even more.

 

“Copy,” Mom said. “I’ll call ahead.”

 

I stayed by his head, whispering stupid, necessary things. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Come back to me.” His eyelids trembled at “love,” a tiny quiver like some part of him heard.

 

We lifted him to the gurney. Mr. Bojangles barked from the laundry room, furious I’d let the world touch his boy. “I’ll bring you later,” I promised the door.

 

The ride was a tunnel – lights, oxygen hiss, the monitor’s stubborn beep. Mom’s voice on the phone went into ER cadence: brief, exact. “Fifteen, male. Seizure-like with dissociation and self-harm. Midazolam IN, IV established, vitals elevated but stable. ETA five.”

 

The bay yawned open. A team waited: a resident, the charge nurse, and several techs. Transfer, bright lights, gel-cool sheets. Mom stepped back. “I’m family,” she told the resident, “and an ER attending – not his. I’ll give collateral and stay out of your lane.”

 

Orders flew: “CBC, CMP, CK, tox screen, ethanol, TSH, EKG. Temp curve. UA. Wound care to arms/thighs—document pattern. Suicidality screen when awake. One-to-one sitter. Suicide precautions.” Soft restraints appeared, padded, ready if the waves returned. A psych NP slid in, taking notes as Mom and I recounted the kitchen, the flashback-like behaviors, the recent spiral, and the jealous fixation that didn’t feel like jealousy at all.

 

They asked about guardianship. “Grandmother is legal,” Mom said. “I have the power of attorney to make medical decisions. Emergency doctrine for now. I’ve left her messages – cell and landline.”

 

I stood there stupidly, hands empty. Be useful. “He hates the basement carpet,” I almost said to no one. Instead, I said, “He’s afraid of the dark when it’s quiet,” which sounded like a child’s note pinned to a grown problem. The psych NP still wrote it down.

They cleaned his wrists and thighs. Thin white lines under bright light. Bandages, neat and small, like the wounds were simple. Nothing about any of this was simple.

 

Time stopped working. At some point, I ended up in the waiting room – the same chairs, the same vending machine hum, the same smell of lemon disinfectant and night shift coffee that belonged to the summer my dad didn’t come home. It felt like some terrible loop: different boy, same helpless me. I texted our group. Emery pinged from tomorrow in Hong Kong – “OMG!!! HUGGGZZZ!!!” – and the screen blurred.

 

By five, Mom found me, looking a decade older. “You can come back.”

 

Jack lay under a blanket, IV snaking, wires tracing his heartbeat in green. Soft wrist restraints were loose, more symbolic than binding, a sitter in the corner watching a monitor and watching him. His chest rose and fell – shallow, but steady. He looked breakable.

 

“He’s pretty heavily sedated and resting. Medically stable. Labs are running; EKG is clean. Psychiatry evaluated – preliminary impression is severe anxiety with dissociation and major depressive features; we still need to rule out bipolar spectrum versus medication-related activation. No diagnosis tonight. They’re recommending a 72-hour psychiatric hold for safety and a full workup. I’ve spoken with his grandmother – she’s aware.”

 

“Is this my fault?” The words fell out, small and stupid.

 

Mom squeezed the back of my neck. “This is an illness catching up to him, not you failing him. You did exactly right – found him, protected him, kept him oriented, called for help.” She took a breath. “And you loved him out loud. That matters.”

 

By seven, paperwork had done its cold work. Jack was transferred to the adolescent psych unit: one backpack of his things; no shoelaces; no phone; a room with a window that doesn’t open all the way. We weren’t allowed, and I likely wouldn’t see him until he was released from the hold. I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him for three whole days, unable to do anything to help him.

 

We drove home into a sunrise that pretended the world was normal – pink, then gold, clouds edged like cotton candy. It felt rude. At the house, Mr. Bojangles barreled into me, snout to my hands, then to the air like he could scent Jack back into existence.

 

Downstairs, I collapsed on the pullout -- Jack’s side. The blanket held his shampoo, his skin, a ghost of last night’s panic. I buried my face there and finally let the sobs shake through, hot and ugly, until the only thing left in me was a promise: I will show up. I will not blink.

 

I’ll learn how to help for real.

 

 

***

 

It was nearly noon by the time I finally woke up, and for a split second, I had that disorienting moment where I didn’t remember where I was or what had happened. But then it hit me – like an M1A2 main battle tank.

