Chapter 42

Christian and Jonah had been with us for a little over a week, and I’d already asked them, like, three times if they were sick of babysitting my boyfriend and wanted to go home to enjoy a normal teenage summer. Each time, they looked at me like I had just farted in church.

“Why would we leave?” Christian had asked last night, stretching across the living room floor like a cat. “We’ve got free food, central air, a pool membership, and we’re having fun. And if you’re lucky, you might even see me shirtless again.”

“I’ve already seen you shirtless, like, dozens of times,” I muttered. And every single time had been glorious, believe me.

“Well then, maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get to see me naked!” he shot back, winking.

I immediately turned crimson and averted my eyes. Just the thought of the possibility of seeing Christian naked would be etched in my brain permanently. His perfect six-pack abs made my stomach twist with equal parts awe and envy as I watched the ripple of muscle across his back and down his legs. And, of course, the parts I’d personally enjoy seeing the most would be his smooth, tight ass with those two magnificent, muscled globes, and his perfectly shaped manhood, which — in my imagination, at least — had to be at least ten inches. And there was absolutely no way he didn’t know that I constantly perved on him and fantasized about him.

Jonah, of course, just nodded solemnly and added, “And I’m morally obligated to annoy Jack at least twenty-seven more times before I return to my regularly scheduled program of being adorable and misunderstood … and I guess Nick could see me naked, too, if he wanted.”

“Jonah!” I yelped.

That was certainly enough to break me out of my reverie about Christian’s “parts.”

“What? Consent is sexy.” He grinned and shoveled a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

I laughed, but still — I felt guilty. They were helping so much, more than I ever could’ve asked. They were there for every meal, every reminder to take meds, every “Jack, please shower or we’ll all die from your B.O.” intervention. And even though Jack still had moments — growling about his breakfast cereal, muttering curses if asked to take a walk — he was trying. You could tell. He was making the effort. Sometimes, he’d even apologize when he snapped at one of us.

Sometimes.

Christian and Jonah even alternated where they slept. Some nights all four of us piled into the basement, bodies tangled in blankets along with the occasional dog paw, and other nights Christian or Jonah would crash upstairs for a more peaceful sleep in one of the guestrooms. Everyone seemed to be getting along. Even my mom seemed more relaxed. I once caught her humming while folding laundry. That never happened unless something significant had changed — or there was a clearance sale at Kohl’s.

Jack and I were… well, not back to normal, but closer. It wasn’t the deliriously lovey-dovey make-out marathon our relationship had been before his breakdown. No heated kisses against door frames or whispered “Let’s just skip class and cuddle naked all day” kind of days. But I’d hear a quieter “I love you,” more instinctive touches — a hand on the back, a sleepy head on my chest, fingers laced together while watching a movie.

Jack was also more “here.” Not all the time, not perfectly, but more.

And honestly? That was enough for me. For now. But I had to admit, I missed the sexual stuff. After weeks of absolutely nothing, I was definitely getting antsy, especially with him constantly walking around shirtless and feeling his warm, naked body next to me at night. It was hard … in more ways than one. But hey, I’d survived my first fifteen years with nothing but my right hand for company, so I figured I could tough it out a little longer.

Then came the message from Mom: “Dr. Hyslop’s team at Beaumont can see Jack this Thursday. I’ll take the day off to drive him. You’ll stay home with the boys.”

I wanted to argue. Badly. What if he got scared or confused? What if he needed me? But Mom was clear. “He needs to feel capable of doing this himself, and you need a break from being his emotional translator. Plus, you can’t go into the room anyway. Privacy laws, and you’re not married … yet.”

I hated that she was right.

The morning of the appointment, I tried to act cool, but my stomach was in knots. I watched Jack get ready, as if I were watching someone walk a tightrope in a hurricane. He took a long shower, combed his hair, and even put on a polo shirt that didn’t smell like anguish and B.O.

“You look good,” I told him. “Very handsome.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get laid, are we?”

I snorted. “Only if you’re offering, Polo Boy.”

“Too fuzzy from the meds. You’d have to do all the work.”

We both laughed, and it felt… easy. Like before. Like us.

I felt so damn proud of Jack. Knowing what I knew now about the awful side effects of his meds — how they dulled him, left him cloudy and tired all the time, how they made the couch feel like quicksand, and caused him to feel restless and frustrated — yet he was still out here, trying. He fought the outbursts and the flashes of rage, wrestled them down more often than not. He went along with Christian’s little “summer boot camp” program, dragging himself through laps at the pool and playing sports in the yard, even managing to throw and catch a baseball now without throwing like a girl!

I couldn’t imagine how miserable and infuriating it must have been for him, pushing his body and brain against a chemical fog that kept telling him to give up. But he didn’t. He kept showing up. And watching him fight through that, I couldn’t help but feel this swell of admiration and love so strong it hurt. He was still mine — still the boy who had made me laugh until I cried, who kissed me like he was afraid I’d vanish, who could drive me insane and make me feel like the luckiest guy alive in the same breath.

I just wanted him back. Not the ghost that the meds sometimes turned him into, but my silly, goofy, eccentric, loveable Jack — the one who stole my hoodies, made up dumb songs about our dog, could go toe-to-toe with Jonah on his absurd tangents, and whispered “I love you” like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I believed, deep down, that once we found the right doctor and the right plan, we’d get there again. Back to us. Back to him.

