"Home schooling isn't that bad," Tony explains to us a week and a half later. As a display of him becoming increasingly comfortable in our home, he's sitting upside down on the sofa; head dangling off the cushion, legs waving in the air as they hang off the back of the seat. "You can go to lessons in your pyjamas. And you can bring your pets. On the downside, I guess you get more homework. Because it's all homework, right? See what I did there?"
"I see what you did there," Jaime laughs, pushing his legs slightly as he walks past, munching on a waffle as he goes, and I stop sketching and look up from my watercolour notepad.
"What'll he do about exams?"
"I doubt he'll be made to do any this year," he says certainly as Doug bounces over, squeaky toy in his jaws, begging to be played with. Amused, Tony reaches an arm back and wriggles the toy, a long, soft item meant to resemble a lion. "He should take this year to recover and catch up. Next year he'll probably have to do the standardised exams like everyone else, probably at a test centre. It's just the matter of finding a few other tutors, and I have contacts by the bucketful. I also wouldn't worry about pay, I'm fairly sure since your mom is unemployed at the moment and considering your financial status anyway you can claim on the state if you need to."
"We'll find a way," I nod, and then pick my pale blue watercolour pen from the packet, give it a quick shake and remove the lid, tentatively touching it to the paper. It touches the boundary with a soft, smooth tip, and when I drag it slightly it glides across the watercolour paper easily. Taken by the colour and the movement of the pen itself, I actually gasp, smiling. Fascinated, I follow the outline I've drawn along the edge with the pens, beginning to fill in the colour. "Sarah?"
"Yes love?"
I stop with the pen for a moment and look over to where she's sitting in the armchair, ball of wool in her lap, knitting needles clicking gently as she struggles with each stitch of string. "I haven't seen Andrew since he offered to tutor Mike. So please tell him I'm even more grateful now than I was when he offered."
"It's no problem, darling," she says gently, those lovely bright eyes sparkling as she smiles and then returns to her knitting. She casts off the next stitch and then frowns at the needles, seemingly baffled. "Although, by form of early payment, I don't suppose you know how to knit? I have more stitches than when I started."
"How many did you have when you started?" Jaime asks, sitting down beside Tony the right way up as he finishes his waffle.
"Twenty."
"How many do you have now?"
"Eighty," she says dejectedly, and all three of us burst into laughter. I put the lid back on the pen and set it down beside the notepad, getting up from my chair and walking over to her.
"Thankfully, I do actually know what you've done. You'll have the string hanging on the wrong side of the needle, so when you're knitting the stitches you accidentally make more by looping them."
"There's a wrong side?"
"Uh...yeah," I laugh, taking the needles from her and picking the stitches off the needle, discarding the scarf she was attempting to make. Due to the phenomenal increase in stitches, it seems to resemble a wobbly, woolly, severely slanted trapezium and definitely would not be a functional scarf. Settling down on the arm of her chair, I start winding the string back around the needle and making twenty new stitches. I'm on loop number eleven when she scoffs to herself, shaking her head, and I draw my attention away from the needles to look at her. "What?"
"Honey..." she says adoringly, taking my left hand and looking at the ring on it. I can feel the blush tingling, but in a good kind of way. "Ugh. Look at you."
"You can't have it, Sarah," Jaime warns from across the sofa, and she scoffs again, dropping my hand and looking over at him, arms folded.
"Fine. I didn't want a beautiful sapphire gemstone ring anyway. And I didn't want the emerald one either."
Reminding me of Mike for a moment, he pokes his tongue out at her, and she pokes hers back.
I've just finished the twentieth stitch and am handing the needles back to Sarah with instructions not to let the wool trail on the inside when I hear the front door open and close. A moment later Dad walks into the living room, Mike in tow. "Greetings, earthlings," he says brightly, and we greet him in return as he vanishes again, heading for the kitchen, no doubt to make a coffee.
Doug bounces up from where he was lying by Tony and trots over to Mike, tail wagging, toy squeaking, and Mike bends down to play with him. "Hey trouble," I smile, and for the first time in a while, he looks up and smiles back. It isn't a full smile or a bright smile, or even a happy smile - but it's real, and it hasn't been for over a month. Without warning, my heart skips a beat and tears spring in my eyes. It's the tiniest thing ever to get emotional about; but it's like I've just seen a miracle happen.
