Chapter 39

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

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

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

"But it feels like it is." My voice cracked more than I wanted. "Jack's always had… issues. And we've been working through them. Last night was just a major step backward. He's not an asshole — he treats me and his friends really well. He just… he's got a lot of shit from his past that keeps him from moving forward sometimes."

Tommy nodded, leaning against the porch railing like he owned it. "Be patient with him. He'll figure it out. He's not dumb — he knows you're worth more than blowing up over some dumb jealousy trip."

I gave him a side-eye. "Damn, Tommy. How'd you get so wise?"

He grinned. "Telenovelas. Late-night reruns, man. You'd be surprised."

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

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

"Always."

"I always wanted to be best friends with you," he said, voice low but steady. "Back in middle school. You were the one guy I thought was cool, even though you didn't talk much. But you were always so… I dunno. Aloof. Like, you'd talk to me in class, or at lunch, or in the hallway, and at breaks, but you never wanted to hang out after school. Never wanted to do sleepovers. I didn't get it, and I gotta admit… it bummed me out. I figured you just didn't like me very much and talked to me at all just because you didn't want to be rude."

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

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

I blinked hard, trying not to get teary. "I didn't know how to ask. I didn't know how to let anybody in. I figured it was my burden to carry alone."

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

He let out a breath, then gave me a small, real smile. "Truth is, I don't have a lot of friends either. Would be nice to keep one." Then he straightened up a little, looked me right in the eye, and held out his hand — not joking, not half-hearted. "And honestly? I'd really like us to be something like best friends again — before this summer's over."

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

"Good," he said. "Because I don't have a ton of friends either. Would be nice to keep one. And we can text and video call when you're in school and hang out whenever you're home for the weekend or on vacation. I think we can make it work if we both try harder this time."

"I'm totally up for that, so let's do it," I agreed.

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

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

"Later, Tommy."

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

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

***

When I got back inside, the house was quiet except for the muffled groans of The Walking Dead coming from the basement TV. I followed the noise down and found Jack curled up on the sofa-bed, spooning Mr. Bojangles like nothing in the world was wrong. He was whispering to him in that ridiculous high-pitched doggy voice he used when he was being extra sweet — the one that always made Mr. Bojangles' eyes roll back in pure bliss.

For a second, I just stood there. Whiplash. Ten minutes ago, I'd been ready to rip my heart out over him, and here he was… normal.

"What the hell, Jack?" I snapped.

He didn't even look up. Just kept cooing to the dog, like I hadn't said a thing.

"I thought we talked about the whole Tommy thing before," I pressed, stepping closer. "We agreed we were going to be open and honest with each other. Not shut each other out. Not… this. Or do you just break promises that easily? You really hurt his feelings, you know?"

Jack muttered, eyes still locked on Mr. Bojangles, "Maybe there's nothing worth talking about."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Wow. Real confidence booster for our relationship."

"Maybe it's not as stable as you think."

That one landed like a fist.

"Jack…" My voice cracked. "What does that even mean?"

Still nothing. He scratched behind Mr. Bojangles' ears like I wasn't even in the room.

"This isn't you," I said, heat rising in my chest. "This isn't the Jack I know. The Jack I love. What is going on with you? Please just talk to me. You promised you would always talk to me and not shut me out. But here you are, doing it again."

Finally, he turned just enough for me to catch half his face. His eyes looked hollow, his mouth flat as stone.

"Maybe this is me," he said. "Maybe you've only ever seen what you wanted to see. Maybe I'm just a jerk. Maybe I'm just some asshole who doesn't give a crap about any of this. You saw what my parents wrote about me."

I staggered back a step. Like he'd hit me. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Do you even love me?" I asked, my throat trembling. "Or was this all just a game? Something to pass the time until you got bored again. Because I really do love you. You and only you. Just… tell me you don't love me, and I'll leave you alone. You can go spend the rest of the summer with your grandma, and we'll change our room preferences for the dorm."

"Well, at least you'd have Tommy all to yourself. And I'm sure you could meet lots of other boys now that you're Mr. Popularity," he snarled at me.

His eyes finally met mine. Red-rimmed. Glassy.

"Maybe I should just end it all. Everything would be a lot easier on everyone then!" I didn't mean to say it, and I'd never hurt myself, but I guess I just wanted to see how he would react, how much I could push his buttons.

"Don't ever say that, Nicholas," he whispered. That was only the second time he'd ever called me "Nicholas."

