Swing for the Fences

Jack had been home from the hospital for about ten days now, and it had not been easy.

 

Physically, he seemed fine – at least if you didn’t look too closely. His color was back, he’d gained a couple of pounds, and he wasn’t collapsing into himself anymore. He was eating again (though getting him to eat was a chore), sleeping (thanks to the meds), and even scrolling on his phone sometimes. He sent one awkward message to the group chat when he got out of the hospital: “Still alive. Sorry to disappoint.” Everyone reacted like he’d risen from the dead – hearts, memes, fireworks emojis. Jack didn’t respond to any of it. He just drifted away again, like their joy didn’t matter.

 

And that was the problem.

 

He was back, but he wasn’t the same Jack. He was quieter, snarkier, and a whole lot meaner.

 

We went through the motions – brushing teeth together at the sink, eating at the same table, collapsing into the same bed. Our knees would brush, our fingers would graze, and we still kissed goodnight… barely. But it was mechanical. Hollow. I could’ve gotten more warmth out of kissing a mirror. This was the boy who used to shock me alive with every touch, who once made me feel like my whole body was a live wire. Now it was like pressing my mouth against nothing. There was no feeling, no spark, no jolt of electricity. It felt less intimate than a handshake.

 

That absence was worse than the chaos. Jack had always been too much – too loud, too reckless, too dramatic. He burned hot, and sometimes he burned everything around him, but at least it was him. Now? He was just static. A ghost wrapped in flesh.

And when he wasn’t ghosting, he was exploding. Some mornings, he ate his cereal in total silence, swallowed his meds without a word, and sank into the sofa like a corpse propped upright.

 

Other days, he was like a grenade with the pin already pulled. He’d scream, slam doors hard enough to rattle the pictures, fling silverware across the kitchen like it was a war zone. The names he called me – cruel, sharp-edged things that sliced, no matter how often I reminded myself this isn’t him, it’s the sickness. But it was still his voice. Still his mouth. He knew all the right buttons to push to send me to my room, often crying. It started to seem like getting reactions out of me – negative reactions – had become like a game to him. It wasn’t a game to me. He was intentionally trying to hurt the person (me) whom he had sworn over and over that he loved. But he sure didn’t act like he loved me at all.

 

The worst was the in-between. The funk where he wouldn’t move for hours. He’d stew on the sofa-bed in dirty hoodies, surrounded by half-crushed soda cans and chip crumbs, smelling like sweat, B.O., and misery. When I begged him to shower, he’d sneer, “Why? Who the hell cares?” Or he’d just stare at me like I wasn’t speaking English. Every time I pushed too hard, he exploded. So, I stopped pushing – which made me hate myself for giving up.

 

I was only fifteen, and I felt ancient. Walking on eggshells around the boy I loved more than anything, never knowing which version of him I’d wake up to. Wondering how many more days I could stretch myself thin before something snapped inside me, too.

 

Mom didn’t see the whole picture. She usually just saw the medicated calm, the polite quiet. She didn’t see him break a remote in half. She didn’t hear the venom when he told me I was suffocating him. She didn’t see me standing outside the basement door, my hand on the knob, trying to decide if I had the strength to walk down there and be with him again. She was working constantly, which is why she didn’t see the worst of the worst. It also meant that I was caring for Jack and doing all the household chores at the same time. She said Jack’s insurance wouldn’t cover an in-home aide. So, it was me or no one.

 

Of course, I told her about the behaviors, and she was rightfully concerned, but she said we had to give the medications time to work, that it was a whole process, and it could take a while until the psychiatrist found the right mix for him. So, for now, it was wait, see, and hope. In the meantime, he was also seeing a therapist once per week, but the therapist had informed my mom that so far, Jack had not felt like talking much.

 

Sometimes I caught him staring into nothing, eyes glassy and vacant. Mr. Bojangles would barrel into his lap, licking his face like a possessed mop. Jack used to squeal, flail, and curse in mock outrage. Now he just scratched the dog behind the ears absently, a faint smile flickering like muscle memory was doing the work while the real Jack stayed buried.

 

And God help me, the arguments we had were brutal – vicious in a way I didn’t think possible between us. I told myself over and over that it wasn’t him speaking, it was the sickness or the ever-changing medications. But a thought crept in late at night: What if the sickness wasn’t creating the words – only stripping away his filter? What if the daggers were the truth he believed when he was clear-headed, just unmasked now? The most devastating thing he ever told me was: “I don’t love you. I don’t even know if I ever really did.”

 

I could’ve taken knives, fists – anything else. But that? That felt like he tore out my heart, stomped all over it, and then set it on fire.