When Mom and Jack drove away in the SUV, Mr. Bojangles watched them from the front window, tail drooping like he’d just been told walkies were canceled forever.

Christian clapped his hands. “Alright, boys. Pool?”

“Absolutely,” Jonah said. “But I swear, if that creepy cougar with the Botox, fake tits, and MAGA hat ‘accidentally’ touches my thigh again, I’m charging her. And this booty ain’t cheap!” He punctuated it by giving his own tiny ass a dramatic smack, the crack echoing through the kitchen like a gunshot.

“I still think she was eyeing me,” Christian muttered.

“You were wearing a Speedo,” I reminded him. “And let’s just say, you’re a little… overqualified for that particular piece of spandex.”

“And yet somehow, I’m still not famous. Tragic.”

“When you’re eighteen, you could totally start an OnlyFans, bro. Like, not just make bank — full-on celebrity status. People already come up to me all the time whispering, ‘I’d pay anything to see what he’s packing.’ It’s basically a public service at this point. And then, when I’m eighteen, I’ll launch mine, and boom — we’ll have the Donahue OnlyFans Dynasty! Matching Lamborghinis, joint interviews, maybe even a Netflix docuseries. The Kardashians won’t know what hit them.”

Christian nearly choked on his Gatorade. “Jonah! What the actual hell is wrong with you?” He was half-horrified, half-laughing, swatting Jonah on the shoulder. “You can’t just go around telling people you’re starting a family porn empire!”

Jonah grinned like he’d just been crowned king of chaos. “I’m just saying, the people want what they want. Supply and demand, baby.”

Christian shook his head, laughing despite himself. “I swear, one day I am going to strangle you with that Speedo.”

Jonah smirked. “As long as the cameras are rolling.”

I buried my face in my hands, equal parts mortified and amused. The worst part? With Christian’s abs and ass, and Jonah’s complete lack of shame, I could actually see this happening. In a terrifying alternate universe, these two clowns really could end up on Netflix with a documentary called The OnlyFans Brothers. And God help me, people would watch it. Probably me included.

“Nick, you’ve got a little drool running down your face there,” Christian pointed out with a smirk. “Careful, people are gonna think I’m serving samples.”

Jonah snorted so hard he almost tripped. “Dude, wipe your chin before you drown in it.”

I yanked my sleeve across my mouth, face blazing like a stoplight, and kept walking as fast as I could. Maybe if I moved fast enough, I could break the sound barrier and leave my shame in another zip code.

The pool was half-empty when we got there, the water glittering like broken glass under the sun. Christian strutted to the deck like he owned the place, peeling off his shirt with the flourish of a matador. Jonah, meanwhile, sprinted and cannonballed in, soaking a group of old ladies who screamed and cursed at him in three-part harmony.

Jonah emerged, water streaming down his face, and yelled, “You’re welcome for the free wet t-shirt contest!”

The ladies hurled threats and a pool noodle.

Christian just shook his head. “He’s going to be on a watch list one day.”

I stretched out on a lounge chair, feeling the heat soak into my skin. Jonah climbed out and started juggling three dripping pool balls, narrating in a fake British announcer voice: “And here we have the rare water clown, thriving in his natural habitat…” until Christian pegged him in the back with a perfect throw.

For a while, it was just sun and laughter and the sharp smell of chlorine. Jack’s absence still tugged at me, but it felt good to be with people who could make me forget for a little while.

Back at home, we rotated between TV, tossing the football in the yard, and letting Jonah run monologues about random things like:

1. “Why do hot dogs come in packs of ten, but buns come in packs of eight? Is that just Big Hot Dog trying to screw us over?”
2. “If we’re mostly water, does that mean we’re basically cucumbers with anxiety?”
3. “Do you think dolphins ever get embarrassed about all the weird noises they make?”
4. “If ghosts can walk through walls, do they fall through the floors too? Like, is there a basement full of ghosts under every house?”
5. “What’s the deal with toothpaste flavors? Why can’t we brush our teeth with Cool Ranch Doritos?”
6. “And honestly, if cows could vote, don’t you think they’d totally ban hamburgers? Moo rights, man. Equal burgers for all!”

Christian groaned like he’d been enduring this his entire life. “You’re such an idiot.”

Jonah pointed at him with mock indignation. “History will remember me as a philosopher, thank you very much.”

“History will remember you as the kid who got arrested for trespassing in a cow pasture because you wanted to know if they’d ‘moo in unison,’” Christian shot back.

“That was one time,” Jonah pouted. “And for the record, the cows did moo in unison. It was magical.”

I laughed so hard my stomach hurt, the kind of laugh that made my eyes water and my ribs ache. And for a little while, it didn’t feel like I was stuck in limbo, waiting on updates about my mentally ill boyfriend — the same boyfriend who, on a better day, probably would’ve humored Jonah by debating every single one of his ridiculous questions like they were life-or-death philosophy. For that moment, though, it just felt like summer: stupid, loud, and blissfully normal.

Somehow, between the nonsense and the swatting of mosquitoes, I started to relax.

Until the SUV pulled into the driveway.

“Pizza!” Jonah cheered when my mom emerged with several Little Caesars boxes.

Mom came through the door balancing three Little Caesars boxes, as if they were holy offerings. The smell of grease and cheese hit me like a religious experience.

“Pizza!” Christian practically sang. “You are a goddess, Dr. K.”

“Don’t thank me,” Mom said, plopping the boxes on the table. “Thank my total lack of willpower. And yes, I got the pretzel crust. Don’t judge me.”

