Swing for the Fences

I got my chance the next morning.

 

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and yesterday’s bacon grease – the kind of lazy Saturday-morning smell that made me want to curl up in a blanket and never move again. Jonah was already there, hunched over the counter in his sleep shorts, hair sticking out at every possible angle like he’d been electrocuted. He was pouring himself what could only be described as a comically illegal bowl of Fruit Loops. I swear he must’ve dumped half the box into that oversized mixing bowl.

 

He didn’t notice me at first, humming some ridiculous tune under his breath – something that sounded like the SpongeBob theme crossed with a funeral march.

 

I crept up behind him like a predator stalking prey and then pounced, wrapping my arms around him from behind like a human anaconda. I squeezed so hard his spine made a cracking noise that was either deeply satisfying or medically concerning.

 

“Can’t—breathe—here!” he wheezed through a mouthful of dry cereal dust. A rainbow-colored cloud puffed into the air.

 

I loosened my grip just enough so he could gasp, but didn’t let go. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”

 

He twisted his head around, giving me this mock-serious face, lower lip sticking out like the world’s saddest duck. “You’d better not be leading me on, Nick. My heart is fragile. I bruise easily. You know how I can get! And I can’t promise I won’t kiss you again!”

 

I laughed. “No, no, no, it’s not like that. I’m talking about last night. What you said to Jack – what you did for him.”

 

Jonah blinked, genuinely confused. “I didn’t say anything. I was just being me.”

 

“Exactly,” I said. “And you is perfect.”

 

And I swear to God, the little menace blushed. Full-on, cheeks turning pink, eyes darting away, blushed. Jonah Donahue, professional chaos goblin, was embarrassed for once in his life. I wanted to bottle the moment, sell it on eBay. Instead, I settled for a couple of whacks on his freakishly tiny butt, which made him squeal and swat at me with his spoon. A glob of milk and cereal landed on the counter.

 

“You’re cleaning that up,” I told him.

 

“You traumatized me,” he shot back. “I’m filing a complaint.”

 

Before I could answer, Christian strolled into the kitchen, already showered, dressed, hair perfect, teeth practically sparkling. The bastard looked like he’d walked off the set of a toothpaste commercial.

 

“So,” he said casually, grabbing an apple and leaning against the counter like he was auditioning for Friends, “what’s the plan for this morning?”

 

I sighed. “Normally, I make Jack breakfast and take it down to him on a tray with juice and his pills. I sit with him while he eats—well, pokes at it—and then I beg him to take his meds. After that, it’s the shower battle. Sometimes he wins. Okay, he wins a lot. I just get so exhausted fighting with him about it.”

 

Christian nodded, thoughtful as always. “Show us the routine today. Tomorrow, we’ll take over. You shouldn’t have to do this alone. This way, you can have more time to focus on the household chores and more time to relax. And eventually, Jack will be able to help with the chores, too.”

 

That caught me off guard. “You mean, like… every day?”

 

He nodded. “We’ll split it up. Tag-team. Jonah can handle the sassy comebacks, I’ll play bad cop, and you can be the reward when he plays nice.”

 

“Excuse you,” Jonah said, still munching Fruit Loops. “I can do bad cop. I’ve watched every episode of Law & Order: SVU. I know things.”

 

Christian smirked. “You’re literally a human glitter cannon.”

 

Jonah flipped him off with one hand and stirred his cereal with the other. “Glitter can be dangerous. Ever try getting it out of your eyes?”

 

I shook my head and laughed. “You two are insane. But thank you. Seriously.”

 

Christian grinned. “Wait till you meet our other little brother. He’s starting eighth grade in the fall. He’s a total nut-job.”

 

Another Donahue boy at Harrison West next year? Three of them at once? God help us all.

 

Christian wasn’t done. “And by the way, we’re getting Jack outside today. I don’t care if he just stands there glaring at us; he’s going to breathe fresh air and touch grass. Maybe even throw a football.”

 

That made me snort. “Jack? Football? You’re more likely to get him to walk on hot coals. The closest he’s ever come to liking sports is falling asleep in front of the TV while I was watching a Lions game. And that only happened because I bribed him with Doritos. If you so much as say the word ‘touchdown,’ he acts like you’ve asked him to join a cult.”

 

Jonah snorted milk out his nose. “Please tell me he at least knows who Tom Brady is.”

 

“Barely,” I said. “He calls him ‘the football guy who married Giselle.’”

 

Christian groaned. “Okay, that’s criminal.”

 

I grinned. “Good luck, coach. You’ll need the patience of a Buddhist monk. Jack will test every ounce of it.”

 

Jonah grinned. “This I gotta see.”

 

After the breakfast banter, Jonah actually volunteered to make scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast for Jack. He put way too much butter in the pan, then tried to plate everything like we were in a Michelin-star restaurant – toast fanned out, strawberries and blueberries sprinkled on top, and a damn cloth napkin folded on the tray. He even included a sprig of parsley he found in the fridge.