 

Everything from last night crashed in at once. Jack on the floor, moaning, the sharp stink of urine, his limbs flailing like he was trying to fight his way out of his own skin. My mom with the syringe, the IVs, the restraints, the terrifying blankness in his eyes as they wheeled him away.

 

And I was still raw from our earlier arguments – about Tommy, about whether Jack and I should even be together anymore, about him threatening to fly to Seattle and leave me behind. Was that really Jack talking, or was it just the sickness? Which version was the real him? How could I not know my own boyfriend?

 

I curled tighter under the blanket, forcing myself to breathe slowly and steadily. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to vanish. How much more could one person take before they broke completely? But I’d promised Jack I wouldn’t give up on him. So, I dragged myself upright and stumbled upstairs.

 

The house was quiet – too quiet. The eerie hush of a place still reeling from trauma, like even the walls were holding their breath. I headed straight for the coffee pot, praying Mom had thought ahead. She had. The coffee was lukewarm, but I didn’t care. I poured a mug and took a long sip, letting the bitterness steady me.

 

That’s when I saw the note.

 

Back at the hospital. Will check in on Jack and text you with any updates. Try to rest. Love you. —Mom

 

It didn’t give me new information, but it steadied me. Knowing Mom was there – that Jack wasn’t alone, that she would keep checking on him herself – kept me from flying apart again. Of course, I wanted to be at his bedside, to hold his hand and promise I wasn’t going anywhere, but the psych unit had strict visitor rules, and Mom said seeing each other right now wouldn’t help either of us. What the fuck. He was my boyfriend – my person – and I was supposed to stay home and behave while strangers watched him sleep? I understood the logic. I hated it anyway. So I sat in our quiet house, trapped with Mr. Bojangles and a thousand disaster reels, trying not to drown in all the terrible things my brain could invent.

 

Even Mr. Bojangles seemed broken. He didn’t spring up to greet me—just lay there on his side, eyes fixed on the wall like he was rethinking his entire life. No wag, no whine. Silence. What did last night look like through his eyes? The panic, the shouting, the chaos. No wonder he was shell-shocked.

 

He hadn’t even staged his usual breakfast assault, which was terrifying in its own way. Usually, he acted like I was starving him, pawing at my leg until kibble rained from the heavens. Today? Nothing. So, I filled his bowl with kibble and half a packet of wet food and said, “Congratulations, it’s brunch. Very continental of you.”

 

Usually, he inhaled everything like a shop vac, but this time, he just nudged the bowl, took a few slow bites, and sighed. I stood there watching him chew, trying to laugh at my own joke, but the sound died in my throat. Even the dog knew something was wrong.

 

I sank onto the couch and pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over the WhatsApp icon. The group chat had blown up overnight, and now the messages stacked one after another like a wall of voices.

 

Jonah: “Holy shit. Is Jack okay? Are YOU okay? Love you guys!”

Christian: “Want me to come over? I’ll bring snacks and video games. We can play tetherball using Jonah’s head as the ball and not talk if that helps.”

Emery (from Hong Kong): “I’m hugging both of you with the power of a thousand suns. HUGGGZZZ.”

Jonah: “That was rude, Christian. 😈”

Danny: “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do. We’re here for you.”

Kit: “Thinking of you both. Let me know if I can help. I’m in Wisconsin – it wouldn’t be hard to fly out. I can bring cheese too. It’s no trouble at all, I swear. I’m bored here anyway.”

Emery (again): “Kit, you are just the sweetest boy ever! ILY!”

Christian: “Seriously. I can be there in two hours. Just say the word. I’m not letting you go through this alone, Nick.”

Mark: “We love you, man. And when Jack gets back, we’re all willing to pitch in and help. He’s one of my best friends … Ah, fuck … now I’m starting to cry, bastards!”

Jonah: “Maybe some of Mr. Johnston’s special tea would help Jack?”

Christian: “Ewwww, God no!!!!! You should burn in hell for even suggesting that!”

 

Then the thread just kept going, and I really needed it, even if we couldn’t all be in the same room together:

 

Danny: “Jonah, you’re officially banned from medical advice.”

Jonah: “Fine, but if Jack recovers on his own, you all owe me an apology.”

Christian: “If Jack recovers on his own, it’ll be despite your tea.”

Emery: “Can confirm. Jonah once made me taste it. I had night terrors.”