I peeked over her shoulder, eyes zeroing in on the side bag. “Please tell me you got Crazy Bread. My Crazy Boyfriend requires Crazy Bread.”

Jack shot me a glare around a mouthful of pizza, but the corner of his lip twitched upward. “You’re lucky I’m too hungry to throw something at you right now.”

Mom just shook her head, fighting a smile. “You boys are exhausting.”

Christian grinned. “And adorable.”

Jonah added, “And hungry. Less talking, more passing the breadsticks.”

A few minutes later, Jack tore into the Crazy Bread as if it were oxygen. Grease and parmesan clung to his fingers as he looked at me with mock seriousness.

“You know,” he said, holding up a breadstick, “this is the only thing keeping me from being crazy right now.”

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my slice. “Guess I’ll have to stock up, then.”

Christian smirked. “Forget therapy, just prescribe him unlimited breadsticks.”

“Works for Olive Garden,” Jonah added, already licking the seasoning off his fingers.

After dinner, Mom shooed the other three boys into the basement with a “Go get into trouble” and a pointed look that I prayed Jonah wouldn’t take literally. Then she sat across from me at the kitchen table and exhaled.

I was so nervous, my hands were trembling, and I was sweating profusely.

“Jack said it’s okay for me to tell you everything, but it’s just for us. Understood?”

“Understood,” I said, my heart pounding.

She nodded. “Dr. Hyslop and her team spent hours with him. They were incredible. And thorough. They strongly believe that Jack’s been misdiagnosed. His main issue isn’t just depression — it’s something called Complex PTSD, along with Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.”

I blinked. “Complex PTSD?”

“It’s a more severe form of PTSD. Caused by prolonged trauma — especially emotional neglect, abandonment, and abuse. Just what Jack experienced growing up.”

It felt like the air had been punched out of my lungs. “So, his parents… they really…?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “They damaged him. But the good news is, this diagnosis makes sense. It explains everything. And it’s treatable.”

She explained the new meds, carefully listing them: Zoloft for depression, Buspirone for anxiety, Depakote as a supplementary mood stabilizer, and Ambien for his insomnia. At school, he would also be given Diazepam for emergencies, only to be distributed at the infirmary. However, she emphasized, the meds were just one part of the solution.

“The real key is going to be therapy. He’ll start here and then continue at school. Because he’s still so young, early intervention is powerful. He can heal.”

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “So, he’s gonna be okay?”

“With the right support, and if he follows the program? Yes.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Also, Dr. Hyslop mentioned yoga. Harrison West has a yoga club — you and Jack could do it together. It might help both of you.”

I nodded again. Anything.

“Nick,” Mom said, her voice softer now, “I’m proud of you. You’ve carried more than anyone should. But you’re not alone anymore. That boy downstairs loves you very much. He was more worried about how this would affect you than about himself. Just keep being patient.”

She kissed my forehead and headed upstairs, leaving me alone in the dim kitchen, the soft hum of the fridge the only sound.

When I got to the basement, the guys were sitting around like they’d just been waiting for me. Jack was on the bean bag chair, looking up at me with those blue-gray eyes that had once scared me with how empty they’d looked.

Now? There was something there. Something trying to come back.

I knelt in front of him and put my hands on his shoulders.

“I’m sick, Nicky,” he whispered. “I’m really sick.”

I smiled gently. “You’re gonna be okay. They know what’s wrong. And they know how to help. You’re gonna be okay, Jack. I promise. And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

He leaned forward and buried his head in my chest. I held him. And then I felt two more bodies press in — Christian and Jonah joining the group hug.

That night, none of us wanted to sleep alone. We built a ridiculous pillow fort on the basement floor, flashlight-lit and lopsided, but perfect. We crawled in wearing just our underwear, the four of us — plus Mr. Bojangles, of course — all tangled together. Jack got some of Jonah’s magical snuggles, and I even got to be spooned by Christian for a while.

Of course, it was Jack I fell asleep with.

Mr. Bojangles sighed deeply in the middle, paws twitching like he was dreaming.

The world was still messy. But in that moment, wrapped in blankets and laughter and love, I believed it really was going to start getting better.

Until Jonah shouted, “Who farted?!”

It was him.

***

I loved the Fourth of July.

When I was little, the whole block flipped into party mode. Orange cones went up, cars stayed out, and the street became ours. We ran down the middle, scooters cut through sprinkler arcs, and hopscotch grids stretched from driveway to driveway. If you didn’t skin a knee, you hadn’t done it right.

Families dragged out grills and folding tables that never matched. The same dishes showed up every year: baked beans, deviled eggs, coleslaw, Jell-O with fruit, Rice Krispies treats under plastic wrap, and my mom’s macaroni salad — the headliner. At dusk, we hauled blankets to the athletic fields, someone’s old boom box coughed out Sousa, and fireworks bloomed overhead. Baskin-Robbins on the way home was non-negotiable.

After Dad died and Mom worked every extra hour, the holiday shrank. Two burgers on the back deck. Fireworks in the distance. Quiet and small.

This year was different. We had a reason to celebrate.

Jack was doing much better. Not perfect — he still had rough mornings and occasional spirals — but he took his meds without me hovering, thanks to Mom’s pill organizer. He listened, smiled more, and made small jokes. He tried really hard, and that mattered. He’d even started pitching in on the household chores, like laundry, vacuuming, keeping the basement clean and organized, and even cleaning the bathrooms. It was a massive help to me, and his complaints were minimal, only getting worked up if someone left poop stains in the toilet.