That should've been a good sign. Right?

"Then why are you acting like this?" My voice broke. "You don't hurt people you love. I'm your boyfriend; we're supposed to be able to talk about anything. Yet here you are, shutting me out. Again. And it's getting really old, really fast. It's not all about you, Jack. It's about the people who care about you, too. You're hurting me. Right now. Is that really what you want? To hurt me?"

"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said. "Maybe I'm just giving you an out before you realize who I really am. Before this goes too far."

"I don't want an 'out,' Jack," I said, my voice getting a little louder now. "I want to figure this out. So, you can be happy again. So, we can be happy together and pursue all the dreams we've talked about together. Everything was fine until yesterday … what the hell happened?"

Could this still be a reaction from Tommy? From Jack's jealousy? It felt like there had to be something more, something more profound than just that. But he didn't want to talk to me. Should I give him space and just go on with my life as if nothing happened, or should I keep pushing him? Or go get my mom? I literally had no idea how to get through to him.

I could feel the tears pushing, but I clenched my jaw. I didn't want him to see me break. I wanted him to see me as steady. Strong.

"Is that what you want?" I asked finally. "To end it? You won't tell me what's going on, and now you want to just… walk away? Fine. But I'm not breaking up with you. If you want it over, you say the words."

I couldn't imagine moving in together and breaking up after one day and giving up, just like that. I knew we could figure it out if he would just tell me what was going on in that screwed up head of his!

He shrugged — way too casual. "Maybe I'll just use the money Nana gave me and buy a plane ticket to Seattle. We can both move on."

"Whatever, Jack. Your life, your call. Just tell me if it's over. Tell me none of this has meant anything to you. Let me have a clean break and some closure this time, and I'll even help you reserve the plane ticket and pack your bags, even though you know that isn't what I want."

He ignored me. Cold.

I turned and walked away.

God, I really missed my friends. I know they would help me and be here for me if they could. But they all had their own summer plans. Now, I was forced to sit here and deal with this on my own, hoping my mom could talk some sense into him when she got home from work. For now, I'd just let him glower and sulk along in the basement.

As I got to the stairways to go upstairs, I called Mr. Bojangles, who came rumbling up the stairs, his tongue lolling. I took him upstairs with me. I didn't even want Jack to have that small comfort in that moment, and I knew Mr. Bojangles would always side with me, even though he had no idea what was going on.

Upstairs, I crawled into my "old" bed without even changing, yanked the covers over my head like I was five. I didn't want to cry. Didn't want to give him that. But the sobs came anyway, muffled and choking until sleep finally pulled me under.

Hours later, a hand touched my shoulder.

"Baby," Mom whispered. "It's dinner time."

I sat up groggy. The room was dark except for the orange spill from the hallway. My throat was raw. My head pounded. Mr. Bojangles was still curled up with me, but now he was awake. It was about time for his dinner, too.

"Did something happen?" she asked softly. "You've been crying."

"I don't know, Mom," I croaked. "Something's wrong with Jack. I think it's serious. But I don't know what to do."

I spilled everything — the meltdown, the brush-off, the way he shut down and flipped on me like I was nothing. How it felt like I'd gone from "Noah the liar" to "Jack the… I don't even know. A mess? A head case? A ticking bomb?" The worst part was that even after all that, I still loved him. Pathetic, right? Too much to just walk away.

I told her the only explanation I had was jealousy over Tommy, but the way he was acting now — no way that was it. This wasn't just jealousy. It was something else, something buried so deep he wouldn't let me see it. And it pissed me off, because he kept slamming doors in my face while expecting me to keep waiting around.

Mom frowned. "That's strange… I just saw him downstairs. He seemed perfectly normal. Didn't mention Seattle. Didn't mention breaking up. He just said he had a nice time with you and Tommy."

My stomach twisted. "Are you serious? He didn't say anything?"

"Not a thing. He was laughing with me."

I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath for hours. "I feel like I'm going insane. He'd been doing better. The meds seemed to help. Now it's like… Body Snatchers."

Mom rubbed my back. "Maybe something about Tommy set him off. I'll keep an eye on him. He may be heading into another crisis."

Dinner was unnervingly normal. Jack laughed at Mom's bad jokes, demolished three helpings of meatloaf, even helped clean up. He kissed her cheek when she passed dessert. Perfect Jack. Polite Jack. He barely said a word to me, other than, "Nick, could you pass the gravy, please?"