Kit: “What even IS this tea??”

Jonah: “Magic.”

Christian: “Rat poison, the blood of adolescent children, Vicks Vapo-Rub, and Gypsy tears.”

 

I read through the messages slowly, one by one, feeling their warmth and ridiculous humor wrap around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed. For a few minutes, they almost made me smile. Almost.

 

I typed back:

 

Me: “Thanks, guys. Really. We’re okay for now, just… still processing everything. I might take you up on your offer later. It means a lot. Love you guys so much!!! 🤗😘🥰”

 

More replies pinged back – little hearts, emojis, Christian typing something savage about Jonah’s head size – but I set the phone down before I could drown in the noise.

 

I paced instead. Kitchen to hallway. Hallway to front door. Back again. Like maybe motion could keep the panic at bay.

 

I could’ve used one of Jonah’s patented bear hugs right then. Or even one of Danny’s more low-key ones. They were both world-class snugglers. But none of them were here.

I didn’t want to read. Didn’t want to doom-scroll Twitter. Didn’t want to be left alone with my own thoughts.

 

But the longer the silence pressed in, the more it crushed me.

 

I needed someone. Someone right here, flesh and blood. Someone I could look in the eye and say all the things I couldn’t fit into a text bubble.

 

I hesitated, then grabbed my phone again and opened a new chat window. My thumb hovered for a long second before I finally typed:

 

Me: “Something happened to Jack last night. He’s in the hospital now. I’m kind of messed up right now and could really use a friend.”

 

The reply came instantly, almost like he’d been waiting.

 

Tommy: “OMG!!!!! Do you want me to come over?”

 

Me: “Yeah. Please, if you’re not busy and don’t mind.”

 

Tommy: “I’ll be there in 20, bro!”

 

The moment I hit send, the second-guessing hit like a sucker punch. Was this wrong? Jack had clearly seen Tommy as a threat. Maybe not for any rational reason, but that didn’t matter – Jack believed it, and that mattered. Was it a betrayal to invite Tommy over today, of all days?

 

But Tommy hadn’t done anything wrong. Neither had I. There was nothing romantic between us – never had been. Just an old friendship that had never gotten the chance to grow the way it should have.

 

And the truth was, I needed a friend, and my school friends weren’t around.

 

Mr. Bojangles snapped out of his funk at the knock on the door, bolting down the hallway like his old self. He barked once, then immediately flipped onto his back, legs flailing in the air, tail smacking the floor like a drumline.

 

I opened the door.

 

Tommy stood there in jeans and a hoodie, blond hair tousled, hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes were wide, full of concern.

 

“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

 

I shook my head. “Not really. But I’m working on it.”

 

Before I could say anything else, his arms were around me, and that was it. I cracked open. I pressed my face into his shoulder and broke down, the sobs coming hard and fast. Tommy didn’t say much – just rubbed my back and murmured, “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Jack’s gonna be okay. Don’t worry, Nicky. I’m here now. I’m here.”

 

Hugs from Jonah and Danny were fun and relaxing. The hug from Tommy, accompanied by what he was whispering into my ear, was practically life-saving. I held on for dear life, and he made no move to pull away. It felt so safe. Warm. Comforting. Loving.

 

When I finally managed to breathe again, I wiped my face on my sleeve. “Thanks, Tommy. I really needed that.”

 

“Anytime,” he said. “I know you’re far from your crew right now. You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here. Call or text any time, and I’ll run right over. I mean it. That’s what friends do, right?”

 

I nodded and chortled slightly, “Yeah, that’s what friends are for …”

 

I immediately thought of the song by that same name, sung by Dionne Warwick, Elton John, Gladys Knight, and Stevie Wonder.

 

… And I never thought I'd feel this way
And as far as I'm concerned
I'm glad I got the chance to say
That I do believe I love you

 

… And if I should ever go away
Well, then close your eyes
And try to feel the way we do today
And then if you can remember

 

… Keep smiling, keep shining
Knowing you can always count on me, for sure
That's what friends are for
For good times and bad times
I'll be on your side forever more
That's what friends are for

 

He glanced down at Mr. Bojangles, who was already pawing at him for attention.

 

“Wanna go for a walk? Maybe grab a pop or coffee?”

 

“Yeah,” I said, grateful for the suggestion. “That sounds good.”