It helped that Christian and Jonah had been with us for weeks. They came to help and stayed. They swore they were having a blast, and our planned trip Traverse City was close anyway. I felt guilty for needing them, but they kept brushing it off and loading the dishwasher. The house sounded like a house again — voices, clattering plates, Mr. Bojangles’ nails on the floor. Also, a majestic number of fart jokes (and actual farts). We endured.

Since Christian and Jonah were heading home in the morning, we turned the Fourth into their send-off. Christian ran the grill like a pro in an apron that read “Kiss the Cook (Unless You’re Gross).” Jonah “helped” by sneaking hot dogs to Mrs. Hutchinson’s Shih Tzu and saying, “Your patronage is appreciated,” like he was bribing a very short mob boss. Mr. Bojangles followed, loudly protesting the corruption.

“Stop bribing Mrs. Hutchinson’s dog,” I said.

“She winked,” Jonah said, serious.

“It’s a dog.”

“She has needs, Nicholas.”

I surrendered. Sometimes you had to know when to pick your battles. I’d learned that with Jack, the hard way.

The street looked like old times. Sprinklers arced. Kids in stained T-shirts sprinted around the cones. A dad fought a folding chair and lost. Mom set out deviled eggs, broccoli salad, baked mac and cheese that pulled in long strings, and the famous macaroni salad. Two apple pies cooled inside, golden and smug.

“Tribute!” Christian shouted, lifting the tongs. “Lemonade for the grill master!”

“You were born wearing Oakleys and grilling meat,” Jonah muttered.

“Facts,” Christian said, as if sworn in.

I was heading for a lawn chair when I saw Tommy walking up the street. My heart flipped. I hadn’t seen him since before Jack’s breakdown. Part of me lit up. Part of me braced. What if it set Jack off?

Before I could finish the thought, Jack drifted to my side and let our arms touch. He gave Tommy a small, careful smile. “Hey,” he said. “Long time.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Heard the party. Wanted to check in.”

“We’re okay,” I said, which didn’t cover it, but it was a start. “Grab a plate?”

We loaded food and sat on the grass. The conversation started simple: Traverse City plans, maybe a Tigers game, how much homework our English teacher would dump on us. Jack wasn’t chatty, but he answered, listened, and his smiles looked real. It felt like a light coming back on.

Jonah breezed in — ribs stacked like Jenga — gave Tommy a slow, theatrical once-over, then offered his hand, palm down like the Queen of England, clearly meant to be kissed.

“All right, who’s this cutie?” he announced.

“Jonah,” I said, trying not to choke on a baked bean, “this is Tommy. We grew up together. Tommy, this is Jonah. I’m sorry in advance.”

Jonah offered his hand again, normally this time, then clasped Tommy’s shoulder like a politician. “Jonah. Friend. Human golden retriever. What’s your stance on fireworks? Big finale or slow burn?”

“Uh… big finale?” Tommy said, amused and a little startled.

“Excellent. Compatible.” Jonah turned and — because of course — sat directly in Tommy’s lap like a cat choosing a new owner.

Tommy made a noise halfway between a squeak and a laugh. Jack doubled over. I moved to peel Jonah off, but Tommy held up a hand, still pink in the face and grinning.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ve been chosen.”

“Correct,” Jonah said. “Also, do you have a boyfriend? Asking for… me.”

“Uh… no?” Tommy said, blushing harder.

“Perfect.” Jonah kissed his cheek — fast — then popped up and speed-walked away like a glitter tornado. “Get my number from Nick! I also assemble Ikea furniture!”

Tommy rubbed his cheek, a grin stuck between confused and flattered. “That was… a lot.”

“Handle with snacks,” Jack said, wiping his eyes.

We laughed. The tension loosened. But we still owed Tommy the truth. The gap between us wasn’t going to close by itself.

“Tommy,” I said. “We owe you an explanation.”

He nodded. “I figured. I went from worried to mad to worried again.”

“That tracks,” I said.

Jack set his plate aside, wiped his hands, and met Tommy’s eyes. “It was me,” he said. “I broke. I’ve got depression, anxiety, and PTSD. Basically, my asshole parents really screwed me up. When it hits, I shut down and push everyone away. I thought I was protecting people from… me. It didn’t protect anyone. It just hurt you. And I guess I got a little jealous of your friendship with Nick, too, and gave him a really hard time about it. I’m really sorry.”

The street noise rolled around us — kids squealing, a smoke fountain hissing blue sparks, Christian humming along to dad-rock. Tommy kept his face open and steady.

“Thanks for telling me,” Tommy said. “That takes a lot of guts.”

“It took too long,” Jack said. “If I go under again, I’ll say it instead of disappearing. And you can say if you need space. I’ll hate it, but I can take it.”

“Okay,” Tommy said. “And I want to be friends. I missed hanging out with you guys.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Me three,” Jack said, and it sounded like relief. He stuck out his hand. Tommy shook it, then pulled him into a hug.

It wasn’t a quick slap-and-go hug. It lasted. Jealousy even flickered briefly in my gut — swift, hot, automatic — then burned off when I saw Jack’s shoulders drop like something had unclenched. This was good. For him and for us.

They stepped apart. Jack swiped under his eye like he had an itch. Tommy noticed and said nothing. He’s good at that — seeing and giving space.