It felt like watching a stranger in Jack's body.

Later, we brushed our teeth, showered, and climbed into the pullout. Jack nestled his head on my shoulder. "Movie night?"

"Sure," I said. Even though I wasn't sure about anything anymore. He went from a total asshole who was talking about breaking up, to now everything is normal. What the hell was going on?!

We curled up together, just like we usually did. For a second, it felt right. But inside, I was breaking. I knew I hadn't imagined it. Jack was spiraling, and I was terrified of where it would end.

"Jack?" I whispered. "Do you really still love me?"

He looked at me with genuine concern. "Of course I do, Nicky. Why would you even ask that?"

"And you don't want to break up with me?"

"Nicky. Where is this even coming from? I wouldn't break up with you in a million years."

"Nothing," I muttered. "Let's just go to sleep."

It took me a while to fall asleep, even with the sedatives I'd been prescribed. Jack seemed just fine, lying on his side and softly snoring. I kind of wanted to stay awake all night, fearing he might come after me with a butcher knife in the middle of the night. Too bad Mr. Bojangles wasn't much of a guard dog. He'd probably beg burglars to give him scritches while they were robbing us.

Eventually, though, I drifted off — until a jolt shot me awake.

The bed was empty.

I sat up. 12:35 AM.

Then I heard it — shouting. Barking. Upstairs.

Mr. Bojangles' frantic yelps echoed down the stairs, sharper than I'd ever heard before, the sound of absolute panic. What if something happened to my mom? I was supposed to be the "man of the house" and protect the family. At least that's what my dad had told me.

Adrenaline slammed through me. I grabbed the largest hammer I could find from the utility room and tore upstairs, my grip white-knuckled around the handle. I think it was a sledgehammer, but it didn't seem too heavy. Part of me wasn't sure if I'd need it for a burglar… or for something worse.

But when I reached the top of the stairs, I stopped cold.

It wasn't a burglar.

It was Jack — barefoot and wearing only his boxer-briefs, standing in the kitchen with the back door wide open, shouting at shadows in the yard like he was daring someone to come inside. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the glass he'd smashed on the counter, shards glittering in the moonlight. Mr. Bojangles was barking himself hoarse, circling him frantically, desperate to herd him away from the door.

And Jack… Jack looked wild. His eyes were glassy, his face pale, his chest heaving like he couldn't get enough air.

For a second, I honestly didn't know if he even knew where he was. Or if he'd even recognize me.

So, I held the hammer tighter, praying to God I wouldn't need it.

And that terrified me more than anything, that I might have to defend my mom, dog, and home from my very own boyfriend. Or worse, that I might lose my boyfriend like I'd lost my dad, unexpectedly and horrifically.

Eventually, I managed to get Jack to settle, guiding him back toward our bed step by step. It felt like walking beside a sleepwalker — his movements loose, unfocused, his eyes drifting somewhere far away. I eased him down onto the mattress, pulling the blanket over his damp shoulders, every motion deliberate, as though he might break if I pushed too hard.

His breathing evened out, but it wasn't restful. Each inhale sounded shallow, shaky, like he was still caught halfway between panic and collapse. His gaze slid past me when I leaned close, glassy and vacant, and my stomach twisted. He wasn't all here. Not really. And that scared me more than anything.

I stretched out beside him, close enough to feel his warmth, close enough to convince myself he was still tethered to me, still alive, still mine. But I didn't relax. Every little shift made me jolt. Every stutter in his breath had me bracing, waiting for it to stop. I wanted to stay awake, to keep guard, to make sure nothing happened while I was too weak or too tired to notice.

But the sedative I'd taken earlier pressed heavier and heavier on me. My thoughts slowed, dragging like feet through wet cement. My eyelids burned from fighting to stay open. I whispered his name once, just to hear it, just to anchor myself to him. He didn't answer, but I swear his hand twitched against the sheet. Maybe it was nothing. Perhaps it was everything.

I lay there a while longer, torn between my fear of closing my eyes and the drug pulling me under. I promised him silently that if the universe gave me just one more day with him, I'd never take it for granted. I'd fight for him. Stay for him. Help him rebuild until he could stand on his own again.

And then, despite every promise I tried to make, the weight of sleep won. My vision blurred, my grip on consciousness loosened, and I slipped helplessly back into the land of uneasy dreams.

