Chapter 33. Ethan
The drive back is quiet. Berenice's old Honda smells like cigarettes and a random air freshener. Jack's in the front seat, feet on the dashboard despite his mom slapping his knee twice already. I'm in the back, bag on my lap, watching strip malls and gas stations blur past the window.
Berenice dropped me off at my aunt's two weeks ago. Picked me up this morning without being asked, because that's what she does. Jack just texted me, saying they were coming, and she showed up at seven, honked twice, and when I came out, she handed me a coffee and said, "You look like you haven't slept in two weeks, sweetheart." She wasn't exactly wrong.
My aunt's house was fine. Clean, quiet, a guest room with floral sheets and a bathroom that smelled like lavender. My aunt is a good woman who doesn't know what to do with me, so she cooks too much food and asks careful questions about "the program" and never mentions my parents. I ate her meals, helped with the dishes, read three books, and stared at the ceiling every night thinking about Liam.
"You're quiet back there," Berenice says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I look at her beauty spot above her upper lip.
"He's always quiet, Mom," Jack says.
"Yes, his whole thing is being handsome and mysterious,"Berenice says, and Jack groans.
"Please don't flirt with my friend."
"Watch your mouth, brat!” she exclaims, but she’s being playful. “You know I don’t date anyone younger than sixty.” She catches my eye in the mirror and winks. We all laugh. I can see clearly where Jack got his sense of humor.
Jack has his window cracked, warm air ruffling his hair. He's been talking nonstop since we left, about his sister's tattoo shop, about a dog he saw at the park, about a show he binged, about the breakfast his mom made this morning. He talks the way he breathes, constantly.
That's the difference. That's what I keep circling back to.
Jack and Liam are the same volume. Same energy, same humor, same ability to fill a room just by walking into it. People meet them and think they're the same kind of person. They're not.
Jack talks because he's happy. He talks because the world is interesting to him, and he wants to share it. When Jack makes a joke, he means it. When Jack laughs, there's nothing underneath it except more laughter. He's been through hell, addiction, arrest, three years locked up, and he came out the other side fundamentally intact. His core held. He has his sister, his mom, his plan for the tattoo shop, his three years clean. He knows who he is and where he's going.
Liam talks because if he stops, the silence will eat him alive. He talks because humor is the wall between him and the thing that's chasing him. When Liam makes a joke, he's bleeding underneath it half the time. When Liam laughs, sometimes it's real and sometimes it's a sound he makes so nobody looks too closely. He's been through hell too, but the difference is that hell followed him out. It's still there, in the purging, in the panic, in the way he flinches before he melts into me, like his body expects pain, but bad pain, the pain he doesn’t like.
Jack is who Liam could become if he heals. The thoughtarrives fully formed, and I hold it in my chest. Jack is the version of Liam where the damage got processed, where someone showed up early enough and consistently enough that the foundation held. Berenice showed up. She moved states. She visits every chance she gets. She handed me a coffee this morning and called me sweetheart because that's who she is, someone who shows up, even during hard times.
Nobody showed up for Liam. His momkilledherself when he was too young to even understand why she wouldn’t come home anymore. His dad drank. His friends mocked him and got him addicted to drugs. Every adult in his life either disappeared or destroyed him, and the fact that he can still love anyone at all, that he’s kind, considerate, sweet, that he crawled into my bed and pressed his face into my neck and said, "I think I love you," that's not normal resilience. That's a miracle.
I want to be the person who shows up for him. The way Berenice shows up for Jack. Consistently. Permanently. Not just for the crisis, but for everything.
"You okay, honey?" Berenice asks. Softer this time.
"Yeah," I say. "Just thinking."
"About that boy of yours?" She says it casually, eyes on the road, like she's asking about the weather. Jack goes very still in the front seat.
"Mom."
"What? I have eyes, Jack. I'm not an idiot, you know, I’ve been your age before. Jack told me everything about all of you."
"I didn't talk about him that much," Jack says, as if he’s apologizing to me. I chuckle.
“It’s okay, bro,” I tell him. He sighs, relieved.
“Phew, I’m glad you’re cool with it, because, truth be told, I did talk a lot about him, and you, and Miles.”
We all laugh again.
"It’s so sweet. Reminds me of your father," Berenice tellsJack.
"Please stop talking," he says, pretending he’ll vomit.
"He used to write me poems. Terrible poems. But the effort was there."
"I'm opening the door and jumping out."