 

“Voilà,” he said, bowing. “Five-star dining, bitches.”

 

I felt a pang of guilt. Jack usually got cereal from me. Toast and a hard-boiled egg if I were feeling ambitious. But this? This was presidential treatment.

 

Christian picked up the tray and headed downstairs. Jonah and I hung back by the stairwell, listening like spies.

 

The TV was on, so we knew Jack was already awake. What kind of mood he was in was anybody’s guess.

 

“I’ve got your breakfast here, bro,” Christian called out in a light tone.

 

“Shove it up your ass,” Jack muttered. “I call it ‘reverse digestion.’”

 

I winced. I waited for the inevitable explosion.

 

But then—

 

“That was very rude, Jack,” Christian said evenly. “Wanna try that again? Jonah and Nick both helped with this; I think you owe them a little gratitude, especially since they’re your friends. The spoiled brat routine will only get you so far.”

 

Silence. I gripped the stair rail so tightly I thought it might snap.

 

Then: casual clinking of cutlery. Christian talking about something random – sports, weather, hot chicks, I couldn’t tell.

 

“Good job, you ate all of it!” I heard him chirp.

 

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a baby, buttface,” Jack replied flatly.

 

I couldn’t help it. I cracked a smile.

 

“Now your meds, please,” Christian said. “Here’s your juice.”

 

As Jack was presumably taking his pills, I heard Christian ask him, “Why don’t you like taking your pills when that’s what’s going to help you get better? Do you want to stay like this the rest of your life and be miserable?”

 

Jack let out a long breath through his nose. “Because they don’t help me. Not really. They make me feel groggy, like I’ve been hit by a truck before I even get out of bed. I’m tired all the time, even more than usual. My head pounds, I get dizzy if I stand up too fast, and it just… it doesn’t feel like me. I feel off. Like I’m watching everything from behind a fogged-up glass wall.”

 

Christian frowned. “That sounds brutal. But have you actually told your doctors all that?”

 

Jack gave a bitter little laugh. “Yeah. Or at least I’ve tried. I tell them, and they just nod, write something down on their chart, and then say I need to ‘stick with the regimen.’ Nobody listens. I’m just the messed-up kid in the chair. They already decided what I need before I open my mouth.”

 

“That’s not how it should work,” Christian said firmly. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen, when you’re a patient, you’ve got to learn to advocate for yourself. You can’t just shrug and let them steamroll you. If something feels wrong, you have to make them hear you. Tell them exactly what you’re feeling. Tell them you don’t like those meds and you want to try something else that doesn’t leave you feeling like a zombie. Doctors are busy, yeah, but that’s why you’ve got to grab their attention. Make them listen.”

 

Jack blinked at him. “You really think they’d listen if I just… pushed harder?”

 

“I do,” Christian said, nodding. “But it starts with you deciding your voice matters. Because it does. Do you think you can do that?”

 

Jack hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Yeah. I can try.”

 

“Good. And hey – don’t just go it alone,” Christian added. “Talk to Nick’s mom, too. She’s a doctor. She gets how this system works. Maybe she can help you explain it to your doctors in a way they’ll actually pay attention to. Team effort, right?”

 

Jack finally managed the tiniest smirk. “Yeah. Team effort.”

 

Christian gathered up Jack’s dishes, took them back upstairs to the kitchen, and put them in the dishwasher.

 

“God, I feel so stupid,” I groaned. “It was so easy for you.”

 

Christian shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. But Jack knows you love him. He uses that. Tests it. Manipulates it. We’re just backup dancers in his drama right now, so he doesn’t try as hard with us.”

 

I nodded slowly. “Still, you handled it so well.”

 

“Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve done everything you could. Now we’ve got your back. Like, did you know that he was having problems with his meds?”

 

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s never said anything to me.”

 

“Sometimes you just need to know how to ask. And he’s been having a lot of side effects and said the doctors aren’t listening to him. Some of the side effects he mentioned sound like they could be affecting his moods and even making them worse. Now, I’m not a doctor, but you should at least mention it to your mom,” he said.

 

“Yeah, I will, thanks,” I said, totally blown away by Christian just coming in, taking charge, and seemingly able to start solving problems right off the bat. It was incredible.

 

So, I immediately sent a voice message to my mom through WhatsApp. After hearing about Jack’s little theory, I hoped she would try to do something about it, either by talking to Jack’s doctors, doctor-to-doctor, or finding him better doctors. I didn’t think he should be taking so long to recover from what I thought sounded basically like just a really bad panic attack. But what did I know?

 

Then came shower duty, although it sure wasn’t as “fun” as it sounded. Jonah volunteered like he was heading off to slay a dragon, practically skipping down the hall with a towel over his shoulder like it was a sword. Honestly, I think part of his excitement came from the idea that he might catch even the faintest glimpse of my boyfriend’s junk. The kid was shameless.

 

The reality was a lot less glamorous. Shower duty meant sitting on the closed toilet lid while Jack stood sulking behind the curtain, acting like he was about to stage a prison riot. Jonah perched on the sink like it was his throne, legs swinging, grinning like he’d just been crowned king of bathroom babysitting.

