Swing for the Fences - 33. Chapter 33

I usually loved Fridays.

Fridays meant freedom – late nights, no homework (or at least pretending there wasn’t), and Saturday mornings with a bowl of sugary cereal, cartoons humming in the background, and Mr. Bojangles curled up against me. Fridays meant more time with Jack – warm skin, tangled legs, the world shut out like it didn’t matter.

But not this Friday.

I was dreading this one.

Because I didn’t want to go home with Jack. I didn’t want to spend the whole weekend pretending everything between us wasn’t wrecked. I didn’t want to plaster on fake smiles, dodge his eyes across the dinner table, and play polite “civility” just so my mom wouldn’t realize I was the one being impossible.

The truth was, Jack was driving me insane, and I couldn’t even explain why. I didn’t understand why I was mad at him. I just was. The week had started badly, and it only spiraled from there. I wasn’t happy with anyone – least of all myself – but Jack somehow absorbed the brunt of it. Every ounce of my anger, every flicker of annoyance, all of it landed on him.

What I really wanted was two days to myself. To walk with Mr. Bojangles through the woods, to clear my head, maybe scream into a tree until my throat hurt, and try to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.

But that wasn’t happening.

Instead, I was stuck playing “happy couple,” when everything inside me felt scrambled and hollow. I didn’t even know what surprise my mom had planned for the weekend, but I knew one thing for sure: it wasn’t going to fix whatever was happening in my head.

I promised myself I’d be civil. I had to be. But I wasn’t going to cuddle Jack. I wasn’t going to kiss him or hold his hand or pretend like we hadn’t been sleeping in separate beds all week. Because everything was not okay. And pretending otherwise would make me feel like an ingenuous liar.

The part that scared me most was how quickly it had all unraveled. One dumb fire alarm at two in the morning, one piss-filled water balloon fight, and suddenly something inside me cracked. And even though none of that was Jack’s fault, everything he did afterward – every stupid joke, every little voice or expression I used to think was adorable – now just scraped across my nerves.

The socks he’d leave in random places. The half-drunk water bottles multiplying on his desk. The way he “borrowed” my hoodies without asking. Talking to himself while brushing his teeth. Constant fidgeting. Leaving one bite of food behind like it was a statement. Starting chores and abandoning them halfway. Saying he was “fine” when I knew damn well he wasn’t.

Tiny things I’d never noticed before – or maybe I had and just didn’t care – suddenly made me want to scream.

But then – just as quickly – I’d look at him and feel it all over again. That tidal wave of love that stole my breath. The desperate need to touch him, to be near him, to tear down the wall between us. I wanted to hug him and scream at him in the same heartbeat. I wanted him to fix it. I wanted me to fix it. Somebody had to fix it!

Why did I have to be so stubborn? So moody? Sure, I wasn’t as mercurial as Jack – he had a damn good reason for his mood swings – but I still got swallowed by mine, usually for no reason at all. And this week, apparently, was one of those times.

I hated myself for the way I’d been treating him. My mom and dad would’ve been disappointed. Hell, I was disappointed. This wasn’t me. I didn’t want to be this person. But I couldn’t seem to stop.

And the cruelest part?

The only person I could talk to about all of this… was Jack. He wasn’t just my boyfriend, he was my best friend. But I didn’t feel like I could talk to him this time, because I didn’t even know how to explain what I was feeling.

After classes, I went straight back to my room to pack. I shoved clothes into my bag without caring what I grabbed. It all felt pointless anyway.

Then I opened my desk drawer and stared down at the little orange pill bottle.

Only five left.

I tipped them into a folded sock and zipped it into my side pocket. I had a feeling I would need them before the weekend was through.

For a second, I just stood there, frozen. Then something inside me just cracked.

I collapsed in the middle of the room and sobbed – loud, ugly, snotty sobs I couldn’t have stopped even if I tried. I felt pathetic. Weak. A crybaby. A complete trainwreck.

And God help me, I loved Jack so much it physically hurt. But at the same time, I didn’t want to be around him. Explain that one to me!

The bus ride home together was as awkward as a fart at a funeral. The kind that made the room stop, heads turn, and someone mutter, ‘Dear God.’

We didn’t sit together. Didn’t look at each other. Just stared out our separate windows like two strangers trapped on the same trip from hell.