 

And yet, in some twisted way, at least when he was raging, he was alive. There was heat, even if it scorched me. The silence – the shell – scared me more than any insult. Silence felt like death.

 

That afternoon, everything finally blew.

 

It started stupidly. The recycling. I asked him to take the bin out because it reeked of old tuna cans and Dr. Pepper, and Mom had texted she’d be home soon. Jack stared at me like I’d asked him to lift a car.

 

“Why don’t you take it?” he said flatly.

 

“I did yesterday. And the day before. And I’m making dinner.”

 

“So?”

 

“So… please. Don’t you remember that part of the deal of living here is helping with the household chores? Now, you don’t lift a finger. I’m sorry, and I love you, but it’s true.”

 

He stood, grabbed the bin, and on the second step up from the basement, he pitched it – full tilt – into the wall. Plastic thumped, cans clattered like hail, a wave of putrid, sweet rot filled the stairwell.

 

“What the hell, Jack?”

 

“Stop telling me what to do!” he snapped, chest heaving. “You’re not my nurse. You’re not my keeper. And you sure as hell aren’t my fuckin’ parents! Now, go continue cooking like a good little fag,” he sneered.

 

My temperature started to rise very quickly. “I’m your fucking boyfriend who’s been cooking, cleaning, and playing human seatbelt so you don’t hurt yourself. I’m just asking for the recycling.”

 

He laughed – mean and hollow. “You don’t actually want me, Nick. You just don’t want to be alone. That’s all it ever was.”

 

The floor dropped out from under me. “That’s not true.”

 

“You think staying with me makes you some kind of hero? It just makes you pathetic.”

 

He stepped closer, eyes bright with fury. “Go find Tommy or whoever else you’ve been eyeing – I know you want to.”

 

“Don’t,” I said, voice shaking. “Don’t bring Tommy into this.”

 

“Why? Because you want him to keep liking you? Because you want a backup? You’re probably already fucking him … or is he fucking you? I keep getting confused because you’re such a little pussy.”

 

“Jack – please stop.”

 

“Sometimes I wish I’d never met you,” he hissed. “My life was already hell, but at least I wasn’t ruining yours, too. But now you’re making mine even worse.”

 

I felt myself sway, like the words had weight. “Please, as someone who really loves you, I’m asking you to stop.”

 

His jaw clenched. For a second, I thought he might. Instead, he delivered the kill shot – calm, almost conversational: “I don’t love you. I don’t even know if I ever really did.”

 

It buckled me. Just – buckled me. I grabbed the railing, breath gone, eyes hot. For a heartbeat, he looked almost surprised at the damage he’d done. Then the mask slid back on.

 

“Okay,” I croaked. “Okay. Then why are you still here? Why do you crawl into bed with me every night and pull my arms around you? Why do you want me next to you if you don’t love me?”

 

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

 

“If you’re so miserable here,” I pushed on, something snapping inside me, “maybe this isn’t where you belong. Maybe we should just fly you back to Seattle and let your grandmother stick you in a psych ward until you’re better – if you even can be.”

 

It was like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline.

 

“Fuck you!” he shouted. “You think that’s funny? You want to ship me off so I’m not your problem anymore?”

 

“I want you alive, Jack! I want you to be safe. I want our love back!”

 

“Don’t you dare act like you’re some saint. You’re doing this because you’re addicted to being needed. You need a broken toy to fix.”

 

“That’s not fair.”

 

“Nothing is fair!” he roared, and then the rage twisted and collapsed on itself. His voice cracked. “Please don’t send me away. Please. I’m sorry, I—” He reached for me and pulled his hand back like it burned. “I don’t mean it. I do love you, Nick, I swear I do – I don’t know why I say this stuff – please, please, I’m trying – I’m so tired—”

 

He was shaking now. Angry, then begging, then angry again, words spilling and tripping over each other. I stood there braced on the rail, wrecked, not sure which version of him to believe, not sure if either was true. At that moment, I was seriously considering breaking up with him, moving back to my old bedroom, and letting the Department of Children and Family Services figure out what to do with him.

 

That’s when Mom’s footsteps hit the hall above us. She’d heard enough – maybe she’d heard all of it. She didn’t come down right away. The house just… held its breath.

 

Jack wiped his face with his sleeve and stumbled back to the sofa. He curled on his side, hoodie pulled over his head like a bunker. Outside, the neighborhood kids were riding scooters, laughing like the world was still simple.

 

I picked up the cans and the busted bin with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. I took the recycling out. I washed my face at the kitchen sink until my skin went numb.

 

A few minutes later, the screen door creaked, and Mom came out to the porch where I’d fled. I sat with Mr. Bojangles and stared at the yard like it might give me instructions.

