I looked around the room and tried to force down the panic rising in my throat like bile.
What have I done?
What was I thinking?
Why did I ever think this was a good idea?
Pushing my hands through my hair, I started pacing in circles around the pile of sealed cardboard boxes in the center of my bedroom floor.
What if this was a huge mistake?
Everything I owned was in those few boxes. Okay, maybe not everything, but everything important anyway. Four boxes that contained almost my entire wardrobe, shoes for every conceivable occasion, a couple of framed photos, a comforter and sheets purchased just for my dorm room, a pillow, towels and wash clothes that I'd painstakingly labeled using a permanent marker, and the game system I'd purchased with the money I'd earned from working part-time at an art supply store.
That's it? Four boxes? My whole life fits in four boxes?
We were planning to pick up stuff like laundry detergent, shampoos, soap, and such once we were there, and I still had to pack up my phone charger and stuff in my backpack in the morning, but it seemed impossible that I was heading off to college with just four fucking boxes.
I'm not ready for this.
My life was just finally getting back to some semblance of normality — whatever that meant — and I was about to uproot myself and move halfway across the country.
Okay, so it wasn't really halfway, just 350 miles...but that was still really far away from everyone I knew and trusted — from my aunt, from my best friend, from my therapist, from the safety net I'd spent the last year carefully building.
Moving is a terrible idea.
What was I thinking?
Oh right, I was on drugs at the time.
All I'd been thinking when I picked Van Rensselaer University in Albany, New York was that it was far away from Judy and what had then felt like her stifling, suffocating concern.
Now, the day before moving hundreds of miles away, all I could think was that I'd be lost without her.
I didn't know anybody there. I didn't know the city. I'd be adrift and alone.
I can't do this on my own.
I can't go.
My stress level was going through the roof.
Get a grip, Jake. Calm down.
I tried to slow my breathing, but I was too far gone.
I needed to talk to somebody.
My laptop was already packed up, my aunt was out getting groceries for my going away dinner, and my cell phone was dead and charging.
I need to smoke a bowl.
I stopped in my tracks, which was good since I was probably wearing a groove into the carpet from my pacing.
The thought had come out of nowhere, a sucker punch from the past. I hadn’t smoked in over a year. I was supposed to be clean. I was clean. The cravings were supposed to be done.
To be fair, this was less of a craving and more of a trauma response, but knowing that didn't make me want the weed any less.
Either way, once the idea was in my head, it refused to just go away. It stretched out, made itself comfortable, put its feet up on my self-control and asked what I planned to do about it.
I could practically feel the first hit already — the burn in my lungs, the earthy taste, the slow unwinding that always came afterward. The way the tension in my shoulders would loosen first, then my chest, then my brain. Thoughts that currently felt enormous and life-ruining would suddenly shrink down to manageable size, dulled around the edges until nothing seemed quite so sharp anymore. For a few blissful hours, everything would soften. The noise in my head would quiet down to a low hum instead of a screaming siren, and I wouldn’t have to feel quite so much.
For me, that was the seductive part of drugs — not even the high itself, really, but the promise of silence.
I was technically supposed to call someone if I started thinking like that — a friend, my therapist, my sponsor. Not that I'd ever called the sponsor I'd been assigned at the last NA meeting I'd attended. Or even spoken to him beyond exchanging polite hellos, for that matter.
I glanced over at my phone. It was probably charged enough to make a call. The problem was the only person I wanted to call was my old dealer.
I dropped heavily onto the edge of my bed and buried my face in my hands. This was just proof that I wasn't ready to leave. If moving stressed me out this badly, what would happen when finals rolled around? Or roommate drama? Or literally anything else? How would I ever survive college?
A little weed would calm me right down, I reasoned.
Just weed.
Not the other stuff. Never the other stuff — not again.
And weed wasn’t even addictive. Everyone said so. Hell, it was legal now. Did it even count as “using”?
Okay, not legal for me specifically since I was still underage, but that was a technicality.
Suddenly, a memory wriggled its way to the surface. My head snapped up, and I searched the shelves of my bookcase. There it was: a small wooden box with a carved lid — a simple keepsake box on the outside, Pandora’s junk drawer on the inside.