I tried to picture my mom’s smile when we walked in. I tried to focus on Mr. Bojangles sprinting to greet me, his whole butt wagging. I tried to imagine what this “surprise” could be that was worth all the fake smiles and swallowed words.

Nothing worked.

All I could think about was that first night Jack cried himself to sleep in his own bed. The way he’d looked – small, helpless, shattered. And the sick truth that I’d done that to him. Me.

And what about Jack? Was he feeling any of this? Or had he already checked out, quietly moving on while I clung to something broken? By Monday, would he have a new boyfriend? Someone easier. Someone less of a disaster.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about breaking up with him myself. Sometimes it felt like the logical thing, the healthy thing. But every time I got close to convincing myself, my brain ambushed me with flashes of us at our best – laughing in bed, whispering “I love you” under the stars, gently washing each other in the shower, holding hands under stadium lights like nothing else mattered.

Those memories clung like gravity. No matter how hard I tried to let go, some stubborn part of me refused. Some part of me still believed in him. In us.

When the bus finally dropped us off, we walked the half mile to my house in total silence.

Just the crunch of gravel under our shoes. The occasional whoosh of passing cars.

No words. No touch. Not even a glance.

And then we were standing at my front door.

 

I pushed the door open, already rehearsing the fake smile I’d need to plaster on for Mom’s sake.

But it wasn’t just her.

Two people sat in the living room, and one of them I didn’t recognize.

Mom sprang up, grinning like she’d been waiting all week for this. Beside her, perched primly on the edge of the couch, was an older woman.

Mid-sixties, maybe. Tailored pantsuit. Short, perfectly coiffed gray-blond hair. Makeup flawless. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a glossy magazine spread titled “How to Be an Elegant Grandma Without Even Trying.”

Jack froze in the doorway.

His entire body went rigid.

And then – out of nowhere – he lurched forward, his voice cracking like glass:

“Nana!”

The woman shot to her feet, her face breaking open with recognition, joy, and the weight of so many lost years.

Jack all but flew across the room and into her arms.

***

I stood there like an idiot, frozen in the doorway, while Jack clung to this elegant, poised woman who had just shattered his world – in the best possible way.

“Nana,” he whispered again, softer this time, as if he said it too loud, she might vanish.

And then I started crying.

Not just watery eyes. Full-on crying.

For him.

Tears streamed down my face as I watched this beautiful, broken boy – who had spent his whole life starving for love – finally get something, someone, that felt like home. He had waited so long, endured so much cruelty from the very people who were supposed to protect him. Parents who treated him like an accident. Who made him feel disposable.

He had no memories of Christmas cookies with his mom. No backyard games with his dad. No bedtime stories. No hugs. No forehead kisses when he was sick.

Just cold, distant people who wanted him out of the way, unless they needed him as a prop.

And now, here she was. His Nana. His real family.

When Jack finally turned to me, I think he was shocked to see me crying. Honestly, so was I.

His face flickered through a kaleidoscope of emotions – joy, sadness, guilt, confusion – but underneath it all, I saw love. Raw, desperate, unshakable love.

In two strides, he was across the room, crushing me into a bear hug so tight it knocked the air out of me. I buried my face in his shoulder and sobbed harder. I didn’t care who saw.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my mom and Nana Beverly holding hands, smiling through their own tears.

Once the storm had calmed, we drifted into the living room. Jack and I sat side by side on the loveseat, almost touching, not quite. Mom disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the tray of finger sandwiches and lemonade she’d prepared, leaving the three of us in the quiet glow of the moment.

Nana Beverly folded her hands in her lap, her eyes sparkling with something halfway between mischief and wisdom.

“Based on that reunion in the entryway,” she said with a soft smile, “I’d say you’re either very close friends… or more than that.”

Lovers.

God, I hated that word. It made me want to crawl out of my skin. Were we even still boyfriends? Had I wrecked everything this week with my moods and my silence? I couldn’t bring myself to look at Jack.

But Jack didn’t hesitate.

He reached across the space between us, slid his fingers into mine, and looked his grandmother straight in the eye.

“He’s my boyfriend, Nana,” he said. “The best boyfriend in the world. And we love each other very much.”

I looked over at him, stunned. His voice didn’t shake. His grip didn’t loosen.