 

I sat on the porch swing with Mr. Bojangles’ head in my lap, absently stroking his fur while the cicadas screamed in the distance. My whole body felt wrung out – like I’d been through a twelve-round fight instead of an argument about recycling. That stupid, meaningless fight had pushed me past some invisible edge I didn’t even know existed.

 

Mom’s voice came softly from the doorway. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

 

“I don’t know,” I mumbled into the dog’s fur. “Everything’s just… fucked. And I’m so tired I can’t think straight.”

 

Normally, that word would’ve earned at least a raised eyebrow. Tonight, nothing. She just walked over, sat beside me, and let the swing creak beneath us.

 

“What do you mean by ‘fucked’?” she asked gently.

 

I rubbed my face. “It’s like… Jack’s here, but he’s not. He’s eating, sleeping, functioning – sort of. But it’s like someone unplugged his soul. No jokes. No warmth. And when he’s not blank, he’s angry – usually at me. He’s stubborn, he’s mean, and he’s cruel sometimes. And then two hours later, he acts like nothing happened. I love him, Mom, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m so done. I feel like I can’t breathe in my own house.”

 

She nodded slowly. “That’s not unusual after what Jack went through. Especially with new medications. His emotions won’t bounce back right away.”

 

“I know that,” I said, shaking my head. “But this isn’t just the meds. It’s like… I don’t even recognize him anymore. The Jack I fell in love with would crack jokes and steal my fries and tease me about my hair. This version barely looks at me. And when he does, it’s like I’m the problem. I feel like I’m constantly walking on eggshells. One wrong word, one tiny thing – like asking him to take out the recycling – and it’s an explosion. I don’t know who I’m coming home to anymore.”

 

Her hand slid around my shoulders. “He’s still healing, sweetheart. His brain is trying to find balance again. It dulls everything – not just the pain. Even joy gets muted.”

 

I shook my head, staring at the porch boards. “What if we made a mistake? What if he’s too broken? Maybe it’s time I just ended things with him, and then we could send him back to Nana Bev to handle. She can afford the best doctors, maybe even a residential place if that’s what he needs. I can’t be in a relationship with someone who is constantly fighting with me. We were so happy before. I was so happy before. But now, I’m not … not with Jack.”

 

Mom exhaled, long and quiet. “Nick, you’re frustrated. And scared. That’s normal. But moving him again – away from you, away from what stability he has – could make him worse. He needs consistency. Like it or not, we’re his family now. And I know if you were thinking clearly right now, you’d fight anyone who tried to take him away from you.”

 

She was right, of course, and I knew it. Even saying it out loud made me feel guilty. I wasn’t going to give up on him. I just needed to say the ugly thought before it rotted me from the inside.

 

She sighed. “I’ll call his psychiatrist first thing tomorrow. Maybe he needs a dosage change. Tonight, we keep things calm, okay? If anything feels off, you wake me up. No trying to handle it all yourself.”

 

“Okay,” I said softly.

 

She was quiet for a moment, then added, “And I want you to think about talking to someone too.”

 

I frowned. “Me? Why?”

 

“You’ve been through a lot, Nicky. Between your dad’s death and everything with Jack, you’ve been carrying more than most adults I know. When your father passed, I was barely functioning, and I didn’t get you the help you probably needed back then. I can’t fix that, but I can try now.”

 

“That was years ago,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. I mean, I still miss him, but I’m fine.”

 

“Maybe not as fine as you think,” she said softly. “Just… consider it. You deserve someone who’ll listen – really listen – without you feeling like you have to protect them.”

 

I nodded but didn’t answer. I didn’t want to talk about therapy or Dad or anything. I just wanted to stop feeling like I was holding the world together with duct tape and coffee. Jack was going to therapy, and it didn’t seem to be doing any good for him. Why would I be any different?

 

“Fine,” I murmured finally. “I’ll think about it. But what do I do about Jack right now? Because he doesn’t even want me near him half the time. Then he’ll crawl into bed like nothing happened and pull me close. It’s… it’s so messed up.”

 

“You just keep reminding him that you love him,” she said. “And you keep reminding yourself that this is the illness talking, not the real Jack. You’re allowed to be angry, but don’t stop being kind. Push him to want to get better.”

 

“He doesn’t even want me around,” I snapped, the words tearing out of me before I could stop them. “He makes that clear every single day. And I’m trying, Mom, I really am. But it’s like… no matter what I do, I’m wrong.”

 

“I know,” she said gently. “But you’re not wrong, and you’re not failing him. You just can’t fix this alone. You’re fifteen, sweetheart, not a superhero.”

 

“I feel like I’m supposed to be,” I said. “Like if I just say the right thing or don’t upset him, everything will go back to normal.”

