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Jack and I were spread out on the living room sofa, our legs tangled together like a couple of bored octopuses, each flipping through the digital course guide on our tablets. The new academic year was right around the corner (in just a little over a week now), and while we’d already gotten our academic schedules, we were still figuring out which extracurriculars wouldn’t make us miserable – or worse, overcommitted.
“So,” I said, scrolling through a painfully long list of clubs, “are you seriously thinking of joining the Anime Club? Or are you just hoping they’ll let you watch Attack on Titan and call it personal growth?”
Jack didn’t even look up. “First of all, they do show Attack on Titan. Second, personal growth can absolutely involve giant naked monsters stomping cities. It’s called art.”
I snorted. “And here I thought I was the dramatic one.”
For academics, we were mostly aligned – English II, U.S. Government & Politics, Chemistry, and a surprisingly popular new elective called “Buddhism for Beginners,” which I was convinced half the student body was taking just to escape the rigors of STEM hell. Our only divergence was language and math: I was taking Mandarin Chinese II and Geometry, while Jack, always the rebel, had opted for Spanish II and Functions of Trigonometry, the latter sounding like a punishment invented during the Spanish Inquisition.
As for clubs, I was torn. Last year, I joined the tennis team, and while I liked it, I wasn’t exactly setting the courts on fire. “I don’t think I want to do tennis again,” I told him. “It’s kind of humiliating being on JV when even the ball boys are more athletic than you.”
Jack thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Hey! What about the swimming team? Lots of cute boys in Speedos to drool over.”
“No way!” I gagged on principle. “Noah’s on the swimming team, for one. That would be hugely awkward and potentially catastrophic. Not to mention, I really don’t need the temptation of drooling over a dozen barely clothed straight boys prancing around the pool.”
Jack offered a slow, understanding nod. “What about that Rainbow–Straight Alliance thing? You liked those kids, right? And it doesn’t meet all that often. Low effort, high inclusivity.”
“I was thinking the same thing!” I brightened. “And if I can drag you with me, even better. But I need a ‘sports-related’ activity, and the RSA doesn’t exactly qualify as a ‘sport.’”
Scrolling further, I noticed the Yoga Club was still open. I perked up. “Dr. Hyslop said yoga might be really good for you, you know – low-impact, good for stress, helps with, like, emotional regulation and mind-body connection stuff. Pretty good exercise, too. Might be a great way to wind down after a rough day.”
Jack groaned like I’d suggested we join a baby-sacrificing cult. “I can’t touch my toes. I can barely touch my knees.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “And it’d mean we’d get to spend more time together.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if I fall over in downward dog and fart in front of everyone, that’s on you.”
“It’s okay,” I replied with a grin. “I’ll still love you. Even if your chakra misfires.”
He threw a pillow at my face.
I pulled out my phone and texted Emery about the Chinese Club. Last year, he’d dragged me into it, and it had turned out to be surprisingly fun, especially the dumpling nights.
A minute later, he replied:
Emery: “Sorry, no can do this year, bud. My parents are making me do the STEM club and the Robotics Team. 😞😭”
“Lame,” I muttered. “Guess I’ll pass on Chinese Club. I’m not brave enough to show up solo and accidentally become the secretary or something.”
With such an academically grueling schedule that would literally kill someone like me, I didn’t know how he would manage it or how he would be able to continue a relationship with Kit. I wondered if they even made it through the summer, but it felt rude to ask. We’d have to just wait and see when we got to school.
In the end, I settled on RSA and the Yoga Club – both manageable options. Jack picked Anime, RSA, and Yoga. He’d flirted with the idea of Psychology Club, hoping to understand himself better, but he sighed and said, “There’s not enough time. Besides, you don’t get extra credit for being emotionally unstable.” I was worried that three activities were already too much for him to handle, and it would also affect our time together. Selfish, I know. At least we’d be together in two out of three extracurriculars, and you’d better believe I would keep those vicious queens in the RSA far, far away from my man.
His “emotionally unstable” joke made me pause.
“You’re not unstable, Jack,” I said gently. “You’re working on stuff. That’s different.”
Jack met my eyes without flinching. “Try walking in my shoes for a day. I love you, Nicky, but you have no idea what it’s like up here.” He tapped his temple.