“So,” Tommy said. “You’re back. All of us. Do I get the rest of the story?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You should have had it sooner.”

We gave him the basics: Nana Beverly stepping up. Court filings for guardianship, likely permanent later. A Power of Attorney so Mom could handle day-to-day decisions when Jack wasn’t at school. The restraining order request. The pill organizer. The good days and the bad ones.

Mom walked over with a pitcher of lemonade. “Tommy,” she said warmly.

“Hi, Dr. Kincaid,” he said.

Mom set the pitcher down and looked at Jack. “Just so we’re clear: when you’re not at school, this is home now. We’ve already decided that. If you want it.”

“I do,” Jack said, and it landed like a yes he’d been holding. “I want this.”

“Done,” Mom said. “We’ll handle the paperwork.”

Tommy glanced at me — good — and I nodded. Something inside me settled in the right place.

We took a short lap up the block, just the three of us. The cones glowed in the late light. A toddler in a sparkly tutu toddled by like a wandering firework. Mr. Jenkins ran a water-balloon toss with old balloons that popped if you looked at them wrong.

Jonah reappeared at Tommy’s elbow like he’d been summoned and presented a neon balloon with two hands, solemn as a ring box. “For you,” he said. “Symbolic of my fragile heart. Also, it explodes.”

Tommy arched an eyebrow, smiling. “How romantic.”

“Lightning round,” Jonah said, falling into step with us. “Favorite ice cream?”

“Rocky Road.”

“Same. Childhood injury?”

“Concrete met my chin. Stitches.”

“Hot,” Jonah said. “Astrological sign?”

“Capricorn.”

“Fate confirmed,” Jonah declared, pointing at the balloon line. “If I win the toss, we go on a date.”

“If you win,” Tommy said, “we call it a group hang with snacks. If you lose…”

“I accept my tragic fate,” Jonah said, already jogging toward the start.

His balloon exploded on his forearm before the first toss. He held up the dripping remains like a fallen soldier.

“Group hang with snacks,” Tommy said, laughing.

“Fine,” Jonah said, backing away with mock dignity. “Prepare to be wooed… communally.”

A minor fireworks mishap popped on the next street — someone tilted a Roman candle wrong and shot a couple of streaks into a tree. No harm done, just a chorus of “Whoa!” and an aggressive hose. Jack jumped, then breathed it out. Tommy bumped his shoulder — a quick you-got-this. Jack steadied. I wanted to hug them both.

Dusk came fast. We grabbed chairs and a blanket and followed the crowd to the athletic fields. The grass was damp. We found a spot near third base. Christian produced contraband popcorn like a magician; Jonah declared him the Robin Hood of snacks.

Jonah tossed Tommy a hoodie from his backpack. “For when the breeze acts cute.”

“Thanks,” Tommy said, pulling it on.

“Rental fee is one compliment per hour,” Jonah said.

“You actually pull off that apron,” Tommy said, nodding at the “Kiss the Cook” still tied at Jonah’s waist.

Jonah smoothed it like formalwear and sat so their knees bumped. “Noted. If you get cold, my shoulder comes with a space heater and mediocre playlists.”

“Good to know,” Tommy said, smiling despite himself.

The first rocket whistled up and bloomed red. Then came the round chrysanthemums, the gold willows that hung, the white cracklers that sounded like soda. Sousa blared from the park speakers. Jack leaned into me the way he does now, like it’s a place we both know. Tommy lay on the blanket, arms behind his head, watching the sky.

“Serious question,” Jonah murmured to Tommy. “If we were fireworks, which ones would we be?”

“You’re the white crackly ones,” Tommy said. “Loud. A little chaotic. Fun.”

Jonah pointed at him, delighted. “And you’re the gold willows. You hang a little longer than people expect.”

“I can’t tell if that’s weirdly sweet or perverted,” Tommy said, then elbowed him. “Do not become insufferable.”

“Too late,” Jonah whispered.

The finale came loud and bright. The crowd oohed in one voice. Jack’s laugh rumbled against my shoulder. I tried to memorize the weight of him there.

Baskin-Robbins afterward was packed. Jonah materialized with two sample spoons, as if he’d just pulled off a heist.

“Speed-date question,” he said to Tommy, handing one over. “If you were a flavor?”

“Mint chip. Classic. A little sharp,” Tommy said.

“Correct,” Jonah said. “I’m Cookie Monster — agent of chaos, heart of marshmallow.”

“That’s Rocky Road,” Tommy said.

“I contain multitudes,” Jonah said, tossing a dollar into the tip jar with theatrical flair. He leaned in. “Also, I’m free Saturday. For a totally platonic not-date that accidentally becomes a date on purpose.”

“Or,” Tommy said, grin tugging up, “a group hang with snacks.”

“Semantics,” Jonah said. “Bring your face. I might want to kiss it.”

Christian dragged Jonah back by the hood. “Stop flirting with the dessert counter.”

“I’m flirting with one (1) Capricorn,” Jonah corrected, still grinning. Tommy shook his head, confused and flattered and clearly not mad about any of it.

Back home, we built a blanket fort in the basement. Mr. Bojangles did victory laps and flopped in the middle like a furry dictator. Jonah conked out fast, snoring like a small motor. Christian wrapped himself like a burrito and muttered “hot dog diplomacy” in his sleep.

Mr. Bojangles stole a half-eaten chip bag and set off a chase through the bedding.