I stood and walked across the room, reaching out with trembling hands to lift the box. It was heavier than it looked.
I quickly flipped it over and slid open the false bottom. I'd long since spent the money I used to stash in the hidden cavity, and the photos had been thrown away, along with almost everything else from that period of my life. I'd purged it all, anything he'd purchased for me — every piece of clothing, every electronic device, every token or ticket. They were simply reminders of a time I desperately wanted to forget.
But one thing remained: a small plastic bag with the sad little remnants of an old life.
I picked it up. It wasn’t much, but enough.
I tossed it onto my desk, slid the false bottom back into place, and returned the box to its shelf like nothing had happened.
Now what?
The baggie glared at me. I glared back. It had lived in the box for months because I “forgot” to throw it out during my big cleanse. Maybe I’d been saving it for this exact moment, like a time capsule of bad decisions.
I'd thrown away my bowl, my bongs, and my lighters, and I didn't have any rolling papers, which meant I'd have to improvise.
I dug through my desk and pulled out a sheet of tracing paper. Before my brain could stage an intervention, I tore off a corner, dumped the weed in a shaky line, rolled it up, licked the edge, and sealed it. It looked like something crafted in the world’s worst prison arts program, but it would smoke.
All I needed now was a lighter.
And living with my aunt meant I lived in the incense capital of the East Coast.
I slid my makeshift joint into my pocket and cracked open my bedroom door. I didn't hear her anywhere, but that didn't mean much. She moved like a barefoot cryptid.
I tiptoed into the kitchen. The catch-all drawer would have a lighter. It always did. I was halfway there when the back door flew open and my aunt bustled in, arms full of grocery bags.
Judy Cassara was one of a kind. She was a straight-shooter with a wicked sense of humor that tended toward sarcasm and a seemingly endless supply of patience, which was good because I'd required a lot of it over the last three years.
She was my mom's sister, and she was the only family I had left after—
No.
Don't open that door. Keep it locked tight.
Especially when I was already spiraling...
There was a slight family resemblance in that we were both blond-haired and blue-eyed and coped with life by embracing biting sarcasm, but the similarities pretty much ended there.
I was just shy of six feet tall while Judy barely came up to my shoulder, though what she lacked in height she more than made up for in sheer force of personality.
She was an optimist, always looking for the silver lining. I tended toward nihilism and existential dread.
She embraced life with a level of enthusiasm that was, frankly, occasionally alarming, treating every day like the universe was a magical scavenger hunt designed specifically for her amusement. I always felt I was waiting for the next disaster, the next storm, the next blow.
I saw a rainy day and thought, great, seasonal depression with atmosphere. Judy saw a “cleansing spiritual reset” and immediately wanted to collect it so she could make "moon water," whatever that was.
She believed in ghosts, herbal remedies, tarot cards, tea reading, and visions of the future. I believed in therapy, antidepressants, and locking my bedroom door.
And somehow, against all logic, we worked.
Or, at least, we'd figured out how to coexist reasonably well.
It hadn't always been so simple, though. I'd moved in with her three years ago when everything in my life had changed overnight. We'd had a bit of a rocky start, but things had improved after I quit using and started going back to therapy following a near-fatal overdose.
Funny how that works.
Still, she'd supported me through all of it. Mostly through snark, supernatural intuition, and leaving pamphlets about healthy coping skills in the bathroom.
She stopped when she saw me and gave me a funny look. "Are you okay?"
I nodded nervously.
Would she know about the joint in my pocket?
This was more than just typical teen paranoia. My aunt was an actual psychic, so she claimed anyway, and I couldn't prove anything to the contrary. She certainly had an eerie way of predicting the future that was unnervingly accurate...if sometimes vague.
The good news for me was she wasn't a mind reader.
At least as far as I knew.
Her eyes narrowed, making me second-guess myself. "Are you up to something?"
"What? No." I aimed for offended. Landed squarely on suspicious. "I was just getting ready to go for a walk. You know, say goodbye to the neighborhood."
Okay, that sounded lame even to me. I tried not to cringe.