 

She shook her head. “No. That’s not how healing works. You’re doing everything right. But you can’t carry this by yourself. Christian, Jonah, and even Kit offered to come help. Let them. Maybe they can help you get through to him – and at least give you a break.”

 

“What if they see him like this and think he’s too much?” I asked. “That I’m too much for loving him?”

 

She smiled faintly. “Then they’re not real friends. But I don’t think that’s what’ll happen. They’ll see what I see – a boy who’s scared but refuses to give up on someone he loves.”

Her hand brushed through my hair. “When Jack came into our lives, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. But you weren’t wrong to love him. And we weren’t wrong to try. He brought light into this house, Nick. Right now, it’s dim, but it’s not gone. We’ll help him find it again.”

 

Her words made my throat ache. I wanted so badly to believe her – that the light wasn’t gone, that Jack was still somewhere behind the anger and the pills and the silence. Because I wasn’t ready to lose him. Not again.

 

“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll text the guys tomorrow. Maybe they can come for a few days.”

 

“Good,” she said, standing up. “Now get some rest. We’ll take it one day at a time.”

 

Later, I went downstairs. The room was dim, the only light coming from the TV. Jack was curled on the sofa bed, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes fixed on some mindless show he wasn’t really watching.

 

He looked so small. So breakable. Like a shadow of the boy who used to fill every space he walked into.

 

I slid in beside him, wrapped my arms around his middle, and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “I love you, Jack,” I whispered.

 

For a long moment, silence. Then, softly: “I love you too, Nicky.”

 

His hand found mine and held on tight.

 

It wasn’t a miracle, but it was enough. And I clung to that – to him – like it was the only thing keeping me afloat.

 

“Nick?” His voice cracked like thin glass.

 

“What?”

 

“I heard you and your mom talking,” he whispered.

 

My stomach dropped. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

 

“Nick…” His shoulders trembled under my arm. “I’m sorry. Please don’t give up on me. I still wanna be your boyfriend. I don’t wanna fight anymore. I don’t want you to send me away.”

 

He turned and pulled me closer, and I didn’t resist. I just held him, breathing in time with him.

 

Even when I’d said I couldn’t take it anymore, I hadn’t meant it. I’d never leave him. Not when he needed me most.

 

So I held him tighter, swallowed one of my sedatives dry, and whispered into his hair, “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Tomorrow, I’d text the guys. Tomorrow, Mom would call the doctor.

 

Tonight, I’d just hold on.

 

 

***

 

Maybe my mom was right. Maybe it was time to call in the cavalry.

 

Not just for Jack – though God knows he needed help – but for me, too. Because I was drowning. In fear, in guilt, in helplessness. And I was so damn tired of feeling alone.

 

I stared at my phone for a while, scrolling mindlessly through my contacts, even though I already knew who I was looking for. Christian. Big brother, quarterback, protector. The guy who made me feel like I belonged at Harrison West from the very beginning, back when I was a terrified new kid.

 

My fingers hovered for just a second before I tapped his name and sent a message:

 

Me: “Hey… could you come down for a bit? We really need your help with Jack. It’s not going so good.”

 

He responded in less than a minute.

 

Christian: “How long u need us for?”

 

I hesitated. I didn’t even know how to answer that.

 

Me: “I dunno. It’s gotten really complicated and difficult, and I can’t do it by myself anymore. I need help, or my relationship with Jack doesn’t stand a chance of surviving.”

 

Christian: “We’ve got nothing better to do. Be there in 3 hours. Hold tight, little bro. We’ve got your back.”

 

Three hours. That was all. Just the idea of seeing them again – Christian and probably Jonah, too – sent a jolt through my chest. A weird hybrid of hope and anxiety. Like maybe I’d finally catch my breath again… or fall apart completely in front of the only people who could understand. But I knew they’d catch me if I fell.

 

I texted Mom to let her know they were coming. She replied with her usual practicality:

 

Mom: “Make the house presentable. And make Jack presentable too.”

 

Easier said than done.

 

I went downstairs and found Jack curled up in the basement, exactly where I left him that morning. He was sunk so deep into the sofa-bed it looked like the cushions might absorb him entirely. Netflix was open, but he wasn’t watching anything. Just scrolling. Endless thumbnails flickering past his eyes like static.

 

“Rise and shine, cute but dirty boy!” I tried to sound upbeat, but I think my voice cracked halfway through.

 

He didn’t respond. Not really. Just flicked his eyes toward me, blinked once, and kept scrolling.

 

“We’ve got company coming in about three hours,” I continued, trying to sound like this was all normal. “So, we’ve gotta clean up the place – and ourselves – before they get here or Mom will go ballistic.”