I knew he wasn’t trying to hurt me, but it still landed. I was trying—he knew I was—and my fight just wore a different uniform. Mine was the everyday stuff: take the meds, name the spiral, show up to therapy, breathe, text before I tip. I was working to get a grip on the anxiety and the gray days, to become someone my dad would be proud of, and to be the best boyfriend I could be for Jack. Because he was the center of my world. I hoped I was the center of his, too.
A couple of days later, Mom took Jack up to the town near Harrison West to meet with potential therapists. They’d narrowed it down to three, but one name kept coming up – Lindsay Kelling, Psy.D. Her area of expertise was in TF-CBT, EMDR, DBT skills, and attachment-based work. Dr. Hyslop had recommended her personally. But what mattered most was that Jack liked her.
“She actually listens,” he told me later that night. “Not like she’s trying to fix me, but like she wants to understand.”
I smiled, relieved. “Good. That’s what you need and deserve.”
“She said I was resilient,” he added, almost shy.
“You are,” I said without hesitation. “You’re the most resilient person I know. Maybe even the strongest person I know. You’re a survivor, Jack. Just look at everything you’ve had to face in your life, and you’ve always made it. And now, you’re here and safe.”
He rested his head on my shoulder, and we sat there a while, letting the future creep closer. It was coming whether we were ready or not.
While Mom and Jack were away checking therapy options, I had the house to myself for a bit. I didn’t want to sit there stewing in my thoughts, so I texted Tommy Reese.
Me: “Hey, you around? Wanna hang out a bit?”
Tommy: “Sure. Still owe u a rematch on Mario Kart anyway.”
He showed up with a giant Cherry Coke in one hand and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos in the other. Classic Tommy. Within five minutes, he’d kicked my butt at Mario Kart twice, roasted my socks, and started ranting about the MCU being “morally bankrupt.”
“You know you’re the only friend I have who thinks the Ant-Man movies were ‘a metaphor for America’s existential collapse,’ right?” I asked, half-laughing, half-concerned.
“They are,” he declared, then stuffed three Cheetos in his mouth. “Ant-Man is late capitalism personified.”
It frustrated me that Tommy couldn’t go to a school like Harrison West. He was exceptionally intelligent and well-suited to the role. The public schools around here were just… not great. Those who got out did, but most couldn’t afford the prep-school price tag. I was lucky – full merit-based academic scholarship lucky.
I threw a pillow at him.
But I didn’t just call him over for Cheetos and rants – I had an ulterior motive. I was curious about his recent interaction with Jonah.
“So… what’s the deal with you and Jonah?” I asked, attempting casual.
Tommy paused the game. “What do you mean?”
I gave him a look. “You asked him to hang out. Burgers. Movie. Boba tea. That’s basically a date, dude.”
He scratched his head, genuinely surprised I’d brought it up. “Yeah, I guess it is. I don’t know, man. Girls haven’t exactly been lining up lately, and the ones who are our age are kind of… well, you know. And Jonah’s cool. Funny. Kind of intense in a ‘might fight a goose for fun’ way. Sometimes I wonder if it might just be … easier.”
I laughed. “That’s… extremely accurate. But it could be complicated if you’re not actually physically attracted to him. I mean, that matters a lot. Otherwise, you’re just… friends with extra steps.”
“I think I’m at least willing to try it. I do think he’s really cute. And you and Jack are so solid. It’s not weird at all, and I kind of envy it. I figured, what the hell. It’s just burgers and a movie. At the very least, I make a new friend. Best case, we really hit it off. I’ve always been a keep-an-open-mind guy.”
“I just didn’t know if you were messing with him,” I said. “Or if you were unsure about your sexuality.”
“Nah,” he said. “I wouldn’t mess with someone like that, and I don’t think about ‘sexuality’ much. It’s more ‘is the person chill, do we vibe’. And before you ask, I’ve never done anything with a guy. Label me ‘curious,’ I guess.”
I had to admit, I was impressed. Tommy was still the same sarcastic disaster, but his outlook on relationships was… mature.
“Would you kiss him?” I blurted. “Jonah’s affectionate – lots of hugs, hand holding, cuddles – even with just friends. I don’t think he’s ever actually dated a guy either. He’s still so young.”