***

Another violent jolt rattled the house, snapping me out of what felt like only minutes of restless sleep. My heart lurched awake before the rest of me did. I rubbed my eyes, blinked at the empty space beside me — Jack was gone again.

Cold panic flooded me. I stumbled upstairs, whispering his name as loudly as I could to avoid waking my mother, my voice swallowed by the silence. Every shadow looked sharper, every creak of the floorboards like a warning. What if this time he hadn't just cut himself, but tried something worse?

I burst into the bathroom — empty. Relief hit me hard; at least he wasn't in the tub with slit wrists. I yanked open the medicine cabinet — everything still lined up neatly, untouched. No empty bottles, no pills scattered across the sink.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. With the upstairs clear, I turned back toward the stairs, dread tightening with every step as I headed down to the kitchen.

I finally found Jack lying on the kitchen floor.

At first, my brain couldn't even make sense of it. His whole body jerked in violent spasms, his heels slamming against the tile with dull, bone-jarring thuds, arms flailing like broken marionette strings. His head whipped side to side, teeth clenched so tightly I thought they might shatter. His lips foamed, spit flying with every guttural groan that tore out of him.

And those sounds — God, those sounds. Not words. Not Jack's voice. Just raw, animal noises that ricocheted off the walls until the kitchen felt like it was shaking with them. It didn't even sound human.

Sweat drenched him, soaking his shirt, matting his hair to his forehead. The tile beneath him was slick. The smell hit me next — sharp, sour, ammonia thick in the air. My chest seized when I realized: he'd pissed himself.

I staggered closer, horrified, and that's when I saw his wrists.

Thin, angry lines carved into his skin. Some raw and pink, others darkened and half-healed, a latticework of pain etched across pale flesh. Not deep enough to kill himself. Not enough blood for that. But enough to know exactly what it meant. He'd been cutting. Carrying this hurt silently, right beside me, and I hadn't seen it.

My stomach lurched. Guilt curdled into terror as I tugged up the hem of his boxer-briefs and found the same pattern carved into his thighs. How had I missed this? I should've noticed. I should've said something. I should've sounded the alarm before it got this far. Instead, I'd been blind. And now it felt like my blindness had cost him.

"Jack!" I shouted, my throat tearing around the word. My knees almost gave out when his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, his whole body convulsing so hard his shoulder blades smacked against the floor. He was gone — somewhere I couldn't reach him, trapped in his own body.

Suddenly, my mom was there, still wearing her nightgown. She'd dropped to the floor like lightning, her black doctor's bag spread open, her hands steady even though I could see the flicker of fear in her eyes. One hand brushed Jack's soaked hair from his face, the other flashed a tiny light into his pupils.

"Mom! What's happening?!" I screamed, stumbling toward them, my heart hammering so hard it blurred my vision. "He's — he's — oh my God, he's dying! Do something!"

"I'm about to, sweetie," she said in that maddeningly calm, professional voice, though I could hear the strain under it. She didn't look at me. "We're going to take a little trip to the hospital. Everything's going to be okay. Jack just had a little episode, didn't you, Jack?"

She was talking to him as if he were a child. Like a scared boy lost in the dark. And maybe that's what he was.

I hovered, useless, my breaths shallow, my chest locked tight.

Mom's hand darted into her bag and pulled out a vial and syringe. The label caught my eye: Diazepam. A sedative. Relief, for at least a little while.

"Nick," she said firmly but gently, "I need you to hold him. Just his shoulders. Keep him steady so I can give the injection."

My knees hit the tile. My hands shook as I pressed down on his slick shoulders. His skin burned with fever under my palms. He thrashed once, then whimpered, weaker now, like his body was burning itself out.

"I love you," I whispered fiercely, leaning close to his ear. "Jack, I love you. Please come back. Please."

No response. His eyes stared glassy and distant, like he was looking through me into some nightmare place.

Mom swabbed his arm, inserted the needle, and pushed the plunger. I watched the clear liquid disappear into his vein and prayed — please, please, let it work.

"What is this?" I choked, barely recognizing my own voice. "What's happening to him?"

"I don't know yet," Mom said quickly but not unkindly. "Could be a psychotic break, or a mixed episode. But we won't know until he's evaluated. He needs a psychiatrist, Nick. He'll be in good hands, I promise. I'll make sure he sees only the best doctors."