 

“Kill me now,” Jack muttered. “I don’t wanna deal with any more people.”

 

“Jack, c’mon …”

 

“And it’d better not be my grandmother. Especially not that old hag. She’s just an old drunk who barely knows where she is half the time.”

 

“It’s not your grandmother,” I reassured him. “But what about me? Do I annoy you? Do you want me to leave you alone from now on?”

 

Without looking away from the TV, he replied softly, “Sometimes.”

 

Have you ever heard that old saying: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me? Yeah, not true. That hurt … a lot.

 

I temporarily decided to ignore the spike of irritation that threatened to boil over. This wasn’t him. Or it wasn’t all of him. But God, it was exhausting. I missed the Jack who bantered back and forth, who smirked and rolled his eyes and made sarcastic little jabs that made my chest ache in the best way, or made absurd, off-the-wall comments for no reason. This version of him – flat, muted, dulled at the edges – was a stranger who wore Jack’s face like a mask.

 

Still, I tried again. “C’mon, Jack. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m not asking for miracles, just… a shower. Clean clothes. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

 

He didn’t even look at me this time. Just said, “Go away.”

 

I stood there for a second, trying not to let it get to me. I reminded myself that this wasn’t personal. That he wasn’t pushing me away, just the world in general.

 

Instead of arguing, I went upstairs and poured him a bowl of cereal, added a glass of orange juice, and counted out his morning meds. I carried them back down and placed them gently on the table next to him.

 

“You need to eat,” I said softly. “And take these.”

 

He didn’t respond.

 

I sat down across from him and waited. Watching. It made me feel like a parent. Or a nurse. Or a stranger in my own relationship.

 

Eventually, he took the pills, one at a time. No “thank you.” No acknowledgment. Just the clink of the glass against his teeth.

 

I sighed. “You know they’re going to be really excited to see you,” I said. “Christian and Jonah.”

 

That got his attention – barely. A flicker of something passed over his face. Worry? Annoyance? Betrayal?

 

“I don’t want to see anyone,” he repeated.

 

“I do, Jack,” I sighed heavily. “I can’t do this by myself anymore. I love you so much, and I’m fighting so hard to help you, but you’re not making this easy. I need help.”

 

There it was – the truth, ugly and naked. I braced for a reaction. A fight. Something.

 

But he just turned back to the TV.

 

Fine.

 

I threw myself into chores, trying to wrestle some sense of control back into the world. I mowed the lawn, power-washed the porch and deck, vacuumed, dusted, fluffed pillows, got out clean towels for Christian and Jonah, changed the guest bedding, and even got Jack out of bed long enough to change the sheets on “our” bed in the basement. He seemed very put out by that, having to stand up for five minutes while I gave him a cleaner place to sleep. Asshole, I thought.

 

My mom got home just as I was putting away the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Then, just as I finished wiping down the counters, the phone rang. Mom grabbed it, squinting at the caller ID.

 

“It’s Bev,” she mouthed.

 

I froze. Jack’s grandmother.

 

Mom answered, her voice careful. “Hi, Bev. Yes, we’ve been keeping you updated. He’s… home. Still struggling, but safe.”

 

Bev’s voice rasped faintly through the receiver, surprisingly steady. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for Jack to visit in July, not in the state he’s in. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to you.”

 

“I agree,” Mom said. “He’s not ready. Let’s focus on getting him stable here first.”

 

There was a pause, then Bev added, “Maybe I can come out for Thanksgiving. Spend some time with him then, if things are better.”

 

“That could be good,” Mom replied. “He’ll need family support long-term. And he’s got help now – Nick’s and Jack’s good friends are coming to stay for a while. I’m hoping that makes a difference.”

 

Bev was quiet for a moment before saying, “Tell Jack I love him. Even if I don’t always show it right.”

 

Mom promised she would and hung up. She set the phone down and gave me a look somewhere between disbelief and relief.

 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered. “She didn’t sound totally shit-faced for once.”

 

I blinked. “That’s progress?”

 

“Baby steps,” she said with a faint smirk.

 

I checked my phone again. Thirty minutes. My heart started to race.

 

One last time, I tried. I went back to the basement and crouched in front of Jack. “They’ll be here soon,” I said, gently. “I’m not trying to push you. I just… I want you to be part of this. This is our family. You don’t have to perform or pretend, but could you at least take a shower and put on some clean clothes? I know you hate me, but could you try to do it, just for me? Just pretend we’re still boyfriends and madly in love and would do anything for each other.”

 

He didn’t answer right away. Then he sighed, heavy and slow, like what I was asking him to do was the greatest sacrifice and waste of energy in the world.