 

Christian and I hid in the hallway just outside the door … for “observational purposes.” Really, I think both of us were terrified Jonah would make things worse, but at the same time, weirdly confident he’d pull it off.

 

Jack’s voice came muffled through the steam. “Why can’t Nick do it like he usually does?”

 

Jonah didn’t hesitate. “Because you’ve been a pain in the ass lately and Nick needs a break from you.”

 

Silence.

 

Then: “Doesn’t he love me anymore?” His voice had that whiny edge – the one that usually flipped all my switches and made me cave to whatever he wanted.

 

But it still hit me like a freight train.

 

I was halfway to the door, ready to burst in and wrap Jack in my arms, when Christian’s hand landed on my shoulder. “Let it play out,” he whispered.

 

Jonah didn’t miss a beat. “Do you want him to?”

 

“Yes,” Jack replied meekly.

 

“Then you’d better start acting like it,” Jonah scolded, his voice sharper now. “He loves you like crazy. But love’s a two-way street, bro. He’ll come back around when you stop making it so hard on him. Now get in that shower and get yourself clean, or I’m gonna get in there and do it for you, as exciting as that may be, especially if we include a little ‘butt play.’”

 

From behind the curtain came the grumpy shuffle of feet.

 

Jack hated the whole setup. Not the water. Not the soap. Just the fact that someone had to sit in the room while he showered, like he was a toddler who couldn’t be trusted not to flood the place or collapse on the tile. He reminded us of that every single time.

 

For once, Jonah dialed it down and asked seriously, “Why don’t you like taking showers anymore, bro? I mean, it’s just water and soap. What’s the big deal? You used to take showers every day, sometimes more than once, just like the rest of us.”

 

Jack’s voice came flat from behind the curtain. “Because I don’t do anything. I sit on the couch all day. I don’t sweat. There’s no point.”

 

Jonah nodded, like he was a doctor diagnosing the world’s dumbest illness. Then he leaned forward, eyes sparkling, and said bluntly, “Yeah, but, dude… you stink. No offense. If we let this go on, Nick and I are gonna have to follow you around the house with a bottle of Febreze. And trust me, that’s not the kink you want us to lean into.”

 

I groaned from the hallway. “Jonah—”

 

“What?” Jonah said innocently. “I’m just saying. Fresh linen scent can only cover up so much.”

 

From behind the curtain came the sharp slam of a shampoo bottle. “God, you guys treat me like I’m a freaking baby.”

 

Jonah smirked. “No, no, no, babies get powder and lotion. You’re way past that stage, bro. We just want you to stop smelling like a depressed raccoon. Or worse – like Mr. Johnston after gym class, who probably takes his showers in vaginal excretions. Is that really what you want?”

 

“Shut up,” Jack muttered, but his voice cracked, like he was holding back a laugh.

 

Jonah grinned wider, leaning back against the mirror. “Hey, prove me wrong. Wash up, come out smelling like a spring meadow, and Nick will probably reward you with a cuddle. Hell, I’ll reward you with a cuddle. Maybe even a kiss if you ask nice enough.”

 

I slapped him on the arm. “Jonah!”

 

“What?” He threw up his hands. “Positive reinforcement! Works on puppies.”

 

There was a long silence from behind the curtain. Then, finally, the sound of water splashing harder, the rhythmic squeak of the soap bar actually being used.

 

I was equal parts relieved, humbled, and devastated. Why was it so easy for Christian and Jonah? Why couldn’t I get Jack to do these simple tasks without a meltdown?

 

But hearing Jack ask if I didn’t love him anymore – that meant he still wanted me to love him, didn’t it? He still needed me. Somewhere inside that medicated, frustrated shell was my Jack. Maybe just barely. But he was still in there, and we were finally starting to catch glimpses of him.

 

Jonah poked his head into the hallway and shot me a wink, smug as hell. “See? He’s already imagining the kiss.”

 

“Shut. Up.” Jack’s voice floated through the steam – but this time, he was definitely laughing.

 

Score one for Jonah.

 

What a morning.

 

***

 

Lunch consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, accompanied by a side of potato chips, a pickle, and a bowl of baby carrots. Classic, easy comfort food. Christian handled most of it with the calm precision of someone auditioning for Food Network. Jonah, meanwhile, wandered around the kitchen critiquing him like a low-budget Gordon Ramsay.

 

“Your butter-to-bread ratio is all wrong,” Jonah sniffed, leaning over Christian’s shoulder like he was about to confiscate the spatula. “This isn’t grilled cheese, it’s burned sadness.”

 

Christian shot him a look. “If you want yours raw, I’ll just throw you two slices of bread and a Kraft single.”

 

Jonah gasped. “How dare you. I’m a delicate artist. I only eat sandwiches crafted with passion.”