Her stethoscope pressed to his chest, then his back. Quick mutters under her breath. The blood pressure cuff was inflated around his arm; the numbers were way too high — 165/110. I could see the concern in her eyes. Whatever was going on in Jack's mind was affecting his physical health as well.

"What about his clothes?" I asked numbly, my eyes flicking to the wet stain spreading across his jeans. "He… he wet himself."

"They'll change him at the hospital," she said, already packing up. "Right now, we need to move fast. We can get there faster than an ambulance, but we have to leave now."

Jack went limp. His body slackened, his breathing shallow and uneven, his chest rising only a fraction each time. His eyes stayed open, but they didn't see me.

Panic flared in me so sharply, I thought my heart might seize.

Together we lifted him — my arms hooked under his shoulders, Mom gripping his legs — and carried him to the SUV. My hands slipped on his damp shirt. For one terrifying second, I thought I'd drop him. Then we laid him gently in the backseat. I slid in beside him, pulled his head into my lap, stroked his damp hair, whispered over and over: "You're okay. You're safe. I love you. I love you. Please stay with me."

No squeeze of my hand. No flicker of recognition. Nothing.

Mom floored it out of the driveway, tires squealing. Streetlights streaked past in the dark. My body shook with every bump in the road. I thought of Dad.

The lake. The summer heat. How he laughed as he dove in beside me. How a week later he was clutching his head, sweating, unable to stand. How the hospital said Naegleria fowleri. Brain-eating amoeba. One in a million. How I prayed harder than I'd ever prayed before. Please not him. Take me instead.

He still died.

Not again, I thought, gripping Jack tighter against me. Please, not him. Not Jack. I'll do anything. I'll carry him through every breakdown, every sleepless night. I'll rebuild him piece by piece if I have to. Just let him live. Spare him, and I'll spend my whole life helping him — and helping anyone else who's hurting like this. Please, God. Please, universe. Please, don't take him from me.

The ER doors flew open; the ambulance bay lit up in a blinding white. A team was waiting — a third-year ER resident, nurses, and an orderly with a gurney. They moved in practiced rhythm, lifting Jack out, strapping him gently, wheeling him inside. Mom's voice cracked like a whip: "Soft restraints. Psych consult. Pull his records. I have a POA."

I stumbled after them until a nurse blocked me with a hand to my chest. "We'll let you in soon, okay? Just wait here."

So, I waited.

The same ER waiting room I used to think was magical when I visited Mom as a kid. The same one where the nurses gave me a toy doctor's kit and let me pretend I was saving lives like her. And the same one where Dad died. The place where everything changed.

I'd always been shy, a little withdrawn, but losing him dragged me into a darkness I didn't know how to climb out of. For months, I barely left the house. I did my schoolwork at home, shut away from everyone. The things I'd once loved with him — Little League, Pee-Wee football, tennis — just sat there like ghosts, reminding me of everything I'd lost.

I was twelve years old and already convinced I'd never recover.

Mom tried to reassure me even through her own grief. She said I'd feel it every day for the rest of my life, but over time the sharp edges would dull, leaving space only for the good memories. She told me Dad was watching over us from "the other side," and that he'd be proud of me.

But now, sitting in this same waiting room, watching the clock crawl, I felt like I was trapped in the same nightmare all over again. Back then it was Dad, collapsing after a swim in the lake, taken down by something invisible, something inside him no one could stop. And now it was Jack — thrashing on the kitchen floor, eyes rolled back, body betraying him in ways I couldn't understand. I couldn't go through with this again, I really couldn't. I would kill myself if Jack died.

Two people I loved most in the world, both slipping away right in front of me. And all I could do was sit there, helpless, wondering if I'd lose Jack the same way I lost Dad.

And when Mom's words echoed in my head — he'd be proud of you — all I could think was: no. Not like this. Not when I couldn't even save the boy I loved.

Now I sat hollow, hearing Jack's moans replaying on a loop in my head, seeing his wrists, his eyes, the way his body fought itself. Wondering if I'd just watched the love of my life vanish. Wondering if his cruel words earlier were his truth. Maybe I'd lose him anyway.

I checked my phone — 4:30 AM. The waiting was killing me.

I texted our group chat with shaking hands:

"Jack had another mental health crisis. We're at the hospital. I'll update when I know more."

Only Emery replied, all the way from Hong Kong: "OMG!!! HUGGGZZZZ!!!"

It didn't fix anything. But it reminded me I wasn't completely alone.

By 5:00, Mom came back, looking like she'd aged ten years in an hour. "You can come back now."