Was it real? Did he still feel that way about me? Or was he putting on a performance for his grandmother’s sake?

But every time my mind tried to spiral, Jack’s fingers would squeeze mine just a little tighter.

Maybe this wasn’t just for show.

We spent the next few hours in the living room, listening to Beverly’s stories. I barely spoke – just nodded, smiled, answered when spoken to. This was Jack’s night, and I wasn’t about to steal a second of it. For once, I needed to learn how to take a back seat.

She told us how everyone had been so certain Jack was going to be a girl. The sonograms, the doctors, all of them had said so. They’d even picked out the name: Jacqueline.

“Imagine our surprise,” she laughed, “when he shot out of the womb, and the very first thing we saw was a very tiny, very obvious little penis. Just like that, Jacqueline became Jack.”

At first, she said, Jack’s parents had seemed thrilled. Doting, even. But something changed around the time he turned two or three. She didn’t know what. They just… stopped. Stopped caring. Stopped trying. Suddenly, everything Jack did seemed to irritate them. And with their money, it was easy to vanish. Lengthy trips. Weeks, even months without seeing or speaking to him. When they did, it was only to belittle. To remind him, he was more burden than blessing. And what toddler could possibly understand that?

Of course, Jack had nannies. Plenty of them. But none ever stayed long enough for him to form any kind of bond. One by one, they quit – driven off by the constant chaos, the screaming matches, the impossible demands of his parents. It wasn’t Jack they couldn’t handle. It was them.

“They were never good people, even before Jack,” she admitted, her voice dropping.

“Image-obsessed, always chasing money, status. They brought out the worst in each other. Screaming matches. Things thrown. The police called more than once. And when Jack came along? They didn’t know how to cope with someone who actually needed them. They were too selfish to put another life before their own. So, they didn’t.”

Jack sat rigid, like a porcelain figure about to crack. His knee bounced so hard it rattled the floor. His fingers tore at the skin around his nails until tiny crescents of red showed. His jaw was clenched, lips pressed flat, but his eyes – shiny, rimmed in red – betrayed him. His ears flushed hot pink, his whole face a battle between holding it in and breaking apart. Twice, he leaned a little toward me, like he wanted to collapse into my side, but then he flinched back, curling inward as if ashamed to need it.

I couldn’t watch anymore.

I slid my hand across the cushion until it covered his, stilling his frantic fingers. His head jerked slightly, startled, and when his watery eyes finally met mine, I gave the smallest squeeze. Not a word. Just pressure. Just, I’m here.

And this time, he didn’t pull away.

Nana Bev went on to explain how Jack’s parents buried themselves in work, in extramarital affairs, in their endless fights, and in alcohol and painkillers. Jack became a problem to outsource. Nannies. Tutors. Music lessons. Anything but love.

“They couldn’t give him up,” she said bitterly. “That would’ve looked bad to their country club friends. And I… I couldn’t step in then. My husband had just passed. I could barely stand upright, let alone take in a toddler. I couldn’t call DCFS either, because I imagined the life he would have in a foster home could be even worse.”

So, Jack was sent off to boarding school as soon as he was old enough.

Five years of boarding schools. Of strangers. Not family. Not home. He had to learn to survive on his own, take care of his own needs.

He was lucky to have had Mr. G for part of that time, I thought. Someone who tried to be a surrogate parent to him. However, Jack had had other dorm parents as well, he had told me before, and not all were as kind and compassionate as Mr. G was.

By the time Beverly finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Even Jack looked shell-shocked – like much of this was new to him, too.

By ten o’clock, we were all wrung out, emotions raw. My mom pulled us aside before we headed upstairs.

“Beverly will be in the guest room,” she said. “I know things have been… rough lately. So, Nick can sleep in his room, and Jack can take the sofa-bed downstairs. Or…” She hesitated, gently. “Or you can sleep together. If that’s what you want.”

No pressure. Just leaving the choice there.

Jack looked at me. I looked at him.

It was only a glance. But it was enough.

“Together,” we both said.

Mom smiled softly and nodded. “Good.”

Climbing into bed felt strange at first. Not because it was new – just the opposite. It had only been a week apart, maybe less, but it felt like years. Like strangers fumbling to remember how to be what they once were without even trying.

It wasn’t perfect.