 

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help grinning. Jack sat at the table quietly, but to my surprise, he ate everything without a single complaint. Not just a bite or two. He actually finished his sandwich and soup. That alone felt like yet another minor miracle.

 

And the best part? He even let out a faint chuckle when Jonah critiqued the pickle spear.

 

“This pickle lacks emotional depth,” Jonah announced gravely. “It’s one-dimensional. Very disappointing.”

 

“Eat it or I’ll shove it up your nose,” Christian deadpanned.

 

Jack smirked. Just a flicker, but it was there.

 

The conversation stayed light – updates on summer plans, dumb TikTok trends, and a few rounds of teasing. Jonah claimed he was still single “by choice,” which prompted Christian to sarcastically say, “More like by curse.” Jonah responded by chucking a carrot stick at his face.

 

“Rude,” Christian muttered, brushing crumbs off his hoodie.

 

“Truth hurts,” Jonah sang.

 

That was enough to earn another snort from Jack, who ducked his head quickly, like he didn’t want us to notice he was amused. But I noticed. God, I noticed everything.

 

I decided to take a leap. “Okay, so... Christian,” I said, leaning in conspiratorially. “What’s the deal with the boy you supposedly kissed at that bonfire party?”

 

Christian turned beet red. “Oh, c’mon, we’re not really—”

 

“WE ARE,” Jonah interrupted gleefully, his grin stretching wider than the Cheshire Cat’s. “And I have all the details, courtesy of Dave Simone’s brother’s cousin.”

 

Christian lunged, but Jonah dodged like a greased ferret, practically vibrating with delight.

 

“So,” Jonah began theatrically, “big bonfire party back in town. Christian has a few too many sips of jungle juice—”

 

“Exaggerated!” Christian shouted, still trying to grab him.

 

“—and maybe one puff of something herbal.”

 

“I said exaggerated!”

 

Jonah ignored him. “Anyway, there’s this random kid – maybe fifteen, sixteen – who decides to start handing out bottled water in exchange for kisses.”

 

Christian groaned. “Hydration is important, okay?”

 

“Important enough that Christian planted one right on him in front of everybody!” Jonah crowed. “But wait, it gets better. Because Dave Simone’s brother’s cousin swears on his Xbox that he saw Christian and this mystery boy behind a tree, going at it like they were competing in the Tongue Olympics. No less than fifteen minutes. Full-on slobber fest!”

 

By now, Christian had collapsed on the carpet, red as a tomato, trying to hide behind a throw pillow. Jonah sprawled dramatically beside him, hand on his forehead like a silent film diva.

 

“Tell me it’s true!” I begged between bursts of laughter.

 

Christian groaned into the pillow. “Need… water… first.”

 

And then, miracle of miracles – Jack actually got up, went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and held it just out of Christian’s reach.

 

“You want this?” Jack asked sweetly. “Gotta kiss me first, dude.”

 

For one second, the world stopped. And then Jack grinned. A real grin. Mischievous. Alive.

 

Christian groaned and waved him off. “Not my type, thanks.”

 

Jack tossed the bottle at him anyway, still smirking. And I swear, I could’ve cried just from seeing that flash of the old Jack again.

 

“So,” I teased, “was the kiss good, Christian?”

 

Christian groaned louder. “It wasn’t bad, okay? Different, but not bad. He gave me his number, but I haven’t called him yet.”

 

“Are you going to?” I asked.

 

“Maybe,” he muttered, pulling the pillow over his face.

 

Jonah smirked. “Translation: he already did, and they’re married now.”

 

Christian threw the pillow at him.

 

I couldn’t stop laughing. Even Jack looked more like himself than he had in weeks, his shoulders looser, his eyes brighter.

 

Then Christian clapped his hands together. “Alright. Enough kiss interrogations. Time for our new daily activity.”

 

Jack immediately groaned. “Nope. I’m not going outside. And I’m definitely not exercising.”

 

Jonah perked up. “Ooooh, are we going on a hike? Or maybe lawn darts? Maybe dodgeball? I’ll bring helmets.”

 

Christian shook his head. “Pool. We’re going swimming.”

 

That actually made Jonah cheer. Jack, however, looked horrified.

 

“Oh, hell no. Not happening. No one sees these scrawny, pale legs except for Nick.”

 

Christian crossed his arms. “Yes, happening. Fresh air. Sunshine. Vitamin D. Good for your brain chemistry.”

 

Jack shot back, “Yeah, so is locking myself in a dark room and ignoring everyone. Works great.”

 

“Wrong answer,” Christian said. “If you behave like a good boy and come with us, you can see Nick shirtless.”

 

Jack scoffed. “I live with Nick. I see him shirtless every day.”

 

Christian raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Then if you don’t come along and enthusiastically participate, you’re not sleeping with Nick tonight.”

 

You’d think someone had just murdered his dog.

 

Jack gaped at him, then muttered a string of creative curse words, flipped him off, and stomped upstairs to change. I sat there stunned, half embarrassed, half secretly thrilled. Apparently, I was worth swimming for. Sure, we were just on the verge of breaking up mere hours ago, but now he prefers me to babysit him in the shower, only I am allowed to see his legs, and he got all bent out of shape when it was suggested that he couldn’t sleep next to me for one night. Talk about whiplash!