 

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But don’t ever fuckin’ say I hate you, because I don’t. And the last time I checked, we were still boyfriends, but if you wanna break up, you gotta tell me …”

 

Leaving me standing there, slightly stunned, he got up and walked upstairs. Small miracles.

 

I jumped in for a second shower myself – quick rinse, fresh clothes, a dab of cologne, and ran a brush through my hair.

 

When I stepped outside to wait for them, Mr. Bojangles trotted after me and curled up beside my foot.

 

A few minutes later, Jack came out of the bathroom. He was wearing a clean polo shirt and khaki pants. His hair was still damp, combed flat for once, and he smelled faintly of soap. My eyes stung with relief – and also with the reminder of how damn handsome my boyfriend was when he actually tried.

 

“You look amazing, Jack,” I said softly. “I’m really lucky to have such a handsome boy in my life.”

 

He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment. His hands were jammed in his pockets, his eyes darting away from mine. I hadn’t seen him this awkward in a long time, and it made me wonder what was going through his head.

 

“Look, Nick…” he started, his voice low, almost shaky. “I’m sorry I’ve been… difficult.” He sat beside me, shoulders slumped.

 

“I know it’s not really your fault,” I whispered back. “It’s just… I miss you. I miss us.”

 

“I miss us, too,” he admitted with a heavy sigh. “But I don’t know how to get back there yet. I don’t have the energy or the willpower for anything. Everything annoys me, frustrates me… I don’t even like myself right now. I know something has to change or I’m gonna end up out on the street, but I don’t know how to fix it.”

 

His jaw tightened. “I’m not stupid, Nick. I’ve heard you and your mom talking when you thought I couldn’t hear yesterday. I know you’ve been thinking about breaking up with me. And if that happens, I won’t be welcome here anymore. I’ll have to go live with my grandmother or whatever. But I don’t want that. I don’t want to stop being your boyfriend.” His voice cracked, just a little. “I’m not saying that to manipulate you. It’s the truth. We had something really good before… and I want that back. I just… it’s like I can’t stop being an asshole half the time.”

 

“Then you’re gonna have to work at it,” I said, maybe a little sharper than I meant to.

 

“Show me. Show Mom. Show Christian and Jonah that you’re trying when they arrive. That you want to get better. If you don’t at least try, work with us, start talking at your therapist appointments, then yeah, maybe we’ll run out of options, and you’ll need more help than we can give you. But first, you’ve gotta try, and you’ve gotta want it.”

 

For the first time all day, his eyes actually met mine. There was something in them – raw, unguarded, almost pleading. “Do you still love me? Honestly?”

 

“Of course I do,” I said, like it was the dumbest question in the world. “I wouldn’t be going through all this, taking all your crap, if I didn’t love you.”

 

I leaned against him, and after a second, he put his arm around me. For a moment, it almost felt normal again.

 

“But I heard what you said earlier,” he murmured. “About maybe breaking up. And if that’s what you want… it’s okay. I’d understand. I can move out to Seattle, live with my grandma, and start fresh. I’d survive.”

 

“I was angry when I said that,” I told him firmly. “Frustrated. But I’m not leaving you. Ever. But I need to know you feel the same way. That you still want this. If we’re both in it, then we’ll figure out a way.”

 

His voice came quick, almost desperate: “I do. I do love you. And I’ll prove it. To you, to your mom. I’ll do what the doctors say, whatever it takes. I just don’t wanna lose you.”

 

Hearing him say it lit something in me – a flicker of hope I hadn’t felt in weeks. God, I wanted to believe him. Needed to. Because without hope, what else was there?

 

But underneath that warmth, another voice whispered: What if he can’t? What if this is just another promise that falls apart the second things get hard?

 

I shoved that voice down and rested my head against his shoulder, breathing in the clean smell of soap on his skin. For now, for this fragile moment, I let myself believe him. Because I had to.

 

Just then, the low growl of a pickup shattered the quiet, like the cavalry rolling in. A massive maroon Ford F-150 came rumbling up the street and swung into our driveway, bass-heavy music I didn’t even recognize blasting from the speakers. The thing looked like it could flatten our whole house if Christian sneezed on the gas pedal. It squeezed in beside Mom’s SUV, tires half on the grass, like the driveway itself wasn’t big enough to contain the chaos that had just arrived.

 

Before the engine even cut off, Elton John’s The Bitch Is Back blasted through the speakers. The passenger door flew open, and Jonah leaped out like a man on stage.

 

“BITCHES, I’M BACK!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, throwing his arms wide as if he expected a standing ovation.

 

Jack groaned beside me, muttering something under his breath, but I caught it – the tiniest twitch of a smile curling at the corner of his lips.