Tommy thought, scratching his chin. “Yeah, I probably would, but he’d have to ask. I’m bad at reading signals, and I don’t want his brother to kick the crap out of me.”
We played another round of Mario Kart, then flopped onto the couch. The group chat was buzzing. Jack and I jumped in to stir the pot.
Jonah: “Just bought a gallon of bubble tea for our date. Do u think that’s too much??”
Christian: “Are you drinking it or bathing in it?”
Nick: “Please don’t answer that.”
Jack: “I leave you boys alone for 20 mins, and you’re already feral!”
Jonah: “I’m NEVER normal. You knew this.”
Christian: “Reminder, I’m driving you on this date. Please don’t get sticky.”
Jonah: “…No promises.”
Christian: “Then at least no jizz stains on the car seats!”
Tommy (added by Nick): “Wait, what did I just walk into?”
Jonah: ❤️❤️❤️
Christian: LMAO
Jack: “Ladies and gentlemen… they’re in love.”
Jonah: “UNDO UNDO UNDO”
“Okay, what the hell did you do?” Tommy demanded, lunging for my phone.
“Added you to the chat. Welcome to chaos.”
“Oh my God. He’s gonna kill me.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “But he’ll do it with glitter and a squeaky hammer.”
We sat for a moment. Then Tommy glanced over and said, “Hey. I’m proud of you, bro.”
“For what?”
“For being… this you. The one who doesn’t hide, who has great friends, who’s crushing school, who’s obviously head-over-heels for a boy.”
My cheeks warmed. “Thanks. I’m proud of you, too. You’ve gotten… cool.”
“You and Jack – it’s real,” he said. “Annoyingly cute, actually.”
I punched his arm. “Shut up.”
Later, Jack and Mom returned. Jack fell onto the couch beside me and tucked into my side. Tommy stood up, stretching. “Alright, lovebirds. I’m out. Tell Jonah I accept his boba challenge.”
“Will do,” I said.
When the door shut, Jack tilted his head. “So… how was it?”
“Good. Tommy’s actually going through with it. Movie next weekend. Christian’s driving, they’ll hit the matinee, burgers, boba, then he’s hauling back because move-in day is Saturday.”
“I wonder,” Jack mused, “if Jonah’s gonna be his usual chaotic goblin self or if he knows how to turn on the charm.”
We lay there a while longer, just enjoying each other’s company. I think we were both just as nervous as Tommy and Jonah.
“This is the first time I’ve had so little stress going into a new year,” Jack murmured. “Not worrying about my parents. Or money. It’s gonna be so different.”
“Me neither,” I said. “We’re different now. Everything’s different. But it’s good.”
He squeezed my hand. “You sure you’re ready for the sequel?”
“With you?” I smiled. “Always.”
***
Friday finally landed – Jonah’s big “date” with Tommy. The word date was still up for debate, but everything about it screamed date. Christian was the chauffeur, chaperone, human lie detector, and mobile embarrassment generator.
Despite all his confidence and sass, Jonah was rattled. It turned out this was his first real date. Even with Danny, they’d never done the cliché dinner-and-a-movie thing. Now, he’d somehow matched with a … Flexibly Straight? Questioning? Exploratory? – whatever label fit – boy who showed up at my place at 11:15 in tight black jeans, a crisp black button-down, black dress sneakers, and hair slicked back like he was auditioning for a boy band or a very polite crime family.
He looked… good. Like “who even are you” good. He’d always been just Tommy to me, but now I was seeing him in a totally different and strange new light … he was attractive.
Christian’s truck rumbled up, and out stepped Jonah in black slacks, a purple button-down, and a black vest, Oxfords polished to danger levels, and a black trilby to bribe his hair. He looked both cute and grown up all at once. It was like they’d coordinated by telepathy.
Tommy glanced him up and down, smiling shyly. “You look really handsome.”
Jonah turned scarlet. “You too.”
They dove into the truck like it was a getaway car, leaving me and Jack on the porch with our hands over our hearts. Ah, young love.
“They’re either going to fall in love or implode from awkwardness,” Jack said.
“Honestly? I’ll take either, as long as it’s entertaining.”