We weren’t magically fixed.

But at least we were trying. At least I was. And I knew – all too well – that I was the one who had broken this in the first place.

I couldn’t imagine Jack taking me back after the way I’d been treating him. But if he was willing to fight for what we had, then so was I.

As we lay there staring at the ceiling, our arms barely brushing, Jack broke the silence.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Can you… hold me?”

I didn’t say a word.

I just pulled him close, curled myself behind him, chest to his back, bare skin to bare skin, and wrapped him up in my arms like a blanket.

He let out the smallest sigh, like something had finally clicked back into place, as I cooed gently in his ear.

And just like that, we fell asleep – entangled, quiet, safe.

Exactly where we belonged.

***

Saturday morning was a bit hectic in our house – two houseguests, paperwork everywhere, and Mr. Bojangles sticking his nose into anything that crinkled, spilled, or smelled like food.

The four of us gathered around the kitchen table, the soft clink of spoons against ceramic bowls filling the silence. Breakfast was yogurt layered with granola and fresh berries – strawberries, blueberries, raspberries – stuff Mom had run to Meijer for at the crack of dawn. She’d even boiled a few soft eggs and set them out with toast, because apparently that was what elegant grandmothers were supposed to like for breakfast. The smell of brewing coffee and the occasional stifled yawn gave the room a sleepy, weekend vibe.

But the conversation wasn’t sleepy.

It was legal.

Guardianship. Custody paperwork. Temporary power of attorney. It felt like sitting through a courtroom drama without the courtesy of popcorn. Jack and I stayed quiet, poking at our granola while our brains glazed over the moment someone said jurisdiction. Fortunately, Mom was sharp as ever, scribbling notes in her spiral like she’d been training her whole life for this. Perhaps she was a lawyer in a previous lifetime.

Here’s what I managed to piece together with my non-legal brain: Plan A was simple, at least in theory. Jack’s parents would sign over custody to Nana Bev and grant my mom power of attorney, so she could handle the day-to-day stuff whenever Beverly couldn’t fly in from Seattle at a moment’s notice or do something over the phone or via email.

Plan B, if Jack’s parents decided to be their usual brand of vindictive, was emancipation. That sounded noble until you realized it was a long, complicated slog through red tape, and came with one glaring problem: emancipated minors had to prove they could support themselves financially. Everyone knew Nana Bev would cover every expense without hesitation, but the court could argue that wasn’t “true” independence.

Plan C was the nuclear option – Beverly suing for full custody, essentially adopting Jack. The evidence was damning: years of neglect, psychological abuse, physical abuse, too. I still had the photos from Christmas break – the welts across his back I’d seen with my own eyes. Heartbreaking didn’t even cover it. Therapists could testify, records could back it up. The problem was time. Lawsuits dragged on forever, and in the meantime, where would Jack go? Worse, reliving those experiences in a courtroom, enduring cross-examination from his parents’ lawyers, could undo every fragile step of progress he’d made in therapy.

So yeah. Plan A wasn’t just the best option. It was the only option that didn’t feel like setting Jack on fire to prove he’d been burned.

Jack didn’t say a word the whole time. His spoon clinked against the bowl in restless, uneven rhythms until he finally shoved it aside with a sharp scrape. He hunched forward, elbows digging into the table, staring into the swirl of yogurt and berries like he might find an escape hatch if he stared hard enough. His knee bounced under the table so hard it brushed mine, and when I laid my hand there to steady him, he didn’t pull away. He pressed harder, like he needed the anchor.

When my expression must’ve betrayed how close I was to unraveling, Nana Beverly reached across the table and covered my hand with her own.

“Sweetheart,” she said, calm and steady, “you don’t need to stress about any of this. We know what we’re doing. I have excellent lawyers – ferocious ones – and we’ll fight with everything we have. Let us handle the grown-up stuff. All you and Jack need to do is be yourselves and stay focused on school.”

I blinked at her and nodded. For someone I’d only met yesterday, she had this uncanny way of making me feel seen – and safe. The only thing that gave me pause were the couple of times I caught her tipping something from a small flask in her oversized purse into her coffee. I could guess what it was. But other than that, she seemed like an elderly knight in shining armor who had come to save Jack.