 

Christian climbed out of the driver’s side, shaking his head but grinning as he waved.

“We brought reinforcements,” he said. “And I’m not just talking about snacks.”

 

Jonah bounded up the steps two at a time and pulled me into a bear hug before I could even react. “Holy crap, you look like hell!”

 

“Thanks. So do you,” I mumbled into his shoulder.

 

He leaned back, smirking. “Yeah, but I’m an extremely handsome devil, so it balances out.”

 

Jack had stood up by then, arms crossed, his face tight with wariness. But Christian didn’t hesitate. He walked over slowly, wrapped Jack in a calm, steady hug, and said softly, “No pressure, little man. We’re just here to hang.”

 

For a second, Jack stiffened. Then I saw it – something in his shoulders easing, just slightly.

 

I could certainly confirm that Christian’s powerful hugs were truly magical, and he didn’t give them out willy-nilly. He had a way of making you feel special when he hugged you, as if his entire focus was on you and nothing else; in those few moments, you were the center of his world. I sighed as I realized that I would probably always have a little crush on Christian, but I was also wondering, Where is my hug?

 

We ushered them inside. Jonah immediately flopped onto the couch like he owned the place, tossing his legs over the armrest. “This living room is way too tidy. Who are you, and what have you done with the real Nick?”

 

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll have you know, my half of the dorm room is always the cleanest and most organized on the hall. It’s this guy—” I jerked a thumb at Jack—“that keeps us from earning any points.”

 

“Hey,” Jack muttered, but there wasn’t much heat behind it.

 

Christian laughed as he set down the bags he’d brought. “Let’s give them a break. They’ve been through hell.”

 

I caught Jack’s eye. He gave me the smallest of nods. Maybe we were going to be okay.

 

***

 

I made club sandwiches for everyone. Nothing fancy – just turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato, provolone, and enough mayo to drown a small village. By the time I handed out the plates, Christian and Jonah were already goofing around, cracking inside jokes I didn’t totally get but laughed at anyway. Jack sat at the end of the table, quiet, picking at his sandwich like it might lunge at him. He managed a couple of faint smiles, even a quick chuckle when Jonah launched into a dramatic retelling of tripping over his flip-flops and face-planting in the frozen food aisle at Target.

 

“Did you at least land on something soft?” I asked.

 

“Soft? It was linoleum, Nick. I broke my soul.”

 

Christian grinned. “I’m surprised you didn’t break the floor.”

 

That earned a tiny smirk from Jack. Just a flicker, but I caught it.

 

Of course, nothing good lasts. Jonah, trying to be funny, flicked a piece of crust at Jack. It missed, but Jack flinched like he’d been slapped. Without a word, he grabbed his fork and hurled it across the room. The clang against the wall echoed through the silence that followed.

 

So much for progress.

 

Christian cleared his throat carefully. “Hey, Jack – Jonah didn’t mean anything by that. We were just messing around.”

 

Jack’s glare was sharp enough to cut steel. “Yeah, I get it. Let’s all laugh at the sad little mental case.”

 

“No one’s laughing at you, Jack,” I said, my stomach tying itself into knots.

 

Christian gave Jonah the shut up and fix this look. “Why don’t you and Jack go downstairs, throw on a movie? Nick and I will toss the football around, get some air.”

 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Right. Have your little strategy session about how to lock me back in the psych ward. I know I’ve been a burden too long.”

I forced a grin. “No, I just need the full scoop on Christian’s latest boy-on-boy lip-lock. We’re talking Pulitzer-level gossip here.”

 

“And Jack,” I said, turning to face him. “Please remember what we were just talking about. Please?

 

Jack looked at me sadly and briefly nodded before returning his gaze to the floor.

 

Jonah then had to get his own word in. “Yeah, duh. That’s the headline. You’re just the sad little footnote now.”

 

Jack opened his mouth, ready to bite back, then stopped. He let out a short snort instead. Not quite a laugh, but not an explosion either. “Fine,” he muttered, standing up.

“But I get the good blanket.”

 

“Not if I beat you to it, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” Jonah shot back, already bouncing after him like an overcaffeinated golden retriever.

 

I watched them disappear downstairs, Jonah chattering a mile a minute. Maybe endless energy was exactly what Jack needed.

 

Mr. Bojangles pawed at the back door, whining. He knew it was football time.

 

Outside, the summer air wrapped around us – warm, sweet with cut grass. I didn’t make it five steps before I cracked. All the tension that had been coiled inside me spilled out at once. My face twisted and I broke down, sobbing into Christian’s shoulder.