They returned at 5:30, sun-glowy and suspiciously buoyant. Nobody looks that happy after five hours with Christian supervising. I herded them inside.
“Debrief,” I ordered, “or we post guesses online.”
Tommy hesitated, but we dragged him to the couch. Jonah wore the same pink-cheeked look I hadn’t seen since he kissed Danny behind the vending machines. Jack handed out sodas. Silence thickened. Christian clapped once, loudly.
“Fine. I’ll go first, since Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Blush here forgot how words work.”
He hooked a thumb at them. “They talked about school in the truck. Math, on a date. Who talks about math on a date?”
“Responsible people?” Tommy offered weakly.
Christian ignored him. “Halfway there, Tommy scoots his hand over and holds Jonah’s. And our goblin becomes a red-faced puddle.”
OMG! How adorable! I thought, barely holding myself back from squealing like a 13-year-old girl at a The Kid LAROI concert.
“I was allergic to something in the truck!” Jonah protested.
“Yeah,” Christian said, “feelings.”
We wheezed. Jonah tried to sink into the throw pillow.
“At the theater,” Christian continued, “they sit so close their shoulders were negotiating a merger. Whispering and giggling like a sixth-grade sleepover. I sat behind them like a lifeguard for cuteness.”
Tommy covered his face. “I knew this was a mistake…”
“Oh, sweetie,” Christian said, flourishing a hand. “Then Midnight Bun Society -- matching burgers. Matching. Feeding each other fries like it’s a wedding. And boba? Twenty minutes to decide, then the same drink anyway. Milk tea, tapioca pearls, and one shared cup. Meanwhile, I’m Googling whether second-hand adorableness can give you cavities.”
“It sounds cute,” Jack said, grinning at them.
“Very cute,” Tommy mumbled, turning pink again.
“And on the ride home,” Christian said, “backseat hand-holding, googly-eyed silence, the whole ‘someone please kiss someone’ energy. No one did. End.”
“Why do you hate me?” Jonah groaned.
Jack stood. “It sounds like a lovely date. I’m proud of you both.”
“If half our school had the guts to do that,” I added, “we’d live in a nicer world.”
That seemed to reset the room. Jonah peeked out from his pillow. Tommy exhaled. Christian checked his watch and clapped. “Alright, I’m done inflicting growth. We have packing to finish.”
He shook Tommy’s hand, murmuring, “Sorry, dude,” ruffled Jonah’s hair, and headed out.
With just three of us, we collapsed on the couch.
“I blew it,” Tommy said.
“You did not,” I said. “It sounded adorable.”
He lowered his hands. “Even I thought it was cute. I still don’t know what I’m doing. But the whole time, it didn’t cross my mind once that… you know. We were just two people having fun, and the ‘he’s a boy’ part didn’t register. Does that make me…?”
Jack tilted his head. “Does it matter?”
Tommy shrugged. “He makes me laugh. He made me happy. He’s not who I expected – he’s smarter, calmer, and we actually talked. About real stuff. And it sucks that we don’t know when we’ll be able to hang out again because he lives so far away and he’s in boarding school.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I said. “One day at a time. Talk. Be honest. Text a lot.”
He smiled, real and grateful. “Thanks.”
We were just reaching for the remote when someone pounded on the door. Mr. Bojangles detonated into barks. I opened it and – no surprise – there was Jonah, breathless.
“Tommy,” I called. “You have a visitor.”
Tommy stood. Jonah grabbed his shirt and stood up on tiptoe, kissing him. Awkward, sweet, perfect. Tommy leaned down and kissed him again, softer. They stared at each other, both blushing so hard it was almost a medical event, until Christian lay on the horn outside like a demon goose chorus.
“Sorry, gotta go!” Jonah yelped, bolting back out. “I’ll text you!” he shouted from the window as they pulled away.
Jack and I turned to Tommy, wearing identical evil grins.
“So,” I said. “How was it?”
“Damn,” he breathed.
“By the way,” I added, pulling out my phone, “you’re now officially part of our group chat.”
***
After Tommy left, Jack and I were on our own to fix dinner and finish packing for tomorrow’s move-in. I made spaghetti Bolognese with broccolini and garlic-cheese bread.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” Jack said around a forkful of pasta.