 

There was no doubt, though, that while Jack still had a long way to go, the presence of Christian and Jonah had had a profound impact on him on the very first day. If we could get his meds fixed so he could feel better and work on just a little bit of sustained behavioral modification, I was starting to feel hopeful again that we had this in the bag.

 

We all scattered to change into swimsuits and grab towels. Jonah insisted we bring three kinds of sunscreen (“SPF 15 for the casual sun, SPF 50 for the ginger emergency, and something waterproof, just in case”), plus “hydration essentials.” Christian just rolled his eyes and told him to shut up.

 

We piled into Christian’s truck and headed to the pool club.

 

The place had definitely seen better days – cracked pavement, faded signs, deck chairs that looked like relics from the Cold War. But the water sparkled in the sunlight, and the pool was practically empty. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t fancy; it was ours for the afternoon.

 

We claimed a cluster of deck chairs by the deep end. Christian peeled off his shirt, revealing a red Speedo and abs sculpted like Greek marble. He looked like he’d been sent by central casting for Baywatch: Michigan Edition. And yeah… everyone noticed. Oh, the fantasies I would have …

 

Jonah, on the other hand, strutted around in his bright yellow Speedo like he was auditioning for Eurovision. “Tiny butt syndrome,” he announced proudly, striking a pose.

“It’s very European.”

 

I snorted. “Keep telling yourself that.”

 

However, what I couldn’t help noticing about Jonah in his Speedo was, yes, the kid had a very tiny butt. But it wasn’t flat or pancake-y – more like his waist was so ridiculously small that it made everything else look miniature by comparison. The cheeks themselves actually had a little roundness to them, just enough to look… well, let’s be honest, pretty squeezable.

 

Jack flopped into a chair, arms crossed, sunglasses on, and a towel draped over his “scrawny, pale” legs. “I’m not going in,” he declared flatly.

 

Christian didn’t argue. He just walked over, scooped Jack up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and marched straight for the pool.

 

“Christian, don’t you da—”

 

SPLASH.

 

Jack surfaced a moment later, hair plastered to his forehead, looking both scandalized and furious. “You absolute bastard!”

 

Christian grinned. “You’re welcome.”

 

The splash war that followed was glorious. Jack shrieked like a banshee, Christian roared like a maniac, and a bunch of little kids joined in with squeals of delight. Water flew everywhere.

 

Jonah and I stayed on the deck, soaking up the sun. “You going in?” he asked, sipping from a bottle of Gatorade.

 

“In a minute,” I said, watching Jack laugh, actually laugh, as he splashed Christian. “I just want to enjoy this while it lasts.”

 

Jonah nodded. “He looks good, Nick. Not just, like, physically – though also yes – but better. Alive.”

 

“I know.”

 

Eventually, Jonah and I waded into the shallow end. We floated for a while, just talking about dumb stuff – movies, summer crushes, whether Jonah could pull off frosted tips (he couldn’t). For once, it felt like nothing was wrong. Just four boys killing time in the sun.

 

Then Jonah dropped the bomb. “Hey… think you could help me get a boyfriend?”

 

I blinked. “Why do you want a boyfriend?”

 

He shrugged, suddenly quieter. “I want someone to love me the way you love Jack.”

 

That one dropped into me like a stone in water. I didn’t even know what to say.

 

We stayed another couple of hours – swimming, floating, trying and failing at underwater handstands. By the time we left, Jack was quiet again, but not in that scary way. Just… tired. Peaceful.

 

When we got home, it was late afternoon, but Drill Sergeant Christian wasn’t finished with us yet. He was determined to get Jack out into the yard and put a football in his hands. Jack protested, of course, and after considerable groaning and bargaining, Christian allowed him a fifteen-minute break to rest and rehydrate. Jack disappeared inside, dragging his feet, muttering something about “boot camp for mental cases,” while Christian and I rummaged in the garage until we unearthed my old football, miraculously still inflated.

 

While Jack cooled off inside with a glass of water, Christian, Jonah, and I tossed the ball around the backyard. It felt easy, familiar. My dad had taught me how to throw and catch when I was just a kid – seven, maybe eight years old—and the muscle memory came rushing back. Even Jonah, for all his dramatics, settled down enough to toss the ball properly. But when Jack finally stepped back outside, looking pale and wary, it was clear this wasn’t going to be a casual game. For him, it was something heavier, something bigger.

 

Jonah and I settled on the porch steps while Christian took Jack a little ways out into the grass, far enough that we couldn’t overhear. What struck me most was how patient Christian was with him. He didn’t bark orders or try to show off. He placed the ball carefully into Jack’s hands, showing him how to grip the laces, how to square his shoulders. He demonstrated, then stepped back, letting Jack try. When the throw wobbled and dropped short, Christian only nodded and said, “Again.”