 

He didn’t hesitate. He pulled me close, tight and steady, rubbing my back as he murmured, “Shhh… we’ve got you. You’re not alone anymore. We’ll figure this out, together, I promise.”

 

I clung to him like I was drowning, and he was the last life raft. I wanted him never to let go. Jack hadn’t hugged me like this in what seemed like forever. It was exactly what I needed: safe, strong, unconditional.

 

“I love you, Christian,” I choked out.

 

“I love you too, Nick,” he said, squeezing tighter.

 

When I finally let go, his shirt was soaked through with tears and snot. My cheeks burned.

 

“You give really great hugs,” I muttered, embarrassed.

 

He smiled. “Nah. I give really great hugs to you.” Then he kissed my cheek, light and brotherly. “There. Something to hold onto for later.”

 

I laughed weakly, wiping at my face. We tossed the football around in silence, the thump of leather in our hands grounding me. For a few minutes, I almost felt like I was normal.

 

Christian finally asked, “That blow-up at lunch… is that normal now?”

 

I sighed. “Pretty much. Everything’s a battle – showers, meals, meds, getting off the couch. He just stares at the TV most of the day. Doesn’t want to do anything outside or go anywhere.”

 

“And your mom helps?”

 

“When she’s home. But mostly, it’s me taking care of Jack while also having to do all the household chores, make lunch, and sometimes dinner. It’s gotten to be overwhelming.”

 

Christian frowned, tossing the ball into his hands. “That’s a lot, Nick.”

 

I told him everything then. Seattle. The hospital night. Holding Jack down while Mom gave him a sedative. The 72-hour psychiatric hold. The mood swings. The talks about breaking up. How he’s here now, but not really here.

 

“He’s just… different,” I said. “Like a sad but angry ghost.”

 

Christian sank down beside me in the grass. “Bro, I don’t know how you’re carrying all this.”

 

“Because I love him. Since the first day we met.”

 

He whistled. “That’s heavy.”

 

I nodded. “Yeah, it is.”

 

“Yeah. But love’s not magic,” he said gently. “You need help.”

 

I shook my head. “I don’t trust anyone else with him.”

 

“We’re not ‘anyone else,’” Christian said firmly. “You’ve got us. For as long as it takes. And don’t worry – we’ll chip in for food and stuff. Make sure Jonah gets his rabies shots after playing with raccoons.”

 

I laughed for real. “Thanks, Christian.”

When we got back inside, Mom had just come home. She hugged Christian like he’d dropped from the sky. “You’re a godsend. I haven’t seen Nick this light in weeks.”

 

Christian grinned. “Happy to help, Dr. K.” Then he looked thoughtful. “What if, once Jack’s a little steadier, we all took a road trip? Nothing big. Just Traverse City. Cabins, dunes, cherry pie, sunsets. Something to look forward to.”

 

Mom’s eyes softened. “That’s… an excellent idea.”

 

Christian caught my gaze. “But let’s keep it between us for now. No promises till Jack’s ready.”

 

I nodded. “Yeah. Okay.” Even the thought of it made my chest loosen a fraction. Hope. I was starving for hope.

 

We headed down to the basement, braced for the worst.

 

But what we found made us stop in our tracks.

 

Jonah and Jack lay side-by-side on the sofa-bed, Superbad flickering on the TV. Mr. Bojangles curled at their feet. Jonah’s head rested casually on Jack’s shoulder – and Jack didn’t seem to mind.

 

In fact, they were talking.

 

“Michael Cera looks like a squirrel doing taxes for the first time,” Jonah declared.

 

Jack laughed. Actually laughed. “More like if awkward were a Pokémon evolution.”

 

Jonah grinned. “Stage One: Nervous Wreck. Stage Two: Social Anxiety. Final form: Michael Cera.”

 

Jack snorted. “You’re such an idiot.”

 

“And yet, still prettier than you.”

 

Jack rolled his eyes, but his voice was soft. “My boyfriend would disagree. But whatever, I’ll allow it.”

 

Jonah’s eyes widened in mock shock. “Oh, so you still have a boyfriend? You haven’t scared him off yet with your nut-job routine?”

 

Silence stretched. My heart clenched, waiting for the meltdown.

 

Instead, Jack muttered, “I hope I haven’t scared him away.”

 

Christian’s eyebrows shot up. I met his eyes and nodded. I know.

 

It wasn’t a miracle. Jack wasn’t fixed. But he was laughing. Talking. Bantering.

 

With Jonah, of all people.

 

For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of real hope. Small, fragile, but alive.

 

Maybe I’d underestimated the healing power of true friendships.

 

And I silently promised myself: next time Jonah stopped bouncing long enough, I was going to hug that little stinker so hard he squeaked.

 

 

 

 

 

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