I shrugged. “After Dad died and Mom’s shifts got wild, it was either learn or live on cereal. Also, Food Network taught me 80% of my personality.”
We spent the next hour finishing our packing. Fortunately, we hadn’t waited until the last minute, so a lot was already done. We’d left as much as possible in our school storage lockers anyway—so what we had now was mainly clothes, toiletries, electronics, school supplies. I’d bought a big corkboard for our wall, to pin photos from last year and the summer (some printed large). Also – snacks. An irresponsible amount of snacks.
I double-checked Jack’s meds – refill dates, counts, the spreadsheet Mom and I had built. Most were on a 90-day cycle; he was set. We had the local pharmacy’s info, too. The infirmary was supposed to manage this – but I like to have a back-up when it comes to Jack.
We took our last at-home shower, and made sure to use up all the hot water because we didn’t know when the next chance to have “play time” in the shower would be. We didn’t know when we’d get real privacy again – Harrison West’s dorm showers are about as romantic as a bus station – so we took our time and let it be easy and affectionate.
Back downstairs, we lay on the pullout in the basement, warm under the blankets, Mr. Bojangles snoring on his rug like a small machine. The ceiling fan made that soft whoop-whoop, stirring the air and my thoughts.
A year ago I’d walked into Harrison West a scared, awkward freshman who was hoping he wouldn’t be eaten alive by the ecosystem. Now? I had a tight-knit crew, solid grades, a relationship that meant the world to me, and a better map of who I was and who I wanted to be. The night before school used to feel like a cliff. Tonight felt like a bridge.
And then there was Jack.
On move-in day last year, I’d hoped my roommate wouldn’t be a jerk or messy. I had no clue this beautiful, complicated, emotionally intense boy would rearrange every room in my heart. That he’d become my boyfriend and my best friend. That I’d learn his tells – how his laugh shifts when he’s tired, how his eyes scatter when he’s overwhelmed, how to sit with him in the quiet without making it a test. We’d run the gauntlet – panic, breakdown, hospital – and we’d held hands through best-firsts: first kiss, first night falling asleep in the same space, first road trips, first “we got this” after a spiral. I couldn’t have imagined a year like this, and we were only at the opening credits of the sequel.
We’d see our old misfit crew soon – Mark, Emery and Kit, Christian and Jonah – and a tide of new faces who’d orbit until the right ones stuck. Perhaps we could try another Halloween party and avoid burning the campus down. Maybe we’d invent a new tradition. Maybe we’d learn how to be boring sometimes and call it maturity.
After a while, we couldn’t sleep. The house was still – Mom had gone to bed; even Mr. Bojangles had stopped sawing logs. Jack shifted against me. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Mind won’t shut up.”
“Like what?”
“Everything. Classes, clubs, wondering if I packed socks. Also, how you’re basically the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met, and I still don’t understand what you see in me.”
“Pfft,” he snorted. “You’re way more beautiful. You just hide it under shaggy hair and self-deprecating humor.”
“I like my shaggy hair.”
“I like it too. Especially when I can push it out of your face and kiss you.” He did, and warmth spread like someone turned the dimmer up.
“But we’re gonna have to get our hair cute before we get back,” he sighed.
Jack rested his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to mess anything up this year.”
“You won’t,” I said, arm around his waist. “We’ve got plans. A routine. Therapy. And, if all else fails, Jonah’s meme barrage every fifteen minutes will stop us from throwing our textbooks at the wall.”
He got quiet, fingers finding mine. “Nick… thanks for this. For letting me move in. For giving me a family. For looking after me. For loving me when I couldn’t even look at myself.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m not doing you a favor.” I kissed his shoulder. “I’m just loving you.”
“I think I’m getting better,” he whispered. “Slowly. But I feel it. Like I’m not just surviving. I’m… living.”
“You are,” I said. “I’m proud of you. I saw it in Traverse City, and I’ve seen it since.”
He traced circles on my chest. “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t stop trying. With me. Even if I get weird again. Or sad. Or shut down. Keep knocking.”
“I’ll never stop knocking,” I said. “And I know now when to knock softer. Or when to just sit on the floor outside the door and wait.”