 

It was almost exactly how I remembered my dad teaching me – slow, steady, with an unspoken understanding that this was about more than a game. This was a rite of passage.

 

They started close, barely ten feet apart. Each successful throw-and-catch earned them a step backward, stretching the distance little by little. When Jack missed, they reset, patient as saints. And somehow, over the course of an hour, something incredible happened. My fifteen-year-old boyfriend, who had never so much as held a football before, was throwing tight little spirals, his eyes widening each time the ball hit Christian’s chest. He even laughed once, a real laugh, the kind that came from deep inside, unguarded and surprised.

 

Watching him, pride and sadness tangled in my chest. Pride, because he was trying. Sadness, because he’d never had this before. My dad had been taken from me too soon, but at least I’d had those early years – backyard catches, camping trips, long afternoons learning things only dads think to teach. Jack never had that chance. He’d been robbed of it entirely. And now, at fifteen, he was finally being shown something most little boys learn when they’re still in grade school.

 

When they finished, Jack didn’t strut or brag. He didn’t crack a joke. He jogged forward a few steps and then, without hesitation, threw his arms around Christian. His whole body shook as he buried his face in Christian’s shoulder, sobbing like the weight of years was pouring out of him.

 

Christian didn’t say a word. He just wrapped him up and held him, one hand rubbing slow circles across his back. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t forced. It was simply what Jack needed, maybe what he’d needed his whole life.

 

Jonah didn’t make a sound. For once, he seemed to understand the gravity of it. He sat beside me quietly, his usual grin replaced with something softer, almost reverent.

 

I didn’t feel jealous. Not even a little. I knew what Christian’s hugs felt like, how safe and healing they could be. Jack deserved that. He needed that.

 

By the time Jonah and I rose to go back inside, they were still standing there in the yard, holding onto each other, the football forgotten in the grass. I don’t know how long they stayed like that, but it felt like another miracle in a day already full of them.

 

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, felt it in my own heart, I wouldn’t have believed how much had changed in just one day.

 

***

 

Mom got home just after seven, looking like she’d been hit by a truck, then reversed over for good measure. Her scrubs were rumpled and dotted with bloodstains, her eyes half-shut, and I was pretty sure she’d had her hair in the same messy bun since Obama was still in office. She set her purse down on the kitchen table like it weighed forty pounds and announced in a gravelly voice, “I’m too tired to cook. So, I brought a peace offering.”

 

Cue the collective gasp of joy when we saw the Halo Burger bags.

 

There must’ve been enough food inside to feed an entire minor league baseball team.

Jonah let out an actual squeal – like a cartoon character spotting ice cream – and practically ripped the bag out of her hands. Christian tried to play it cool, but his eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

 

Within seconds, we were elbow-deep in tots (which Jonah, for some reason, had always called “poopy potatoes,” to Christian’s eternal disgust), onion rings, thick milkshakes, and cheeseburgers the size of my head. Even Jack, who’d been picking at meals like a bird for weeks, demolished his Double QP like it was his last meal on Earth.

 

That alone made Mom smile for real – one of those rare, quiet smiles that reminded me of the version of her from before everything got complicated. And seeing Jack scarf down real food instead of staring at it like it was poison? It nearly brought tears to my eyes.

 

She ruffled Jack’s damp hair as she passed him on the way to the fridge. “You’re eating like a growing boy again. That burger didn’t stand a chance.”

 

Jack swallowed and wiped cheese off his lip. “He started it,” he muttered, nodding toward Christian. “I had to keep up. Peer pressure.”

 

“Glad to see it’s being used for good for once,” Mom said with a chuckle.

 

Christian raised his hands innocently. “Hey, I’m just trying to set a good example.”

 

Jonah snorted, ketchup smeared on his cheek. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘role model’ like inhaling three burgers in one sitting.”

 

“Two and a half,” Christian corrected, mouth full. “Jonah stole the rest.”

 

“Borrowed,” Jonah said. “I’m going to return it later.”

 

Jack actually laughed at that – a small, rusty sound, like a door hinge creaking open after years of disuse. But it was laughter, and for a second, it filled the whole room.

 

Mom heard it, and her eyes grew round, soft with surprise. “Wow,” she breathed, almost reverent. “It looks like you boys have had a pretty good day. Everyone’s smiling.”

 

“Yeah, we did, Dr. K,” Jack said quickly, his words muffled around a mouthful of tots and burger. And then, as if embarrassed but unwilling to take it back, he gave her another smile – shy, tentative, but genuine.

 

Mom tilted her head, teasing him gently. “Well, what have you done with the real Jack, and where did you hide the body of the old one?”

 

Christian chuckled, his laughter warm and easy. “This is the real Jack, ma’am. We just had a chill, fun day. And we’re already looking forward to tomorrow. Thank you for letting us be here. At boarding school, we get super close – it’s almost like family. Spending time like this, together, outside of that bubble… It’s special to us. We’ve kind of come to depend on each other and miss each other during the long summer breaks. So, this has been just what we all needed, just being together.”

