Jacob held his gaze, something tightening in his chest. The kind of tension that came from knowing someone was right and not wanting to hear it. Before he could talk himself out of it, the words came: “Would you come with me?”
Liam blinked. “To Stockton?”
Jacob swore under his breath. “Forget it. That was stupid.”
“It wasn’t,” Liam said, cutting him off gently. He reached for Jacob’s hand, fingers brushing his like it was the easiest thing in the world. “It wasn’t stupid.”
Jacob looked down at their hands, at Liam’s thumb sweeping lightly across his. His heart was doing something complicated in his chest.
“I hate Stockton,” he muttered. “Every memory I have of that place feels like shit.”
Liam didn’t interrupt.
Jacob exhaled loudly. “I swore I’d never go back.”
Liam just sat there, steady and close, not pushing or asking for anything. Jacob looked at him for a long moment, then back down at their hands. Liam’s fingers were still wrapped around his—he hadn’t let go. His jaw tightened. “Will you come with me?”
Liam nodded once. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
***
The sun hung high in the sky as Jacob merged onto the highway, the hum of the tires blending with the thrum of classic rock from the speakers. Liam sat in the passenger seat beside him, sunglasses on, elbow propped against the window. One of his legs kept moving absently to the music—unable to sit still, as always.
They hadn’t talked much since leaving LA an hour ago, but Jacob didn’t mind. The silence stretched easy between them as the highway unrolled toward Stockton, the funeral waiting in the morning.
Caroline had offered to come, her face folding into quiet concern the moment he told her his father was dead. He shut it down before it could become a conversation, gently telling her it wasn’t necessary. That she should stay home with the kids. She hadn’t pushed.
Liam, on the other hand, had lied. Something about a location shoot north of the city, and a call time too early to risk LA traffic. He’d told Emma he’d be home Friday night. Jacob hadn’t asked how that conversation went. He only knew Liam was here, in his car, and that made the trip feel slightly more bearable. He was still trying to figure out why it felt easier to face his father's death with Liam by his side.
They drove with the music turned low, words passing between them now and then as the city gave way to long, flat stretches of road. The scent of coffee lingered from their last stop for gas, fading only when the first signs for Stockton began to appear.
The hotel was one of those polished-but-forgettable places—clean lobby, dim lighting, a polite woman at the front desk who smiled without asking questions when he gave his name and ID.
The suite wasn’t extravagant, but it was functional: a king bed, a small sitting area, and the soft buzz of an air conditioner already running. The kind of room that was meant to be used, not remembered.
Jacob dropped his bag by the dresser and rolled his shoulders, but the tension there didn’t ease. The muscles along his neck and back were locked in a knot that had been there since they crossed the Stockton city limits.
He walked to the window and looked out at the view: flat streets lined with chipped storefronts, chain restaurants scattered between parking lots, and the sky above smeared with orange and the dull gray of exhaust. The city hadn’t changed.
The memories came without invitation, crawling out of the shadows of his mind—sharp-edged, rancid things he couldn’t block out. The stale reek of cigarette smoke, the mildew in the carpet, the chemical tang of cheap perfume failing to cover up the smell of sweat and sex.
There had only been one room in the apartment. His mother would send him into the hallway and tell him to wait, the cold linoleum seeping through his jeans. He would keep his eyes fixed on the peeling paint and the rusted ribs of an old radiator, while some stranger grunted behind the closed door. One in a long line of men, paying for the night—paying for her next high.
Even now he could still hear the creaking of the bed: the slow, rhythmic screech of the frame through the thin walls. He never asked when he could come back in; he just waited. He’d learned early that silence was safer. Eventually, it stopped being shocking. It became nothing at all—just a Tuesday, or Friday, or whatever the hell day she needed to score.
Jacob exhaled sharply through his nose, like he could purge the smell that still clung to memory.
"You okay?" Liam’s voice was quiet behind him.
"I fucking hate this city."
Liam moved closer, the warmth of him reaching Jacob before his voice did. “What do you need?”
Jacob didn’t look away from the window. "You."
“I’m here. You have me.” Liam’s voice was warm—a quiet offering meant to anchor him.
Jacob let out a short breath, still staring out at the city. “Yeah. I know.” He turned around, his fingers flexing at his sides. “That’s the problem.”