He smiled. “That’s deep.”
“I’ve been hanging out with a brooding artist lately.”
“Sounds like a handful.”
“You have no idea.”
We quieted. I clicked off the lamp. He tucked in. Mr. Bojangles flopped a paw over Jack’s shin like a benediction. The fan hummed. Peace did that rare thing it does: it stayed.
I thought about tomorrow – Mom with pancakes or breakfast burritos, the drive, hopefully the same room, Miss Charice shrieking when she sees us (assuming she’s still our dorm parent), Emery pretending not to cry, and Jonah saying our sweaters are ugly. Somehow, it would feel like a return, not a departure.
Jack mumbled into my shoulder. “We should get matching underwear. Like power-couple energy. Plaid.”
“I regret feeding you vegetables.”
“Too late.”
I tightened my arm and let sleep finally catch me – boyfriend in my arms, dog at our feet, heart full enough to spill. Tomorrow would come. We’d greet it together.
***
If I could time-travel back to the kid who walked into Harrison West last year – nervous smile, emergency hoodie, contingency plan for eye contact – I’d tell him three things:
First: You are not a problem to solve. You are a person to learn. It sounds like a fortune cookie, but it took me months to get it. I kept scanning rooms for danger, trying to predict pain like I could math my way out of it. And sometimes vigilance helped. But being alive isn’t the same as being on guard. This year, I learned how to take my hand off the mental fire alarm long enough to enjoy the music in the cafeteria, the way the hallway smells like floor wax and paper, the exact laugh Jack does when Christian’s deadpan lands. The world didn’t end when I blinked. Turns out, blinking helps.
Second: Ask for help earlier than you think you’re allowed. I used to think “strong” meant “silent.” Now I think it means “honest.” I got a learner’s permit, sure, but what I really learned was how to say “I’m spiraling” before I hit the bottom; how to text Mom “can we talk” without rehearsing every sentence; how to let Jack see me worried without trying to fix it in advance. The meds helped. They didn’t turn me into a different person. They just gave my brain a wider hallway, so the stampede of thoughts didn’t trample me every time. I still worry (hi, it’s me), but the cliff edges have railings now.
Third: Joy is not a waste of time. This one was sneaky. I used to ration joy like it cost money. If something made me laugh too much, some mean voice in my head said, “Careful. You’ll pay for that.” But then we made a lake look like an ocean. We turned a fire pit into a chapel. We learned that a diner waffle at 6:30 a.m. can fix 51% of your soul. Joy didn’t erase the hard stuff. It gave me pockets to carry it better.
I grew an inch. Maybe two. My voice is starting to settle into itself, although still cracks at the most inopportune times, which is totally embarrassing. I can parallel park in a deserted lot (sometimes). I can say “boyfriend” without the word feeling like shoes that don’t belong to me. I can show up in a room not as a performance but as a person. That’s the trick I’m bringing back in my backpack: the permission to be a work in progress who also throws his head back when something is truly funny. That kid a year ago? He’s still here. He just has a bigger map. And a better pen.
***
I think a lot about pressure – how it finds him, how it stacks. The school year is a machine that turns weeks into deadlines into stories you tell yourself at 3 a.m. Jack is brighter than a room of lamps, creative in a way that makes teachers lean in, and he’s also carrying a brain that sometimes misfires the alarm system for no reason at all. Last year, the machine tried to grind him. This year, we’re changing the settings.
Jack’s grown, in the way people mean when they say “come-of-age” and not just “got taller.” He knows the names of his storms now. He can feel a panic swell two minutes sooner than before. He puts his meds in the case and takes them even when the day feels okay – especially then. He’s learning the difference between “tired” and “overwhelmed,” between “I need quiet” and “I don’t want you near me.” He trusts me with the small things (pick the cereal; set the alarm; choose the stupid socks), which is how you practice trusting someone with the big things.