We wound through sterile halls to a private room. Jack lay still on the bed, wrists loosely strapped to the rails, IVs in his arms, wires beeping steadily from the monitor. He looked impossibly small under the blanket.

"He's sedated," Mom whispered. "Not in pain. Just resting."

"Did the psychiatrist see him?" My throat burned.

"They did. It's early, but they suspect more than depression — maybe bipolar disorder layered over the anxiety. They've recommended a 72-hour psychiatric hold. I agreed. It's the right thing, Nick. He needs real help. More than we can give him at home."

Numb, I nodded. My boyfriend was in the loony bin.

By 7:00 AM, Jack was admitted to the psychiatric ward. We weren't allowed to see him.

Not yet. Maybe not for days.

So, we left.

The sunrise painted the sky in soft pinks and golds, mocking me with its beauty. The world felt normal while mine had caved in.

At home, I let Mr. Bojangles out, then stumbled downstairs and collapsed on the pullout — Jack's side. I pulled the blanket over my face.

It still smelled like him.

His shampoo. His skin. His warmth.

I closed my eyes.

And finally, I let myself break down.

***

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

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

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

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

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

That's when I saw the note.

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

It didn't tell me anything new, but it helped. Just knowing she was there, that Jack wasn't alone, that she would personally check up on him, kept me from unraveling all over again.

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

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

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

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

Jonah: "Holy shit. I'm so sorry. Is Jack okay? Are YOU okay? Love you guys!"

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

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

Jonah: "That was rude, Christian. 😈"

Danny: "Please let us know if there's anything we can do. We're here for you."

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

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

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

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

Jonah: "Maybe some of Mr. Johnston's special tea would help Jack?"

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

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

Danny: "Jonah, you're officially banned from medical advice."

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

Christian: "If Jack recovers on his own, it'll be despite your tea."

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

Kit: "What even IS this tea??"

Jonah: "Magic."

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

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

I typed back:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: "Yeah. Please, if you're not busy and don't mind."

Tommy: "I'll be there in 20, bro!"

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

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

And the truth was, I needed a friend.

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

I opened the door.

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

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"

I shook my head. "Not really. But I'm working on it."

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

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

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

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

I nodded and chortled slightly, "Yeah, that's what friends are for …"

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

"Wanna go for a walk? Maybe grab a pop or coffee?"

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

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

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

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

Not just about last night — though I told him everything. Jack collapsing, the thrashing, my mom with the syringe, the restraints, the 72-hour psych hold. But once I started, I couldn't stop.

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

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

Finally, I said the thing that mattered most.

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

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

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

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

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

He leaned back, letting out a long breath. "Wow. That's… a lot."

"Yeah," I said, trying not to squirm.

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

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

"What's Nifty?" Tommy asked, his face blank with genuine confusion.

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

Tommy's eyebrow arched, a grin tugging at his lips. "So… you read them?"

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

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

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

Tommy snorted. "Maybe I'll check it out sometime."

"You do realize they're gay stories, right?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

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

I blinked, then grinned. "That actually … sounds kind of fun. But if you're gonna read anything, avoid the stuff where a guy meets the pizza delivery boy and immediately bangs him on the kitchen floor. Look for the good writers — DomLuka, FreeThinker, The Pecman, TheEggMan, Journeyman. They're legit. I'll text you some links later. Just, uh, keep an open mind. And if you pop a bone, it doesn't mean you're turning gay."

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

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

"Yeah… yeah, I do," Tommy replied, his smile easy and certain. "And same for you, Nicky. I like where this is going. Feels good to just be straight up with each other."

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

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

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

"You have no idea. We're practically co-dependent," I admitted.

"That's not always healthy," Tommy said gently.

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

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

I blinked. "Wow. Thanks."

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

I could feel my face heating. "You're being way too nice."

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

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

"No," I said instantly. "I can handle it. I want to handle it. I just… wish I knew how to help him. Sitting here, doing nothing — it's killing me."

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

His words hit me square in the chest.

And I realized — really realized — how much I'd underestimated Tommy, for all those years. How much better those awful middle school years could've been if I'd let myself lean on him back then, instead of shutting him out.

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

"Anytime," Tommy said.

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

At my front walk, we stopped.

"I'm really glad you came," I told him. "And you're welcome here anytime you want. Just call first so I have time to lock Jack up in his cage!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT CHAPTER

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