Judy arched an eyebrow. "Awesome. Be sure to say bye to the pothole that almost took out my right front tire, will you?"
I laughed just a little too loudly, cut it off just a little too quickly. Was it just me or did she overemphasize the first syllable of pothole?
I waited until Judy had her back turned to me as she set the bags on the counter, then threw myself toward the back door. I had to get out of there, and fast.
My hand was on the knob when Judy called out again, “Oh! Jake?”
My stomach tried to exit my body through the back door. "Yeah?"
"Are you all packed?"
Relief bloomed. "Yeah. All that's left is my toiletries."
"Good. Are you excited?"
"Something like that," I mumbled.
Judy turned and smiled at me. "It's normal to be nervous, you know. I was a wreck before I went off to college, but hey, it turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to me. You'll be fine."
"Yeah, thanks."
"Really, Jake. You're stronger than you think. You'll make new friends, learn new things, maybe even meet a cute boy." She gave me a wink, and I tried to muster up a convincing smile. "And if you don't like it, you can always transfer to somewhere closer."
"I know."
Then she dropped the bomb. "And you can do it all without that joint in your pocket."
My jaw dropped.
There was no point denying it. "How do you do that?"
She grinned as she turned to open the catch-all drawer, pulled out a small disposable lighter, and tossed it to me.
I didn't move to catch it, and it bounced off my chest, clattering to the floor.
"If you're going to smoke, you'll need that," she said, turning back to the groceries. "Unless you were just going to rub some sticks together in the backyard."
"But...you just said—"
"I said you didn't need it. I didn't say I was going to stop you. You're not a child anymore."
"I don't understand..."
"You're leaving tomorrow. I won't be there to babysit you. You have to make your own choices. Besides, when have you ever listened to me anyway?"
"I..."
"I'm kidding, Jake." She bent down, picked up the lighter. and put it in my hand. "Not about the marijuana. That's still your call."
She turned back to the groceries and started putting them away while I stood gaping at her.
"Is this some sort of guilt trip reverse psychology Jedi mind trick?"
"Nope." She glanced back over her shoulder as she put away a carton of oat milk. "You’re over a year sober. It's your life. It's your call. I'll just ask you this: is a temporary high really worth throwing all that away?"
"It's just weed," I argued weakly. "It's not even addictive."
She gave me a look so sharp it could cut granite. "Jake...you've been to rehab. You've sat in meetings. Hell, you OD’d, for fuck's sake. And you’re going to stand there in my kitchen and tell me you're somehow immune because marijuana isn’t addictive?"
"It's not the same. Weed wasn't the problem before."
"It wasn’t the main problem," she corrected. "You don’t slip because of the hardest drug you ever took. You slip because of the easiest one. The one you convince yourself doesn’t count."
I swallowed.
"You can convince yourself of anything," she added. "You're very bright. Very creative. Very...charismatic." She paused. "Honestly, you’d make an excellent cult leader."
"Gee, thanks."
She shrugged again. "You know I’m right."
I hated that she was.
"Look," she said gently, “I’m not your warden. I’m not going to burn it. I’m not going to forbid you. You decide where your line is. Not me."
I nodded silently, slipped outside, and let the door shut behind me.
Even after years together, she could still surprise the hell out of me. We were never going to be a normal mother-and-son duo — her parenting style was ‘chaotic wisecracking oracle’ — but I loved her anyway.
I’d miss her.
Meanwhile, the joint burned a hole in my pocket.
Judy may have laid a world-class guilt trip on me, but I still wanted to smoke the damn thing.
She’d know, of course. Judy always knew. I just didn’t care. Not at that moment.
I just needed a place where no one would look at me too closely while I made a questionable life choice. The park seemed like the best bet. Middle of the day, not too many people.
Sure enough, only a few joggers thumped along the river path, earbuds in, minds on other things. Hardly any kids. Good. There would be no innocent bystanders to witness my relapse in progress.
I wandered into a fairly deserted area and sat down on top of a picnic table. I waited for a very large lady walking an equally enormous mutt to huff and puff her way by — reminded briefly of the saying that people looked like their pets.