“Protect the rations!” Jonah yelled in his sleep, perfectly on brand. Jack laughed so hard he shook. I cornered the dog, bartered with two pretzels and a belly rub, and restored order.

In the dim, Jonah slid over to Tommy with his phone under the blanket. “Last attempt. Instagram?”

Tommy handed over his phone. “Type it.”

Jonah typed, returned it, and whispered, “Prepare for thirst traps and dog content.”

“You really love Mr. Bojangles,” Tommy said, scrolling.

“Second only to hot dogs and attention,” Jonah said, then softened. “Kidding aside — if you ever need a break from… everything, I’m certified comic relief. Three grandmas have endorsed me.”

“That actually sounds great,” Tommy said, still bemused, still smiling.

“Then it’s settled,” Jonah said, bumping his shoulder and — for once — not turning it into a bit.

Later, when the room finally quieted, Jack rolled toward me until our foreheads touched. “I love you more than anything, Nicky,” he whispered. “You’re everything to me. You’re my world. And I’m yours, completely.”

I kissed his hair. “Same,” I said. “Always.”

Across the room, Tommy shifted and exhaled like he’d put something heavy down. He caught my eye and mouthed “thank you.” I nodded. That was enough.

We didn’t need sparklers in the basement. The day glowed on its own.

Morning came fast. The street looked like a stage after a show: cones stacked, grass clippings, and a faint smoke smell. Christian’s duffel sat by the curb. Jonah’s backpack bulged like it had eaten three smaller backpacks.

We gathered on the driveway — me, Jack, Mom, Christian, Jonah — with Mr. Bojangles weaving through our legs.

“So,” Christian said, clapping once. “You now have a functioning grill culture, a pill routine that actually happens, and one extremely flirty friend.”

“Two,” Jonah said, pointing at himself and then vaguely at the street.

I hugged Christian first, then Jonah. “Thank you,” I said, voice thick. “You changed everything.”

“You did that,” Christian said, squeezing my shoulder. “We just held the net.”

Jonah hugged me with a dramatic sniff. “I taught you vital skills,” he declared. “Flirting and dog bribery.”

Jack hugged them both, tighter than he used to. “Thanks for staying,” he said. “And for making me laugh when I didn’t want to.”

“Anytime,” Jonah said, tapping his chest. “Unlimited refills.”

Mom hugged them like a second mom — fixed both collars, tried not to cry. “Text when you get home. Eat something green.”

“We’ll send photos,” Christian promised. “Probably not of green things.”

“And we’re still on for Traverse City at the end of the summer,” Jonah added, pointing between us like a coach. “Cherry Festival, terrible T-shirts, a sunset that makes you believe in things.”

“Definitely,” I said.

Jack nodded. “We’ll save you a blanket spot. And maybe a hot dog.”

“Two,” Jonah bargained. “Also, if I win a water-balloon contest this time, someone owes me a date.”

Tommy, who’d wandered over for the goodbye, lifted a hand. “Group hang with snacks,” he said, deadpan.

“Semantics,” Jonah said, grinning, and everybody laughed.

Christian opened the car door, then paused and turned to Jack. “Proud of you,” he said. Simple. True.

Jack’s mouth pressed into a line that meant he was fighting tears. “Working on it,” he said. “Thanks for not letting me drown.”

“Anytime,” Christian said. “Text if the grill misbehaves.”

“It bows to me now,” Jack said, dryly, which set Jonah off chuckling.

They climbed in. The car pulled away with a little wave of exhaust and two arms out the passenger window, doing sloppy peace signs. Mr. Bojangles chased for five dramatic steps, then flopped down like he’d towed the car himself.

I stood with Jack, Tommy, and Mom in the quiet after, the kind that doesn’t feel empty. Jack bumped my shoulder. “Traverse City,” he said, half promise, half lifeline.

“Traverse City,” I echoed.

Tommy shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Group hang with snacks,” he said, because apparently that was our new religion.

“Bring your face,” Jonah had told him. I didn’t say it out loud, but I thought it. For once, the day didn’t feel like it would slip away. It felt like something we’d actually get to keep.

***

It had been a couple of weeks since Christian and Jonah pulled away in Christian’s truck, the taillights shrinking and vanishing at the bend. Their absence wasn’t a wound so much as an emptiness that rearranged the air. The house had its own silence now. Mom’s shoes still tapped across the hardwood, the fridge still hummed, Jack still made tuneless noises when he concentrated, but everything felt thinner, stretched. At night, I sometimes caught myself listening for Jonah’s laugh or Christian’s low muttering from the couch before remembering they weren’t there.

The quiet weighed most in the mornings. Breakfast felt like it was missing an ingredient. The kitchen chairs seemed to sag without them. And yet, instead of collapsing, we started shifting into a new rhythm — slower, lighter, but not broken.

Part of that was Tommy. He had this way of sliding into our lives without asking permission, like a song you didn’t know you liked until it was already stuck in your head. He didn’t try to be Jonah or Christian, but he filled just enough of the space they’d left that the house didn’t echo as badly. After practice, he started dropping by more often, duffel bag dumped by the door, hair damp from sweat, a grin sharp enough to be contagious. He sprawled sideways on the couch like it was his birthright, stole sodas from our fridge, and offered Mom exaggerated compliments on her cooking: “Dr. K, this casserole is a hate crime against me personally. It will end me, and I’ll die happy.”

Mom snorted into her tea but smiled at him anyway.