"Hello."
"How was counselling?"
He straightens up again, putting his hands in his pockets and nodding. "It was good. It was hard," he admits, looking down for a moment. "I didn't say very much today. But the therapist said that was okay. Her name is Rose, she's really nice. It was...sad. Seeing how many of us there were...others like me. Who've had the same thing happen to them. But I think it's going to help."
"I'm really glad, buddy," I nod, reaching out a hand. He touches his fingers to mine and locks them, as is customary now.
It was Jaime's idea - when Tony was compiling a list of various therapists he knows the numbers of, brainstorming it with Jaime in an effort to come up with one that was both competent and affordable, Jaime suddenly had an epiphany, recalling something he had stumbled across many years ago; after recruiting Tony to some frantic searching in the Yellow Pages phone directory and about half an hour of scanning, they found what he was looking for - the number for the Infinity Project, a mental health group therapy service specialising in support for survivors of sexual assault. And, because it's a charity-run organisation, it was free. Affordable, professional support. It isn't quite the cognitive behavioural therapy he probably needs at this point; but until we can get together the money to make it work for him, he has a place he can access unconditional support and maybe, just maybe, start healing.
It's been a surprisingly good week, actually, and it's all been thanks to Jaime. Not only has he succeeded in obtaining a genuinely useful point of access for Mike in terms of the beginnings of treatment, but, after conversation with Andrew, managed to find Mike his first tutor for home schooling. Andrew, it is true, currently teaches third grade - but apparently, six years ago he worked in a high school teaching both Psychology and English. So on his available days off, which are Tuesdays and Saturdays, he's going to tutor Mike privately in those subjects.
Things, to my absolute astonishment, are starting to work out. All he has to do now is find an ultimate cure for alopecia areata and we'll be fixed.
With Mom, Dad, Sarah, Tony and Mike in the house, I collect my watercolour book and my pens and pencils and deposit them in Jaime's rucksack and then we leave together, walk down the road hand in hand to the bus stop. It was his idea, to get me out of the house - although he took me out on my birthday, since we first went to the police I've barely been out at all; except for when I went into work and had breakdown of the century. I've been busy - Mom and I have been talking, working things out, making arrangements together. Trying to reconnect, I suppose, at the same time we've been trying to look after Mike without truly knowing how. I've mostly stayed inside my house, within the same sets of walls. So it's nice to be outside, nothing to do, no strings attached. I don't even need to be working on my portfolio anymore - although that coin is double sided; the other side being that the reason I don't need to work on it is that I'm not going to college.
"I wish there was a way I could go to college this year," I say softly as we sit down side by side on the bus. "I had it all planned out."
"I know," he nods. "But you made the decision that was right at the time. If you were sitting on uni applications now, waiting for offers, I'd wager you wouldn't have a hair left on your head."
I laugh at his dark humour, shuffling closer to him so we're pressed tightly together. Limb to limb, joint to joint - once more, all the places we match and connect. "Good point, I suppose."
The bus rattles along the road, noisy and stuffy, and I rest my head on his shoulder, gazing straight ahead. "How's it been by the way? Your hair, I mean."
"Not good," I laugh bitterly, keeping my voice low. "Nah, I'm...I'd say I'm missing about fifty percent of my hair at this point. I've been putting off getting the shots because they fucking hurt but...I probably should, soon."
The bus stops again and the doors open up. Three people get off and then another two get on, both going to sit far away from us at the back of the bus. It's a quiet ride today - after all, everyone is at work and everyone who's too young to work is at school. It seems oddly ironic that Mike and I both fall into those categories, and neither of us are actually doing what we're supposed to do.
"I had big plans for my uni room, you know," I muse. Jaime subtly tilts his head over so it's resting on top of mine.
"Yeah? What plans?"