I waited until they disappeared around a bend, and then it was my turn to puff.
I slid out the joint and lighter. My fingers were shaking just enough to be annoying. The joint went between my lips, the lighter hovered at the tip, and I flicked.
Nothing.
I tried again. Still nothing. Not even a spark — like the universe was judging me.
Or trying to save me from myself.
Deep breath. Third time’s the charm.
Flame.
As the fire caught, I cupped my hand around it, protecting it. And that was when Judy’s voice cut through my head.
"Is a temporary high really worth throwing all that away?"
I swallowed hard.
I’d worked so damn hard for my sobriety. Meetings. Hours of therapy. The kind of self-control no one believed I had — least of all me. Granted, the last year hadn’t been that stressful. Finals were easy enough. Getting into Van Rensselaer was stressful but in a good way.
But moving to New York? That was real pressure. Real life. Real unknowns.
Was I really going to fold that fast?
The twisted end of the joint flared orange as it finally caught, the paper crackling softly, yanking me back to the now. I cupped my hand around the flame, shielding it from the breeze.
And one hundred pounds of uncontrolled enthusiasm launched itself directly into my chest. One second, I was having an existential crisis on a picnic table. The next, I was horizontal.
A massive blur of shaggy brown fur slammed into me hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I stifled a yelp, lips clamping down on the joint as my back hit the tabletop with a painful thunk, limbs everywhere, mine and...not mine. Some furrier than others.
The lighter flew out of my hand in a graceful arc and vanished into the grass.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me—”
A giant tongue immediately dragged across my entire face.
I gagged violently, jerking my head to the side just in time to avoid a second slobbery assault. The dog panted happily, hot breath wafting over me, smelling like he’d been snacking on straight-up fecal delicacies, tail whipping back and forth like a deadly weapon.
“Down! DOWN!” I wheezed, trying to shove him off me.
The dog interpreted this as encouragement.
His front paws planted squarely on my chest while he wriggled with delight, nearly crushing my ribcage beneath what felt like the weight of a compact SUV. I caught a glimpse of his huge paws and briefly wondered if it was secretly a bear.
“Jesus Christ, what are you eating? Small villagers?”
The mutt barked excitedly directly into my face, spraying me with warm dog spit. I recoiled in horror.
Then I made the mistake of glancing down.
The joint was still clenched between my lips.
The dog noticed too.
His eyes locked onto it with sudden laser focus.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
With terrifying speed, he lunged.
There was a soft snap as he neatly plucked the joint from my mouth like a magician performing a card trick.
“Hey!”
I grabbed uselessly at empty air while the dog jerked backward triumphantly, tail wagging so hard his entire rear half vibrated. For one awful second, we stared at each other — me in betrayed disbelief, him with the smug confidence of a creature who had just outsmarted another human.
Then he chomped down.
“No! No no no—!”
Thirty dollars’ worth of primo cannabis disappeared between giant canine teeth.
The dog chewed enthusiastically, swallowed, and immediately tried to lick my face again.
“You big, hairy...monster!” I shouted, shoving at his massive head. “That was medicinal!”
Somewhere in the distance, a woman gasped, “Oh my goodness!”
The dog’s owner finally came huffing around the bend in the path. She was red-faced and breathless, her enormous floral muumuu fluttering dramatically behind her as she hurried toward us.
“Tank! Tank! Leave that poor boy alone!”
Poor boy was correct.
Tank, apparently deciding his work here was done, planted himself more firmly on top of me and resumed panting directly into my face with enormous doggy satisfaction.
“I am so sorry!” the woman puffed as she reached us. “He got away from me! He just took off and made a bee-line right for you!”
“Clearly,” I croaked from beneath the beast.
“Oh Lord, are you okay? He didn’t bite you, did he?”
“No, but he robbed me.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Tank chose that moment to attempt another full-face lick. I twisted away so abruptly my head smacked against the picnic table again.
Stars exploded behind my eyes.
The woman finally got hold of Tank’s collar and hauled backward with a grunt. The dog resisted with all the stubborn determination of a furry bulldozer.
“Tank! Heel!”