 

We walked the six blocks to Tim Hortons in silence, Mr. Bojangles trotting beside us like the world’s fluffiest emotional support animal. The fresh air helped. I focused on the rhythm of my steps, the leash in my hand, the simplicity of just moving forward, being outside of the house.

 

At the counter, I ordered a caramel macchiato; Tommy got an iced latte. We slid into a corner booth, the kind that made you feel tucked away from the rest of the world.

 

I briefly wondered what kind of underwear Tommy was wearing, and then I started talking.

 

Not just about last night – though I told him everything. Jack’s weird “sleepwalking” episode. Jack collapsing, the thrashing, the restraints, the 72-hour psych hold. But once I started, I couldn’t stop.

 

I told him about Jack’s life. The parents who treated him like dirt. The grandmother who’d tried to give him some safe haven. The move to Michigan, our school, the chaos and beauty of everything we’d stumbled into together.

 

I told him about Jack’s humor – razor-sharp, sometimes ridiculous, eccentric, and often inappropriate. About the way he could read people like books, then fold them into origami. About his loyalty, his quirks, his softness when no one else was looking.

 

Finally, I said the thing that mattered most.

 

“I love him,” I said proudly. “I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling something like this. Before him, I’m not sure I understood what ‘love’ meant. I never thought I deserved it. I didn’t even know anything was missing – until he showed up and turned my whole world brighter, louder, messier, chaotic, and so, so full.”

 

Tommy didn’t jump in. He just sat there, listening. Really listening. Which was perhaps the kindest thing anyone could have done for me at that moment.

 

Eventually, I got up to grab another drink. “You want anything?”

 

“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “Make it a double-double.”

 

When I came back with his coffee and a mocha latte for myself, I asked, “So… what do you think?”

 

He leaned back, letting out a long breath. “Wow. That’s… a lot.”

 

“Yeah,” I said, trying not to squirm.

 

“If I had a girlfriend that carried around so much drama and so many issues, I’d probably break up with her,” he said matter-of-factly. “But that’s just me. The difference is, you’re just so good, one of the best people I know. And I can’t picture you just walking away and letting him become a ward of the state or go into foster care. That’s just not you, bro.”

 

“Yeah, I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life. But it’s not just that I’m scared of guilt; I do love him. And I know if I can help him, we could have the kind of relationship people write symphonies and movies about… or at least a cheesy gay story on Nifty,” I said, chuckling.

 

“What’s Nifty?” Tommy asked, his face blank with genuine confusion.

 

I barked a laugh, then winced. “Oh God. Okay, so… the Nifty Story Archive is this ancient website. Basically, a giant dump of gay stories – like, thousands of them. Romance, coming-out drama, high school angst, all that… and, uh, yeah, a lot of smut and erotica, too.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s kind of infamous. Everyone pretends they’ve never heard of it, but trust me, they have.”

 

Tommy’s eyebrow arched, a grin tugging at his lips. “So… you read them?”

 

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t judge me. It’s basically gay-teenage-survival literature. Half of us figured out we weren’t the only ones alive on that site. Sure, it’s not exactly Pulitzer material, but sometimes you stumble across a story that just nails what you’re feeling. And when you’re fifteen and alone in your room? That’s huge.”

 

He smirked. “So, you think one day you and Jack could be in there? Immortalized forever in the sacred scrolls of gay internet fanfic?”

 

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Hey, stranger things have happened. If some random dude can post about his hot stepbrother from Wisconsin banging him in a barn while the horses watch, why not us? At least ours would actually have a plot. I mean, I’d love to write it someday. But we don’t have an ending yet… and honestly, I hope we don’t for a very long time.”

 

Tommy snorted. “Maybe I’ll check it out sometime.”

 

“You do realize they’re gay stories, right?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“It’s just reading, bro,” he said with a shrug. “Besides, I’m curious. And hey, maybe it’ll help me understand you more. I’m secure enough in my straightness to broaden my horizons. Hey, maybe we can have a story of the week club, where we both read the same story and then discuss it at the end of the week?”

 

I blinked, then grinned. “We’ll see. That might be kinda weird.”

 

We both burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the booth walls hard enough that a couple of people turned to stare. For the first time since last night, I felt a flicker of lightness cut through the heaviness in my chest. The whole conversation had been weird and random, sure – but also honest in a way that mattered. With the kind of openness Tommy and I had stumbled into, it was hard not to picture us ending up as real best friends again.