Will he be able to handle the pressure? I don’t know. Some days it’ll handle him. That’s the truth no brochure prints. But he doesn’t have to carry it without a spotter again. Not on my watch. He has Dr. Lindsay, who asks good questions. He has Mom treating him like family, not just a favor. He has Christian, who is 80% steady and 20% chaos, which is exactly the math you need in a crisis. He has Jonah, who can defibrillate a room with a one-liner. And he has me. That last part is not a threat or a rescue fantasy. It’s a promise. I’m not going anywhere. I will be in the bleachers, the hallway, the health center, the awful plastic chairs outside an office, the line at the smoothie bar, the opposite bunk at 11:47 p.m. when the thought lands wrong. I’ll knock. I’ll wait on the floor outside the door when that’s the move. I’ll make stupid jokes until one of them lands. We’ll make a routine out of the ordinary. We’ll celebrate boredom like a holiday.
I worry, too – what being fully, truly “out” will be like this year; where PDA is safe, where it’s a dare; how to be affectionate without making the cafeteria a stage or our room a cage. I’m excited to room together again, and I’m scared of it. What if we get tired of each other? Bored? What if the closeness that saved us ends up crowding us? I think the answer is boundaries you can say out loud. “I need thirty minutes alone.” “I’m going to the library – kiss you later.” “Not tonight, brain’s fried.” That’s not failure. That’s architecture.
And the new dorm parent? Wild card. Will they let us be? Will they hover? I’ll still say hi with my best Honor Student voice and hope for someone kind who gets that teenagers aren’t a problem, they’re a population. At worst, we keep our corner clean, keep our jokes quiet after 10, bring them cookies occasionally, and make it through.
I’m still a worrier. However, the dangerous spirals are less frequent and less steep. The meds help; therapy helps. Jack helps. I help me. It all adds up. Also, January is coming, and with it: my driver’s license. Freedom that smells like defrost and old pine-tree air fresheners. Perhaps a nice used car with a few battle scars and a unique personality. Windows down in the dead of winter because we can. Grocery runs without begging for rides. A burger at midnight because Geometry was rude. Music too loud and the feeling of a road unrolling under you like a ribbon someone saved for you. I can’t wait.
***
Morning came. It always did, stubborn and smug. Mom flipped pancakes like a short-order hero, humming off-key to the radio. The kitchen smelled like butter and coffee and the faint panic of departure. We ate standing up because the table was already a staging area: pens, highlighters, an alarming number of sticky notes, three different chargers that all claimed to be the “main” charger, a Ziploc of spare batteries, and a stack of notebooks thick enough to stun a moose.
I ran the mental checklist for the hundredth time, the one that lived behind my eyelids:
Mr. Bojangles patrolled between our legs, nails ticking the tile, tail helicoptering hard enough to generate wind. He knew something was up. Dogs always knew. Every time I dropped a T-shirt in the “to pack” pile, he nosed it back to the “to stay” pile, then sat on it, daring me to move him. My working theory was that he was trying to smuggle himself into my duffel. Which would’ve solved my problem, actually, because I still didn’t have a halfway decent plan to sneak him onto campus. (Idea #1: emotional support golden retriever. Idea #2: shave him and say he was a very large hamster. Idea #3: become dorm parent. All bad. Working on it.)
Jack moved through the living room like a sleepy cyclone, checking the same things in a different order. He twirled a pen, pocketed it, then pocketed a second pen “in case the first pen gets stage fright.” He did this new soft-settled thing now – touched each anchor point as he passed: meds case, phone, my shoulder. It calmed both of us. He caught me staring and grinned like, I know.
We loaded the car with the practiced choreography of people who’d moved their whole lives in and out of rooms. Mom was the foreman. “Heavy low, soft on top, nothing that leaks near anything that plugs in,” she chanted, and somehow our junk Tetris’d itself into place. The trunk closed with a decisive thunk that sounded like competence.
I ran a smaller, pettier checklist in my head – the one about the year ahead. We wouldn’t be freshmen anymore. We wouldn’t be the lowest rung, the ones who stood too close to the walls because the hallways felt like rivers. We’d be… not big, but bigger. Poor Jonah would be the smallest unit of measurement in the high school, now entering his freshman year (“one Jonah high”), but he’d weaponize that in five minutes. I was curious in a nosy, excited way – how everyone had grown and shifted over the summer. Had Emery finally cut his hair or doubled down and looked like a poet? Had Kit learned to skateboard or decided skateboards were a government plot? Would Christian actually take a break this year or schedule his breaks with color-coded tabs? Would Jonah come back the same or somehow more… Jonah? And what would our little orbit look like by spring – who was in, who was visiting, who had become a permanent moon?