Tank absolutely did not heel.
It took both of us and what felt like several acts of God to finally pry him off me. I sat up slowly, hair sticking out in damp spikes, hoodie covered in muddy pawprints and saliva.
The woman looked mortified.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she repeated. “He’s usually so well-behaved. He really must have taken a liking to you.”
I stared at the dog.
The dog stared back.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I gathered that.”
She finally managed to drag him away down the trail, apologizing the entire time.
Halfway down the path, the dog suddenly stopped, looked back at me, and sneezed. His owner tugged on his leash, and Tank pranced off behind her happily, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
I stared after them in stunned silence. Tank was about to have the most enlightened walk of his life.
If the universe wanted to stop me from relapsing, that was certainly one way to do it.
I flopped back on the table, staring up at the pale stretch of sky above me, listening to my pulse thud in my ears. Clouds drifted lazily overhead, slow and unconcerned, while my brain spiraled in twelve different directions at once.
Nothing in my life felt simple anymore. So much had changed in just a few short years.
I let myself think about it for the first time all day — really think about it. I cracked the door open just enough for the memories to slip through.
First, my entire family was gone, brutally murdered by my own brother. And he'd nearly finished me off. I was only alive because my friend Killian arrived just in time. He'd had to put a few bullets in my brother to stop him, but it was an effective — if violent — solution.
Then Judy had swept me off to California in the hope that a change of scenery could somehow glue my shattered life back together. Instead, I found drugs. Or maybe they found me. Either way, we became very close, very fast. The kind of toxic friendship that feels wonderful right up until it destroys your life.
So Judy dragged us back to Maryland, determined to save me from myself.
Didn’t work.
I just found new dealers. New ways to disappear. New ways to stop feeling.
One of those new “friends” turned out to be a whole lot more dangerous than the burnout party kids back on the West Coast. I overdosed. Nearly died. Nearly got arrested for a murder I didn’t commit.
And honestly? Without Killian, I probably would have.
As a private investigator, he’d managed to prove I was innocent. As my friend, he’d somehow convinced me that my life was still worth salvaging afterward. He’d sat with me through panic attacks and withdrawal and shame spirals. He’d talked me down when my own brain became unbearable to live inside.
He’d saved my life more than once.
I wasn’t sure there was any way to ever repay someone for that.
Suddenly, lying there alone in the park, smelling like drying dog slobber and bad decisions, with the remains of my aborted relapse somewhere in an overgrown mutt's digestive system, the reality of leaving hit me all over again.
I was really going, really leaving them behind.
And God, I was going to miss Killian most of all.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to stave off the tears building up.
Maybe Judy was right. Maybe I was still just one spark away from burning everything down again.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across my face.
"Hey, Judy said I might find you here."
I opened my eyes to find Killian standing over me, concern clouding his expression. I sat up and tried to give him a big smile.
"Hey. I hate how she can do that."
He eased himself onto the picnic table beside me, like he wasn’t sure I wouldn't bolt. "I think it was just a lucky guess this time. You okay?"
I nodded. "I was just thinking about you, actually."
"Oh yeah?" His eyes searched my face. "You sure you're okay?"
I frowned. "Did Judy tell you about the joint?"
"Um...maybe?"
"Did she call you?
He grinned sheepishly. "Don't be mad. She was worried she'd made the wrong call not coming down harder on you."
I rolled my eyes. "So she sent you after me again." I sighed. "I'm not mad. In fact, it's kind of sweet that you both care so much. That's actually one of the reasons I'm so freaked out about leaving."
He leaned in to give me a hug, which I accepted gratefully — until he took a not-so-subtle sniff of my shirt.
I pushed him back. "I didn't smoke, Sherlock. Quit investigating me."
He laughed. "Sorry. Force of habit." Then he became serious. "So why didn't you?"
"Well, I was having second thoughts, but it wasn't because I'm morally upright or bursting with inner strength or something.”
"So what happened?"
“A dog ate it.”
Killian blinked. “A dog...ate...”
I chuckled at the look on his face. “I swear. Giant mutt. Out of nowhere. Tackled me. Ate the joint.”
"You're serious."