 

He said it with such ease, but the truth in his words lingered. That was Christian – always able to speak so articulately about the things the rest of us only felt.

 

And he was right. What we had wasn’t ordinary friendship; it was a kind of covenant, forged in late-night talks, stupid inside jokes, leaning and depending on each other for almost everything, and the heavy burdens none of us expected to carry this young. You always hear people say it takes a village to raise a child. Sitting there, watching Jack smile through a mouthful of burger, I realized maybe it would take this village – our strange, imperfect, loyal little Linden Hall family – to bring him back to himself.

.

My mom just nodded kind of absently, like she couldn’t quite believe it, as she turned around, hummed, and went upstairs, probably to change and shower. We’d save her a hamburger and some tots to eat, and then she’d probably be in bed early if she had an early shift tomorrow.

 

After dinner, the boys migrated downstairs to hook up whatever chaotic video game Jonah had brought with him. It involved lots of screaming, explosions, and threats of violence, so I figured it was going well. Christian was already hollering “That was BS!” before the opening cutscene ended.

 

I stayed upstairs with Mom for a few minutes to catch her up on the day.

 

“You should’ve seen him, Mom,” I said, practically bouncing in my chair. “He ate real food. He joked around. He didn’t throw anything or threaten to throw anything. And he actually had fun at the pool. Like, real fun.”

 

Her shoulders sagged with relief. “That’s amazing, honey. And you think it’s because the boys are here?”

 

I nodded. “It’s like… I don’t know. He doesn’t feel like ‘the patient’ around them. They don’t tiptoe. They treat him like a person. And they don’t take any crap from him, either.”

 

She smiled at that and didn’t even scold me for my language. “Then I’m glad they’re here. If they’re up for staying a while, I’ll see what I can do to keep them around. Gas money, grocery runs, whatever it takes.”

 

“Remember, their family’s loaded,” I reminded her. “Christian said they can basically stay all summer if that’s what it takes. They don’t need summer jobs. They’re like… recreationally rich.”

 

She shook her head, amused. “Well, lucky for us.”

 

Then I grew a little more serious. “Also… Christian had this idea. He wants us to keep a kind of log – like what Jack says about the meds, side effects, moods, anything weird. It might help the doctor fine-tune things.”

 

Mom’s eyes widened. “That’s actually really smart.”

 

“Yeah, he’s kind of disgustingly good at this stuff,” I admitted. “Makes me feel like I should’ve thought of it first.”

 

She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Nick, you’ve done more than anyone could’ve asked. You kept him safe. You held the line. But no one can do this alone.”

 

That was when she told me about a new psychiatrist at William Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak. “She’s board-certified in adolescent psychiatry. Comes highly recommended. Jack would receive a comprehensive team evaluation, not just a single doctor's assessment. Unfortunately, his insurance company is being a pain about covering it, but we’re working on it.”

 

“And Royal Oak’s kind of far,” I said cautiously.

 

“I know. But if it helps him stabilize long-term, I’ll drive him myself if I have to. For now, we just need the right diagnosis, the right meds, and the right therapist. Once that’s settled, it should just be maintenance. And then the school can step up with a proper support plan, which they definitely dropped the ball on before.”

 

I felt this weird mix of hope and guilt bubbling in my chest. Hope, because maybe we were finally on a real path forward. Guilt because part of me worried I hadn’t been enough.

 

“Thanks, Mom.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” she said. “Thank Nana Bev. She wired over enough to cover the consults, follow-ups, his meds, and even a cushion until the insurance finally kicks in. And if it doesn’t, well… I think she’d cover the rest, too.”

 

“Even drunk?” I asked, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

 

Mom sighed, but there was a gentleness in her tone. “Especially drunk. That’s the funny thing – when she’s at her lowest, she somehow digs the deepest. She’s trying, Nick. Maybe she’ll never be the grandmother Jack deserves, but she’s showing up in the way she can. And that matters. If it weren’t for her, Jack wouldn’t even be here with us right now. Who knows where he’d be?”

 

She brushed a tired strand of hair from her face, her eyes softening. “This care – it’s not just good, it’s critical. Life-saving. If he doesn’t get the care he needs, then he’d be at a high risk for suicide. And Bev’s the reason he’s getting it. So, please don’t be too hard on her. We all have our demons. Some of us just fight them louder than others.”

 

I wanted to scoff. To cling to the image I’d always had of Bev as unreliable, selfish, permanently pickled in vodka. But the truth pressed in on me like an uncomfortable weight. She had been there. Not in the ways Jack probably needed most, not in the tender, everyday ways a kid deserved – but in the big, life-or-death ways that counted when the chips were down. I didn’t know if I could ever fully respect her, but for the first time, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t before: gratitude. Maybe even admiration, reluctant as hell.