There was a weird tug in my chest I couldn’t name at first. Leaving home to go back home. My mom’s house held my history – the wonky kitchen drawer, the old photo of Dad that made me stop mid-stair; the patch of carpet Mr. Bojangles had “customized” as a puppy; the freezer where popsicles went to die. Harrison West had my present and whatever this next version of me was becoming. The way the sidewalk curved past the dining hall. The ugly couch in our common room. The sound of Jack’s laugh bouncing off cinderblock and feeling, against all odds, like a cathedral. I didn’t want to leave, and I couldn’t wait to go. Both true. Both loud.
Mom slid a pancake onto my plate like a medal. “Eat,” she ordered, which was how she said I love you on mornings like this. She pretended not to watch me eat and failed. I pretended not to notice, but I failed. Jack thanked her for the third time, which made her do that quick blink she did when she was about to get misty and refused.
I took one last lap through the house with my eyes, because you can pack things and still forget details: the chip in the hallway paint shaped like a comma, the plant I kept forgetting to water that refused to die out of spite, the list on the fridge with “call dentist” circled since July. I tapped the fridge magnet Dad brought back from a conference once – ugly, perfect – and told it in my head I was trying. To be someone he’d recognize. To be someone he’d be proud of. To take care of the boy who took care of me.
Outside, the air had that late-August bite that wasn’t cold yet, but I thought about it. We juggled the last-minute bits – the travel mugs, the pillow that absolutely had to ride in the back seat, the headphones that were on the table five minutes ago and had now time-traveled. Mr. Bojangles jumped into the car like we’d never said he wasn’t invited.
He looked straight ahead, ears up, ready for duty.
“Buddy,” I said, scratching his neck, “I swear I’m gonna figure it out. One day you’ll terrorize a squirrel on the quad like God intended.”
He sneezed in my face. Blessing accepted.
Mom locked the door, then unlocked it again because she didn’t remember locking it, then locked it for real. We did the goodbye dance – hugs that lasted, the “text me when you get there,” the “we will,” the “no, seriously,” the “we will,” the “send a picture of your room,” the “we will.” She fixed my hair. She fixed Jack’s collar. She smoothed something that did not need smoothing and then laughed at herself.
“Okay,” she said, palms on our cheeks for a second like we were smaller than we were.
“Go be brilliant. Or at least hydrated.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we chorused.
We climbed in. Seatbelts clicked like a countdown. I pulled out my phone to check the list, which I didn’t actually need to check, and checked it anyway. Jack rested his hand on the console, palm up. I set mine in it. The gesture was small and stupid and everything.
As we rolled down the street, the landmarks lined up like beads on a string: Mrs. Patel’s yard flaming with zinnias; the corner where I wiped out on my bike in sixth grade and pretended I meant to; the mailbox with the dent from that one winter when the plow was feeling spicy. We passed the gas station with the broken S, the billboard that screamed CHIROPRACTOR in a font that should have been illegal, the curve where the trees made a tunnel, and you felt like you were surfacing into something.
I didn’t look at the clock. I didn’t look at the miles. I looked at the road unwinding like a ribbon someone had saved for us and thought: we weren’t the same kids who left last spring. We weren’t finished products either. We were somewhere in between, which was exactly where the good stuff happens.
“Ready?” Jack asked, eyes on the lane, mouth tilted like he already knew my answer.
“No,” I said, because honesty was the whole point. Then: “But yes.”
He squeezed my fingers once. The turn signal ticked. The world opened.
We headed toward Harrison West.
Here’s what I know now that I didn’t a year ago: coming-of-age isn’t one big door you walk through. It’s a hundred little thresholds. You step over them with wet hair or sand in your shoes or a quiz you didn’t study for or a friend who needs you or a laugh that saves your day. You trip sometimes. You back up and try again. You hold out a hand, and someone takes it. If you’re lucky, that hand belongs to the same person tomorrow.
We’re a work in progress. We’re also, somehow, already enough.
And the road? It’s long. It’s ours. It’s home and away and back again.
To Be Continued …..
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