"As serious as climate change."
Killian shook his head. "That's...just wild enough to be true. But in my defense, I did find you red-eyed, lying on a picnic table, staring into the void."
I snorted. "Because I have to be high to do that?"
He shrugged. "Hey, somebody must be looking out for you." He glanced around, as if expecting a guardian angel lurking behind a tree.
I slung an arm around his shoulders. "Several someones, actually. I don’t know what I’ll do without you guys."
"You’ll be fine."
"Will I?"
Killian studied my face. "Is that what all this was about?"
I drew my arm back. "What do you mean?"
"You're scared you'll fall off the wagon."
I shrugged. "I mean...I almost just did."
"But only because you were sabotaging yourself. Again."
"And who's to say I won't do it again?"
"Only you can say that."
I looked away.
"Hey, you've made it an entire year. I'm not saying it'll be easy but you can do it. You just have to believe in yourself."
I nodded, still not making eye contact.
"Do you miss it?"
I shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Really?" There was honest surprise in his voice.
I kept my gaze fixed somewhere near the horizon. If I looked at him, I might lose my nerve.
"I don't miss what my life was like then. I was out of control and almost died. But sometimes I miss...not feeling." I gave him a little half smile. "Emotions are hard."
He gave me a bigger smile back. "Of course they are. If emotions were easy, we wouldn’t have art, or songs, or poetry—"
"Okay, okay. Beauty comes from pain, I get it. But this is my life we're talking about. I don't want to start using again just to make art."
"That's not what I meant. But yeah — I don’t want you to start using again either. What about your therapist?"
"I'll keep seeing her virtually. Every other week."
"You can always bump it back up to every week if you feel like you need it. And you're gonna find a support group up there, right?"
I shrugged. I hadn’t clicked with any group yet. Twelve-step wasn't my thing — hard to believe in a higher power when life had spent years punching you in the face. I’d bounced around groups without ever sticking long enough to find a sponsor I clicked with.
My therapist had kept me afloat so far. But being far from everyone I trusted? Maybe I needed more than "afloat."
"You know, this is all easy for you to say," I muttered. "You’ve never dealt with anything like this. You don’t even smoke."
"Uh...I've hardly lived in an ivory tower, Jake. Maybe I don't smoke but—"
"I know. You shot and killed somebody. I was there."
His eyes widened, hurt flickering across his face. I winced, knowing I'd gone too far.
"Sorry. Too soon?"
"Jake..." He sighed. "Look, no, I don’t understand addiction from the inside. But I am trying to help. So stop deflecting. This isn’t about me.”
"I know. Sorry." I blew out a breath. "It's just... I won’t know anyone there. I’ll be alone."
"Oh, come on. Not for long. You're charming, funny, smart, and drop dead gorgeous. People will line up to be your friend."
I shook my head. "Maybe I'll start a cult."
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Just something Judy said earlier. Even if you're right and there is a waiting list to be my friend, I won't know them. You know how hard it is for me to trust people. What if I push them all away?"
"Then don't do that."
I gave him a look.
He held up his hands. "I know, easier said than done. But if you know you do that, at least you can catch yourself. Try something different. You can't fix everything overnight, but you can try."
"And what if I meet people and then they find out about my past and don't want to be my friend?"
His voice softened. "Anyone who can’t handle that you survived something hard doesn’t deserve to be in your life now that you’re building something better. People who matter stay. People who don't—" He flicked his fingers. "—gone. And good riddance. They were shitty to begin with. Pick better people. You don’t owe anyone a sanitized version of yourself."
"They still won't be you guys."
"We're not going anywhere, you know. I'll only be a phone call away. Same for Judy. You’re not replacing us — you’re adding to the list."
"Maybe."
"Definitely. And while you're at it, maybe it's time for you to start dating again."
I snorted. "Right. Let's add another stressful situation to my life right now. Just what I need."
"I'm serious. You have to get back out there eventually. You can't stay a monk for the rest of your life."
"You make it sound so easy. It's not like I'm just going to meet someone and fall head over heels in love at first sight. This isn't some meet-cute romcom."