After breakfast, Nana Bev announced that she and my mom were jumping on a video conference with her legal team. Jack and I took that as our cue to disappear.

We grabbed Mr. Bojangles and headed into the woods.

It was one of those golden mornings, warm but edged with a crispness that made every breath feel new. Sunlight filtered through the trees in fractured shards, scattering across the forest floor. We walked in silence, no pressure, no tension – just the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional splash of Mr. Bojangles hurling himself into puddles and streams.

Eventually, we reached our usual spot by the creek, where the bank curved just enough to give us shade and a patch of tall grass to stretch out in. We dropped our bags, flopped down, and let the breeze wash over us.

Jack lasted all of ten seconds before his voice cracked through the quiet.

“I love you,” he blurted, hoarse and shaking. “More than anything. And the thought of losing you this past week – God, it’s been ripping me apart. I can’t sleep, I can’t think. I keep replaying every stupid thing I’ve ever said to you, every dumb joke, every fight, just trying to figure out what I did to make you pull away. And I can’t. I can’t figure it out. It’s eating me alive, Nicky. Please – please – tell me what I did. Tell me how to fix it before I lose you for good.”

I sat with it for a long moment, feeling the silence press down on me.

Then I sighed. “I don’t know, Jack.”

His brow furrowed, his whole body tensing like he was bracing for the worst.

“I mean, I really don’t,” I went on. “Something just… cracked after that fire alarm and that stupid piss-water balloon fight. Then I was already feeling a little depressed, sleep-deprived, and spiraling. Every little thing felt massive, impossible to deal with. I wanted to talk to you – I needed to – but I let my stubbornness get in the way. I thought if I just gave us space, it would heal itself. Instead, it only got worse, and I had no idea how to fix it. I convinced myself you were going to break up with me.”

Jack nodded faintly, eyes down, shredding a blade of grass between his fingers.

“But even when I was at my absolute worst,” I said softly, “I still loved you. Like this fierce, burning love I couldn’t turn off. I just didn’t know how to use it to overpower the irritation and heaviness I was feeling. At one point, I was so desperate I thought about asking Miss Charice to sit down with us – like couples’ counseling.”

That got his attention. He looked up, eyes glistening. “Do you still want to be with me?”

“Yes,” I said instantly. “I promised you forever. Do you?”

He nodded slowly, almost reverently. “Always.”

“I’m so sorry for how I acted, Jack. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course.” His voice cracked with relief. “You’ve seen me at my worst, too, and I’m not exactly a picnic. We just have to be more patient and understanding, knowing that we both have issues. And we need to try harder to talk when we’re not feeling like ourselves, instead of shutting each other out.”

We stayed there for hours, stretched out in the tall grass, letting the sun warm our skin and the creek gurgle beside us. The wind moved through the trees like a lullaby. Mr. Bojangles, soaked and ecstatic from endless splashing, looked like a drowned rat. When we finally stood to head back, he barked in protest and immediately flopped into the mud, rolling around like he was staging a strike.

“You deserve it,” I told him. “I warned you not to jump in.”

He let out a theatrical whine, as if I’d broken his heart.

Back at the house, we wrestled Mr. Bojangles into the basement bathroom for a scrub-down before his wet-dog smell could conquer the whole place. It was less “bath time” and more “hostage negotiation.”

The second Jack lifted him toward the tub, Bojangles spread all four legs like a starfish, locking his claws against the doorframe. I had to pry him loose one paw at a time while he wailed like we were trying to drown him in acid.

“Come on, drama queen,” I grunted, shoving him toward the water.

He responded by thrashing like a possessed alligator, soaking both of us in the first thirty seconds. By the time we got him into the tub, there was more water on the floor than in it. Jack slipped, crashed against the toilet, and nearly took the shower curtain down with him.

“He’s winning!” Jack yelled, trying to pin Bojangles’ back half while the dog kicked soap suds across the walls like abstract art.

I grabbed the nozzle and tried to rinse, but Bojangles twisted free, leapt out of the tub, and barreled across the room like a greased pig at a county fair. The sight of him – a dripping, half-sudsy mess – was so ridiculous I almost couldn’t breathe from laughing, even while I tackled him mid-dash.

“Got him!” I shouted, sliding across the tiles as we crashed into the door.