Movie nights were better with him there. He made a running commentary under his breath that was just sharp enough to get Jack laughing — sometimes reluctantly, sometimes loudly enough to startle both of us. Once, during a forgettable action flick, Tommy leaned over and whispered, “That haircut alone should carry a minimum sentence,” and Jack’s laugh burst out before he could stop it. He clamped a hand over his mouth, embarrassed, but I saw the way his shoulders eased afterward. It was the first time in days he’d laughed without looking guilty for it.

What surprised me most was how much Tommy mattered to Jack. Sometimes the two of them would peel off on their own, shooting hoops in the driveway or sitting on the back porch trading stories, voices low and steady in a way that made it clear they didn’t need me there. Jack had felt the hole left by Christian and Jonah, too, but with Tommy around, it didn’t swallow him. He had someone else to lean on, to confide in, who wasn’t carrying the same history I was. And I was glad for it — glad that Tommy got to see more of the real Jack now that the new treatments and therapy were working, not just the evil twin version who hid behind sarcasm and sharp edges. Tommy even picked up on how to manage Jack’s moods, though those were rare now, and somehow they just… fit. Not perfect, not without the occasional clash, but comfortable, like they’d worked out their own rhythm together. Was I a little jealous? Well … maybe a tiny bit.

Tommy’s presence mattered to me, too, though in quieter ways. He was easy to be around, grounding without being heavy. He’d dry dishes while I washed, offer to carry a laundry basket upstairs just because it was there, or wedge himself into conversations about summer reading lists like he’d always belonged. He wasn’t replacing anyone, but he reminded us that the story didn’t stop just because two characters had temporarily left the page.

Meanwhile, I had my own milestone to grapple with: a learner’s permit. The card itself was nothing fancy — flimsy plastic with a grainy photo that made me look like I’d just been accused of shoplifting — but it felt like a key in my pocket all the same. Every time I flipped open my wallet and saw it there, my chest gave this weird buzz, equal parts pride and dread. It wasn’t just a card. It was a reminder that I was crossing into something new, something Dad should’ve been here for, which made the weight of it even heavier.

Driver’s ed met in a fluorescent-lit classroom that smelled like a combination of dry-erase markers, old carpet, and someone else’s coffee habit. I would take that smell over Mr. Johnston’s any day of the week and twice on Sundays. The clock ticked like it was mocking us, and the posters on the wall — “STOP means STOP” and “Don’t text and drive” — looked like they’d been hanging there since the early nineties. Our instructor, Mr. Kramer, had a mustache that felt similarly out of time, as though he’d borrowed it from a history textbook photo. He delivered his lessons in the same even tone, no matter the subject, whether he was explaining blind spots or recounting grisly accident statistics. And every ten minutes, without fail, he dropped his mantra: “Eyes up. Look where you want the car to go.”

It was simple, almost laughably obvious, but I found myself scribbling it down anyway. Maybe because sometimes the obvious things were the hardest to remember. Not just in driving, but in life. Keep your eyes up. Focus forward. Don’t get stuck staring at the wrong thing too long, or you’ll drift. I wondered if Dad would’ve said something like that, too, if he’d been the one in the passenger seat instead of Mr. Kramer and his mustache from another era.

When I asked Jack if he wanted to sign up with me, he twisted his hoodie string and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said quietly. “I will… just not until I feel more stable.”

I didn’t push. “Okay. When you’re ready.”

My first drive with Mom in the passenger seat and Jack in the back felt like balancing on a tightrope over a canyon. The wheel was too big, the pedals too far, and the mirrors too many. I backed down the driveway like the car was made of glass, heart thudding so hard I thought it might shake the rearview mirror.

“Good,” Mom said, steady but cautious. “Now loop around the block. Remember the signal.”

I braked too early at the first stop sign, jerking us forward. Jack made a soft “oof” noise, but when I glanced in the mirror, he gave me a tiny thumbs-up. Somehow, that mattered more than Mom’s calm voice.

We crept back into the driveway without casualties. My hands ached from gripping the wheel, and I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I parked.

“First time’s always the worst,” Mom said, squeezing my wrist.

“You didn’t even hit the curb,” Jack added, like it was high praise.

Later, we told Tommy, who arrived with a bag of chips and declared, “Behold: the conquering hero returns from his perilous twelve-mile-per-hour quest.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “It was like watching paint dry.”

“Hey, twelve more than me,” Tommy said cheerfully. “I’m a menace on two wheels, forget four.” He nudged my shoulder. “Proud of you, Nick. For real.”

I laughed it off, but it warmed me more than I expected.

The second week, Mr. Kramer took us onto the main road. That’s when the grief blindsided me. He had me line up for a left turn at the light. “Eyes up,” he reminded me. “Wait for your gap.”

And there it was — the gas station on the corner. The one where Dad used to stop for Saturday coffee, sometimes buying me chocolate milk when Mom wasn’t around to veto it. For a second, it was like time folded in half. I could see him adjusting the mirrors, scar on his finger from a Thanksgiving can-opener mishap, calm hands on the wheel.

The light turned green. Horns blared behind me. I jerked the wheel, too sharply, tires squealing. Mr. Kramer’s voice was steady, pulling me back. “Good. Straighten it out. Eyes up. You’re fine.”

We finished the loop. Back in the parking lot, my chest still felt like it had swallowed a stone. I told Mom I’d walk home and cut through the park. I sat on a bench until my breathing evened out, but the ache wouldn’t leave.