 

It also made me think about my own childhood. About the long afternoons when Mom was working double shifts and I was left to figure things out on my own – meals, homework, even just how to get through the loneliness. There was no safety net, no one wiring money from afar, no one stepping in when things got bad. I had to raise myself in many ways. Jack’s life hadn’t been easy, not by a long shot, but here he was with people fighting for him – my mom, Nana Bev, me, even Christian and Jonah now. Maybe I was jealous, a little. But mostly, I realized our paths had converged in this strange boarding-school family we’d built. Whatever had broken us in the past, we weren’t alone anymore.

 

I chewed my lip. “Do you think she’ll want him to visit in July, like we planned?”

 

Mom shook her head. “No. She already said it’d be too much. Maybe Thanksgiving. She knows he needs structure right now.”

 

I felt an enormous wave of relief. The idea of Jack being shipped off to Seattle had been gnawing at me. I needed him here, where I could watch him, hold him, make sure he didn’t slip away again.

 

Mom kissed my forehead and trudged off to bed, promising she’d try to get a few days off soon.

 

Downstairs, the sounds of laughter and fake outrage floated up through the floorboards. Jonah shouting about “unfair Mario Kart rules,” Christian threatening to throw the controller, Jack’s voice sharper and louder than I’d heard it in weeks. Not angry – alive. Present. I crept to the stairs and peeked down.

 

They were chaos incarnate. Jonah was shirtless and had half his body draped over the couch, kicking his legs like a kid on a sugar rush. Christian had Jack in a playful headlock, and Jack – my Jack – was grinning with his whole face, his cheeks pink, his eyes sparkling. Mr. Bojangles barked every time someone lost a round, as if refereeing the madness.

 

And it hit me. This was what healing looked like. Not some magical cure, not a switch flipped by doctors or pills. But laughter, warmth, friendship. Messy, loud love.

 

I thought back to my own boyhood – the silence of my bedroom, the way I’d try to drown out loneliness with old John Bellairs books or video games, the hollow ache of missing my dad. I’d never had this kind of tribe to fall back on. Jack did now. We did. And maybe, in a way, that was enough to patch the cracks we both carried.

 

Eventually, Mom shuffled down in her slippers to say goodnight. She gave Jack a long, tight hug. He looked awkward, eyes darting everywhere, but he didn’t pull away.

 

Progress.

 

The four of us decided to take Mr. Bojangles for his evening stroll. The air was cooler now, the sun dipping low, painting everything with that golden summer glow you only get in Michigan. As we walked, Jack reached out and took my hand. No words. Just his fingers sliding into mine. I squeezed back, my throat tight. Jonah hummed the Super Mario Bros. theme under his breath, while Christian kept muttering, “Come on, dude, pick a bush already” at the dog.

 

It felt weirdly perfect – our very own dysfunctional little family. And I loved each of them, each in their own way. Jonah, for his chaos and laughter, for charging headfirst into the storm without ever realizing he might be the light cutting through it. Christian, for being the anchor I didn’t know I needed, steady and unshakable, carrying pieces of us when we couldn’t carry ourselves. And Jack – God, Jack – for being the boy who broke me open and made me feel everything too much, the one I would fight for even when I was exhausted and afraid. Different loves, different shapes, but all of them part of the same messy, fragile bond that kept me standing.

 

Back home, we set up pallets on the basement floor for Christian and Jonah, who decided they wanted to camp out with us instead of sleeping in the guest room and my room upstairs. Jonah claimed he was “providing emotional support,” but really, I think he just didn’t want to miss any late-night gossip. We flipped on the Tigers game. Christian and Jonah yelled at the TV like they were paid commentators. Jack leaned into me, tracing lazy shapes on the back of my hand with his thumb. I don’t remember who won, but I remember that moment like a Polaroid.

 

When the game ended, I gave Jack his nighttime meds. He downed them with a Yoo-hoo, only grumbling a little. I started changing into boxers, but he stopped me with a sheepish grin.

 

“Hey, um… can we try sleeping naked tonight?”

 

I blinked. “Seriously? With Christian and Jonah both down here?”

 

He nodded. “I wanna feel close to you. Like before. They’ll never notice.”

 

I kicked off my boxers so fast I nearly face-planted. Jack undressed more slowly, more deliberately, and my heart swelled with affection – and yeah, a little lust. He still looked perfect, just… sad around the edges.

 

We climbed into bed, skin against skin, and he kissed me slowly, carefully. Then he turned around, and I wrapped myself around him like I never wanted to let go. Mr. Bojangles hopped up and curled at our feet, snoring.

 

From across the room, Jonah whispered, “If you guys start doing anything sketchy, I swear I’m sleeping in the bathtub.”

 

Christian snorted. “Please. They’re too tired for anything other than emotional spooning.”

 

“Yeah, but I’ve seen Brokeback Mountain,” Jonah muttered. “Spooning leads to forking.”

 

All of us groaned.

 

“Goodnight, Jonah,” I said firmly.

 

“Love you too!” he chirped back.

 

I tightened my arms around Jack and buried my face in his hair. For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to peace. Not perfect. Not fixed. But hope.

 

 

 

 

 

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