Bojangles yowled like a banshee, then went completely limp for exactly three seconds—long enough to lull us into thinking he’d surrendered. The moment Jack leaned in with the towel, Bojangles sprang back to life, shook violently, and blasted us with a spray of soap, fur, and water that left us looking like we’d taken the bath instead.

When we finally got him rinsed and cornered, the real battle began: the hair-dryer.

Jack held it up like a weapon. “Don’t you dare—”

Too late. The instant I flipped the switch, Bojangles bolted out of my grip, claws scrabbling for traction on the wet tile. He blasted through the door like a torpedo and tore up the basement stairs, leaving a dripping trail behind him.

By the time we caught up, he was racing figure-eights around the living room, suds still clinging to his fur, looking like a foam-covered monster straight out of Ghostbusters. He leapt onto the couch, spun in a circle, then launched himself off and tore past Nana Beverly, who clutched her wine glass to her chest in shock.

“Good Lord!” she cried, half-horrified, half-delighted. “It’s a doggy exorcism!”

Bojangles skidded to a halt, gave her one long, betrayed look, then shook again, spraying her legs with a fresh mist of dog water before bolting back down the hall.

Jack doubled over, wheezing with laughter. “We’re not getting that hair-dryer anywhere near him.”

“No,” I said, dripping from head to toe, “but at least the house smells like lavender shampoo now.”

Nana Beverly laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. “Is he always this dramatic?”

“Worse,” Jack and I said in unison.

Mr. Bojangles shot us all a wounded look, dripping water on the floorboards like punctuation.

Dinner turned out to be amazing. Nana made chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes, gravy, roasted carrots, and a homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie that tasted like angels had blessed it.

During the meal, we got the final update on the legal plan.

“Here’s where we stand,” Nana said, folding her napkin neatly and setting it aside. “Best-case scenario, your parents agree to sign over guardianship voluntarily. That would give me legal authority over your medical decisions, school enrollment, and financial matters – the full scope of parental rights, short of adoption. Nick’s mom would be listed as co-guardian, handling anything on-site that I can’t manage from Seattle. If they cooperate, it’s clean: filings, a hearing, and court approval. They would still be required to provide child support until you’re 18, but that wouldn’t be a lot, and they wouldn’t have to pay your tuition at Harrison West.”

“Will I have to see them again? Like in court or something?” Jack asked hesitatingly.

“We’ll have to see about that. We’ll do everything we can to make sure that isn’t necessary, but I can’t promise either way,” she explained.

Jack set his fork down. “And if they don’t want to cooperate?”

“Then we move to litigation,” Nana said, her voice crisp. “We’d petition for custody on the grounds of neglect and unfitness. That’s a full trial – discovery, subpoenas, witnesses. Your parents will almost certainly contest it, which means months of motions and hearings. We’d prepare you for depositions. It won’t be easy, but there’s a reasonable chance of winning, especially if we can get more evidence.”

“Like physical abuse?” I interjected.

“Yes, something like that,” my mom said. “Do you know something about this, Nick?”

“No, just want to make sure we have all the bases covered,” I said sheepishly.

My mom gave me her death stare, saying she didn’t believe me and we’d be talking later.

Jack’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward. “What if they fight dirty? Hire some slick lawyer, drag Nick’s mom into it, twist things to make me look unstable? They’ve done it before.”

Nana’s eyes narrowed. “Let them. They can spend every dime they’ve got, but facts matter. We’ll have testimony from your teachers, from counselors, from Nick’s mom, from school records. Their neglect speaks for itself. If they smear you, we counter with proof. That’s what discovery is for.”

Jack shook his head, his voice rising. “You don’t know them like I do! They don’t care about facts. They’ll lie, they’ll manipulate, they’ll destroy me if they can. They don’t care if it’s true – only that it hurts.”

The room went still.

Nana didn’t flinch. She leaned across the table, her voice low but cutting through his panic. “Jack. Look at me.”

He did, reluctantly.

“They can posture, they can bluster, they can make noise – but they cannot erase the record. Judges don’t take children away from safe homes and hand them back to absentee parents just because someone yells louder. The law is on your side. And so am I. I’ve fought nastier opponents than your parents, and I’ve won. Every. Single. Time.”

Jack’s breathing slowed, though his hands were still clenched in his lap.

“What about emancipation?” he muttered.