At home, Jack was at the table, tapping his pencil against a notebook. He looked up the second I opened the door, as if he’d been listening for me. He didn’t ask questions. He just slid a bag of pretzels across the table.

We ate in silence. Finally, I said, “Can I tell you something?”

Jack nodded.

“I’m not okay,” I admitted. The words were jagged coming out. “I keep pretending I am, but I’m not. Sometimes it’s about Dad. Sometimes it’s nothing. My brain just flips a switch, and suddenly everything’s heavy. And I feel like I should be better by now. It’s been years.”

Jack didn’t look surprised. He just set the pencil down. “There isn’t a timer,” he said.

“And you don’t get points for carrying it alone. You helped me. Let us help you.”

“I don’t want to stress Mom out even more,” I whispered.

“You telling her won’t stress her out,” he said firmly. “You not telling her will. Trust me. I’ve tested it extensively.”

That got a laugh out of me — small, but genuine.

Mom came home later and immediately sensed something was off. She kissed my head, Jack’s hair, and Tommy’s cheek — he’d shown up again, balancing a pizza box. “Delivery, ma’am,” he announced. “I come bearing pepperoni and wisdom.”

“Do you live here now?” Jack asked dryly.

“Working on it,” Tommy said. Then he looked at me. “You good, bro?”

I hesitated. Jack gave me that look again, the one that said, Don’t carry it alone. So when Mom sat at the table, I said, “I think… I need help. Like, real help. I keep getting these waves of sadness, and it’s not just about Dad. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Her face softened, no flinch, no crack. She cupped my cheek. “Thank you for telling me. That’s the bravest thing you could do.”

“I didn’t want to make things harder,” I said.

“You didn’t,” she answered. “You made things lighter. I’ll get you an appointment with a psychiatrist right away to start, to see if you may need any medications, and then set up an appointment with the school psychologist when you go back. If that’s not enough, we’ll find someone else to help. You don’t have to do this by yourself.”

Tommy raised a slice of pizza like a toast. “To Nick, for being smarter than ninety percent of us and actually asking for directions when life looks like a bad map.”

“Clutch,” Jack muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly,” Tommy said.

Life didn’t magically brighten after that, but it steadied. We found a rhythm again. Saturday chores turned into a comedy act: me vacuuming, Jack dusting, Tommy pretending to be the foreman and shouting, “Corners, gentlemen! Respect the corners!” Mom would sit in a chair sipping coffee and declare judgment. “Dust bunnies in the hallway,” she’d say, and Tommy would clutch his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.

Sunday dinners were sacred. Tommy appointed himself our unofficial guest of honor, showing up with random contributions — “rustic” kettle chips, a candle that smelled like fresh laundry, once a loaf of bread that looked like it had been punched. “Ambience,” he declared, placing the candle in the center of the table. “You’re welcome.”

Jack teased him mercilessly, but Tommy never blinked. He gave it right back, calling Jack “Sunshine” until Jack threatened violence and then ruined the threat by laughing. He told me once, half-seriously, “You guys are stuck with me. I’m like glitter. Once I’m in your life, good luck getting rid of me.”

He wasn’t wrong. And I realized I didn’t want him gone. I was gonna miss him a lot when school started again. I was especially going to miss his hugs. I needed to take full advantage of the time we had now, and we still had a lot of time to make up for.

Driver’s ed stayed in the background, less terrifying as the weeks went on. The gas station still stung when I passed it, but it didn’t knock me sideways anymore. I let the ache sit beside me instead of fighting it. Some days were harder than others, but I wasn’t carrying it alone now.

Mom had set me up with an appointment with a psychiatrist, and sitting in that office felt strangely grown-up, like I’d crossed into territory I wasn’t sure I belonged in. He listened carefully, asked the right questions, and then explained that what I was dealing with was most likely “mild to moderate depressive disorder.” His recommendation was to start with a low dose of Paxil — nothing heavy, just enough to take the edge off, quiet down the occasional feelings of hopelessness — with the option of adjusting it later if needed. More importantly, he stressed what Mom had already been saying: that therapy would be just as crucial, if not more, in helping me work through the grief and all the small triggers that could still send me spiraling without warning.

Hearing the words didn’t bring shame — not after everything Jack had gone through. If anything, it was a relief to have a name for it, something real and concrete instead of just a darkness I couldn’t explain. The idea that it could be treated, managed, even improved, made me feel lighter than I had in months. For the first time, I actually felt hopeful. Before we wrapped up, the psychiatrist said he was glad to hear I had such a strong support system around me — that friends and family who show up can make all the difference. I knew he was right. I’d seen it work for Jack, and I believed it could work for me, too.

One rainy Saturday night, the three of us lounged on the couch, half-watching a terrible sci-fi movie while the storm tapped the windows. Tommy sighed dramatically, head in his hands. “Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that I may never recover from this acting. It’s a personal attack.”

Jack threw a pillow at him. I laughed harder than I’d expected to. For once, the quiet in the house wasn’t heavy. It was just quiet — the good kind, the kind you can rest inside.

When Jack and I went to bed later, I thought about my dad’s hands on the steering wheel. The image didn’t crush me this time. It just was. A piece of him I could carry forward, the same way I carried Mom’s squeeze on my wrist, Jack’s crooked thumbs-up, Tommy’s ridiculous jokes that somehow landed in exactly the right place.

Eyes up, I thought as I turned off the light. Look where you want to go.

NEXT CHAPTER

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