 

“You know you can count on me for anything, right? Say whatever’s on your mind, no filter,” I said, my tone turning serious.

 

“Yeah… yeah, I do,” Tommy replied, his smile easy and certain. “And same for you, Nicky. I like where this is going. Feels good to just be straight up with each other. No pun intended!”

 

We sat there for a beat, grinning at each other like a pair of idiots. Maybe we were idiots – or perhaps we were just two people who’d been starving for something solid, a friendship that actually stuck, that meant something, and even included a degree of love. I knew I was. And as much as I loved Jack, when he came back from the hospital, he was going to have to understand and accept this part of my life too. Because I wasn’t letting Tommy slip away again. Jack would have to learn to trust me, and I would help him.

 

The only problem was, deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that having both of them in my life – Jack and Tommy – might not be possible without something breaking. But what’s a little blood loss between friends? Right?

 

“It sounds like you love Jack. And that he loves you. Like… really loves you.” Tommy pointed out.

 

“You have no idea. We’re almost completely co-dependent,” I admitted.

 

“That’s not always healthy,” Tommy said gently.

 

“I know. But I can’t help it. I want to be with him all the time – holding his hand, hugging him, kissing him. Making him feel good, feel better about himself.  It’s like an addiction.”

 

Tommy studied me for a moment. “You’ve really changed, bro. You’re not the same kid I knew in middle school. Back then, you barely looked people in the eye. Now? You’ve got this whole new life – friends, a school that challenges you, people who count on you. And yeah, a relationship that clearly means the world to you. You’re different. Better. And I’m guessing Jack has a lot to do with that.”

 

I blinked. “Wow. Thanks.”

 

“No, seriously,” he said. “You carry yourself differently now. You’re awake. Even if things are tough right now, that doesn’t erase what you’ve built.”

 

I could feel my face heating. “You’re being way too nice.”

 

Tommy chuckled. “Maybe. Or maybe you just never let yourself hear it before.”

 

Then his tone shifted, more serious. “Do you think it’s all too much? Jack, the stress, everything?”

 

“No,” I said instantly. “I can handle it. I want to handle it. I just… wish I knew how to help him. Sitting here, doing nothing – it’s killing me.”

 

Tommy nodded slowly. “Then you need to let the doctors do their jobs. You’re just a kid, Nick. Your mom’s got this. And Jack’s in good hands. What you can do is continue to love him. Keep showing up. Don’t try to fix him – just be there. I speak from personal experience. He might push you away, try to convince you you’d be better off without him, but you can prove him wrong every single time. That’s what matters.”

 

His words hit me square in the chest.

 

And I realized – really realized – how much I’d underestimated Tommy, for all those years. How much better those awful middle school years could’ve been if I’d let myself lean on him back then, instead of shutting him out. At least I wouldn’t have felt so alone all the time.

 

“Thanks,” I said quietly. “I didn’t know how much I needed this. Just having someone to listen… it helps me remember who I am.”

 

“Anytime,” Tommy said.

 

We finished our drinks and walked back slowly, Mr. Bojangles darting after every shifting shadow on the sidewalk.

 

At my front walk, we stopped.

 

“I’m really glad you stopped by,” I told him. “And you’re welcome here anytime you want. Just call first so I have time to lock Jack up in his cage!”

 

Tommy laughed hysterically. “Me too, and I plan on seeing each other a lot this summer. And I hope Jack won’t even need the cage. I’d really like to get to know him, too. He’s really hilarious, and it’s fun to watch the two of you interact.”

 

We didn’t even bother with a handshake. He just hugged me again, and I let myself sink into it. I needed more hugs to get through this. Though if I were honest, the only one I really wanted right now was Jack’s.

 

Inside, I felt a little lighter. Not fixed. Not whole. But not completely alone either. I still had my friends. I still had my mom. And now, maybe, I had Tommy again, too.

 

And Jack – wherever he was, whatever he was feeling – I just prayed he could hold on until I could be there to tell him we weren’t alone.  Together with everyone beside us, we’d find a way through this.

 

But as I shut the door and leaned against it, the thought I’d been trying to bury all morning came roaring back: What if he doesn’t hold on? What if he slips too far before I can get to him? What if last night wasn’t just an “episode” – what if it was the beginning of the end?

 

The silence of the house seemed to answer me, heavy and merciless.

 

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if love alone would be enough this time.

 

 

 

 

 

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