I popped my head out of the laundry closet, grabbed hisshirt, and hauled him inside. Scott barely fit, but I managed to pull the door shut behind us.
“Look, I’m not opposed to a little spontaneous intimacy, but—”
I held up Jake’s hoodie.
Scott’s eyes went wide.
“What did you do?” he accused.
“I didn’t do anything,” I said. “Blame the ten-year-old washing machine that ends every load in a new location. I was washing it, and when I tried to pull it out…” I took a calming breath, forcing the panic back down. “The drawstring was wrapped around the drum. I was trying to free it—carefully—and it ripped out.”
All the color drained from Scott’s face.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, still catching up. “This is bad.”
I nodded. I’d already had time to fully appreciate how screwed we were.
“I tried to Frankenstein a replacement,” I said quickly. “By stealing a string from one of your hoodies—”
“Mine?” His voice jumped. “Which one?”
“Does it matter, Scott? We are seconds away from a Titanic-level meltdown.”
“Right. Right,” he said, nodding, trying to stay calm. “It’s just… it’s not my Patagonia one, is it? It took three paychecks to pay that off.”
“Of course not,” I said, pointing to the expendable sweatshirt in the basket, drawstring gone. “And then I tried to thread your string through, but Jake’s hood is completely chewed up. The channel’s torn. The string won’t go. And that means…”
“We’re about to go down with the ship,” he finished. “And there’s no room for me on the door.”
I’d expected more—shouting,panic, some kind of catastrophic release—but instead, Jake drew inward. One second he was standing there with the hoodie clenched in his hands, his eyes locked on something far beyond us, and the next he was backing away until his shoulders hit the wall. Then he slid down it, curling inward like he was trying to disappear into himself.
His hands were the worst of it. They twisted in his lap with frantic precision—fingers knotting and unknotting an invisible string, tightening and releasing again and again, as if the motion alone could hold him together. His breathing turned shallow, ragged, each inhale more labored than the last.
Scott crouched in front of him, careful and steady. “Hey. Look at me. It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”
The words landed like blows. Jake flinched hard, shoulders hunching, his chin tucked to his chest. His eyes were distant and unfocused. He was… gone.
“Oh, Jake,” I whispered.
I took one step closer. His shoulder jerked up instinctively, bracing for impact, for the pain he’d been trained to expect. My heart cracked open at the sight. My boy, still waiting for the next hit.
The hoodie lay abandoned on the floor between us, innocent and unremarkable, just fabric. But without it—without the string—Jake had nothing left to tether himself to.
Scott reached for him again, but Jake shook his head violently, his hands knotting faster and his breathing skidding toward panic. That was when it clicked. Comforting him wasn’t going to work. He didn’t need soothing; he needed something solid in his hands, something familiar, something that belonged only to him.
“Okay,” I said, moving before doubt could grab hold. “Okay.”
I took Jake gently but firmly by the arm and pulled. Heresisted at first, his body rebelling on instinct, but I didn’t let go. I hauled him to his feet, ignoring the way he stiffened, ignoring the alarm flashing across Scott’s face.
“Trust me,” I said, mostly to myself.
I guided Jake across the room to the piano against the far wall. The bench creaked as we sat. Jake slumped forward, his hands slack in his lap, fingers still twitching. He stared at the keys like they were written in a language he’d once spoken fluently but had somehow forgotten.
I turned toward him and took his hands. He didn’t pull away, and that alone felt like a miracle. Slowly, carefully, I straightened his fingers one by one, and placed them on the keys. His hands stayed where I put them, obedient but empty.
Nothing happened.
He didn’t move. He barely breathed. So I slid my fingers over his, and together we pushed down. The sound that came out wasn’t much—a few soft, tentative notes, uneven and off-tempo. But it was sound. We played like that for a while, Jake staying distant, like his body was there but his mind was drifting.