"Never say never." He nudged me. "Besides, you're looking at this all wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"This is your shot at a clean slate. So much bad stuff happened here. So much baggage. Up there? You get to start fresh."
I blinked.
A fresh start.
The words settled into me slowly, and for the first time since I’d gotten my acceptance letter, something inside me loosened.
A fresh start.
Not an escape. Not running away.
A beginning.
All I’d been able to think about was everything I was leaving behind. Judy. Killian. Familiar streets. Familiar routines. The handful of people who knew exactly how broken I was and loved me anyway.
But maybe I’d been looking at the whole thing backward.
Albany didn’t know me.
Van Rensselaer University didn’t know me.
To everyone there, I wouldn’t be Jake Sheridan: local disaster, recovering addict, trauma magnet, guy who almost died twice before graduation.
I’d just be Jake. Some random freshman with a nice tan and decent hair.
The thought hit me so hard I actually sat up a little straighter.
No one there would look at me with pity. No one would lower their voice when they talked about my family. No one would know the headlines. No one would know about Fenton Black or the overdose or rehab or the fact that sometimes I still woke up sweating from dreams I couldn’t fully remember.
I could choose what parts of myself to share.
I could choose which parts to hide.
The idea felt...light.
Terrifying, still. But lighter.
I looked over at Killian. “You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“I think this is the first time I’ve realized I’m allowed to become a different person.”
His expression shifted immediately. “Jake...”
“No, not fake different,” I said quickly. “I don’t mean pretending none of that stuff happened. I just...” I struggled for the words. “Maybe I can be something new. Something different. Maybe...someone who isn’t always living under the shadow of all the horrible things that have happened to them.”
Killian nodded slowly.
“Maybe I can leave all that here and just be...Jake.” I laughed softly, almost embarrassed by how hopeful I sounded.
“There you go,” he said quietly.
I rubbed a hand over my face, staring back up at the drifting clouds. “God, that sounds disgustingly optimistic.”
“Ew,” Killian agreed solemnly. “You should probably stop before Judy senses positive emotional growth and starts burning sage around you.”
I laughed, but for the first time all day, when I imagined getting in the car tomorrow and driving away from Maryland, I didn’t feel panic. I felt something close to hope.
"A fresh start. Maybe you're right..."
Killian grinned. "Of course I'm right. When am I ever wrong?"
I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye, and he cracked up.
"Don't start making a list. You'll be okay. Trust me."
I squinted. "You know that, or is this just a psychic hunch?"
He waggled his fingers dramatically. "It came to me in a vision from the Great Beyond."
I rolled my eyes. "You and Judy..."
"Should I consult my crystal ball?"
"How about a tarot reading?"
"Tea leaves?"
"You should totally do my chart."
"Or freshly spilled intestines—"
"Ew!"
We collapsed back onto the table, laughing. God, I was going to miss this.
"Oh hey," Killian said suddenly. "I was supposed to invite you and Judy over for dinner, sort of a last-minute going away party. Except, you know, not a party."
"Tonight?"
"Yeah."
"I think Judy was planning something, but I'm sure she would be thrilled at the prospect of someone else making dinner."
Cooking was not Judy's forte. She wasn't a total disaster, but it wasn't something she enjoyed either.
Then a thought hit me. Hard. Adam loved big dinner parties. Like...loved.
"Who all will be there?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "I don’t want a big thing."
"Just me, Adam, Steve, Kane, Tad. You and Judy. Maybe Novak."
I groaned. "So an intimate dinner with your dads, your brother, the foster kid from hell, and your boss. Sure. Very low-key."
He elbowed me. "Oh stop. Tad’s gotten better. And inviting Novak makes sense — he’s practically your stepdad."
"Ew. Never say that again."
Shane Novak was a nice guy, but we weren't exactly buddy-buddy. He gave ex-cop energy. Stiff. Polite. Awkward around me. But he treated Judy well, which was all that mattered.
"So?" Killian prompted.
I forced a smile. "It sounds nice. Thanks."
It sounded like mild torture, but they cared. And that mattered.
"Great." Killian looped his arm through mine. "Let's go ask Judy."
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