Nana nodded. “Still possible. However, emancipation requires proving self-sufficiency – including housing, income, and insurance. At your age, still in school, that’s a steep climb. Judges rarely grant it unless the alternative is outright harm.”

“So… basically a dead end,” Jack said.

“Not dead,” Nana corrected, “just not our strongest card. The better move is a temporary restraining order. If granted, it bars your parents from contacting you, showing up at school, or interfering in your life while the case is active. Violations carry real penalties – civil, sometimes criminal. That gives us leverage and breathing room.”

Jack slumped back in his chair, shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. My mom reached across the table and took his hand, squeezing tight.

“You’ll get through this,” she said softly but firmly.

Her voice wasn’t just comfort. It was a vow.

But I’d learned not always to trust promises. If I had to fight this myself, I would. After all, I still had those photos hidden, and I would bring them out at just the right moment to ensure we won.

***

After dinner, everyone drifted into the living room. Nana poured herself a splash more “coffee,” Mom busied herself with dishes, and Mr. Bojangles collapsed dramatically on the rug, still damp and sulking from his bath.

Jack excused himself without a word and slipped upstairs. I followed, heart thudding.

I found him sitting on the edge of the bed in my room, hunched over, elbows on his knees, fists pressed against his forehead. His shoulders rose and fell with each heavy breath.

“Jack,” I said softly, closing the door behind me.

He shook his head without looking up. “She makes it sound so simple. Like facts and the law will protect me, like the law is fair. But it’s not. It’s never helped me before. My parents… they’ll do anything to win. They don’t care if they burn me alive in the process.”

I crossed the room and sat beside him. He didn’t pull away when I wrapped my arm around him. If anything, he leaned harder into me, like he needed proof I was real.

“They can’t touch you here,” I murmured. “You’ve got Nana, my mom, and me. You’re not alone anymore.”

His voice cracked. “But what if it isn’t enough? What if they find some way to spin it, and the court believes them? What if I lose everything—”

I squeezed his hand, firm enough to cut him off. “You’re not going to lose me. No matter what they do. Even if the whole system collapses, I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

That finally broke him. He turned into me, burying his face in my chest, his body shaking with the tears he’d been holding back all through dinner.

I held him, rocking gently, whispering nonsense – “you’re safe,” “I’ve got you,” “it’s okay” – until the storm passed. His breathing steadied, his grip loosened, and he sagged against me, exhausted.

After a long silence, he whispered, “You really meant it? Forever?”

I kissed the top of his head. “Forever.”

Jack pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were rimmed red, lashes wet, but there was something raw and unguarded in the way he held my gaze. “You don’t know what it was like growing up with them,” he said, his voice rough. “If I cried, they told me to toughen up. If I messed up, they screamed until I wanted to disappear. And if I fought back, even a little, they’d punish me until I broke. They don’t care about the truth, Nick. They care about winning. About control. If a judge gives them an inch, they’ll take everything.”

I swallowed hard, my chest aching. “Is that why you snapped downstairs?”

He nodded, gripping my hand so tight it hurt. “Because I’ve seen it. They’ll twist things until you don’t even recognize yourself anymore. When I was twelve, my dad told a family friend I was a ‘pathological liar’ just because I said I hated football. A week later, my mom told people I was ‘unstable’ because I got quiet at dinner. They make you doubt your own reality. I can’t go back to that. I’d rather—” His voice cracked, and he turned away, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Hey.” I squeezed his hand until he looked at me again. “You’re not twelve anymore. And you’re not fighting them alone this time. You’ve got Nana. You’ve got my mom. And you’ve got me. They don’t get to rewrite who you are – not anymore.”

His eyes searched mine, desperate for something to hold onto. “And if they still win? If they take me back?”

“Then I’ll fight like hell to stop it,” I said, my voice steady even though my stomach flipped. “Even if it means running away with you. Whatever it takes, Jack. I’m not letting them destroy you.”

For the first time all evening, a small, fragile smile flickered across his face. He leaned into me again, resting his forehead against mine. “You don’t know how much I need to believe that.”

“Then believe it,” I whispered. “Because it’s true.”

We stayed like that for a long time; the weight of his past and the uncertainty of the future pressed between us, but for once, it didn’t feel like it was winning. For once, we were winning.