"Well, the accommodation I'd looked at in CalArts and other colleges was pretty small, of course. Single rooms in block buildings...the one at CalArts had a bed up against the wall, a little TV on the wall, a desk and a tiny little bathroom, but it was nice. I saw these strings in Target, it's got these fairy lights on them that have clips attached, so you can clip little photos onto them. I was going to dig out old family pics, and then school pictures with me and Alex and then the ones I took of you in the park, and pictures from New York. I was planning to string them up on the wall next to the bed. They're battery powered so they wouldn't cost anything on the electrics. Then I had loads of flags and banners I was going to put up...although there's not a lot of wall space, so I'd have to improvise. Then I saw something else in Target, it was this cute little whiteboard with pens attached to the side that you can put your reminders on, so that could go on the wall opposite the bed so I'd see it straight away when I woke up in the morning, and knew what I had to do for the day. And I was going to get some of these scented candles I saw on sale at Walmart, they're like...they're shaped like apples and they're a rose gold colour, super cute. Only that then posed the problem of the bedding, because I had a bit of a rose gold theme going on...so I'd have to find sheets that were a similar theme. I spotted some online that were pink and grey, so I think they'd fit."
"That sounds like an artist's room," Jaime nods, and the bus starts to slow again. Measuring our movements with that of the bus to avoid tripping over, we stand up out of our seats and hold onto the railings as the bus grinds to a halt again. We thank the bus driver and jump off, stepping back out into the fresh air - very much welcome after the stuffiness of the bus.
"Thanks. It's what I was going for. Say, where are you planning to head to college now? I now over Christmas you told me maybe San Diego State..."
"Hmm," he says lowly, linking our arms as we take the winding path away from the bus stop and up onto the dunes. Reality slows once again, falls out of step as we amble along the walkway. "The thing about San Diego Stage was that it was close to home. That's really my only motivation for going there, it was that fear of leaving. When I realised that was the only reason I was applying there, that's when I knew I had to take that step back and ask myself if this was right for me. In truth, it's not the best for psychology...I'll need to shop around, have a proper browse around other colleges with a good psych rep. San Diego State is up the road. Which is good, but I don't want to be just up the road. It'll feel like my life isn't taking off. Of course, I don't want to be too out of the way. I want to be able to get back home if things go wrong, if I get too...scared, I guess. I'm too anxious to go too far away. It's finding the balance between flying the nest and feeling comfortable. You know?"
"I hear you," I nod. "That's a good plan."
We find a spot on the shallow grey dunes in good view of the ocean, fan out the picnic blanket on the turf, settle down on it. It's a cool day today - it had been getting warmer but the temperature seems to have plummeted today, which makes it the perfect atmosphere for outside art. Surrounded by only the sound of the sea on the sand, reaching up with foamy white fingers and deep blue hands for golden grains, I take my sketchbook and supplies out of Jaime's backpack and reopen it on the page I was working on.
"What are you drawing today?"
I refrain from touching the dark blue marker to the paper and instead open it up and move over so he can see it. I'm drawing two birds; two swallows, playing with each other as they hop around on the ground. I wanted to watercolour them in a different way - so I'm going for blue. Aqua colours, interspersed with splashes of green, with swirls of white and turquoise. The colour, in some places, goes outside the lines; but I rather like that. When the colour is finished I'll draw over the outlines in black pen, and then the colour that is outside the lines will look even better than if it was all contained. It's like suggesting life spills out of these two little birds, like it touches the world. Jaime smiles instantly upon looking at it, touching the paper carefully with one finger. "Ugh. This is beautiful."
"Thanks," I grin, sliding the sketchbook back into my lap and starting to draw again.
"What are you going to do with all your art? Will it all go in your portfolio?"
"I doubt there's room," I laugh. "It's pretty much full at this point. Anyway, the little pieces I do in my sketchbooks are just rough pieces, just for fun. No agenda or anything, so they're nowhere near my best."
In the short pause that follows, Jaime tugs at the turf. Not too far away is an evening primrose, and he picks it carefully, smells it, twirls it between his fingers. "Maybe you could make, like...a set of back pages."
Once more, I stop drawing. My attention hooked, I frown to myself, thinking, as I look up at the sea. "Back pages, huh?"
"Well, all your rough art, as you call it, is amazing. The only reasons you don't see it as such is because you're a perfectionist. Say you put the rough pieces you like the most in the back pages of your portfolio, it would show that art isn't just a vocation, for you. It would really show that you love it in your spare time, not just for working purposes. 'Art for art's sake', right? Like the pre-Raphaelites."
"Art for art's sake..." I mumble, looking down at my sketchbook. I tilt my head, regarding the bird picture, and then grin. "You know...that's actually a really good idea."
"Plenty more where that came from."
"I don't doubt that for a second."
"You must have so much art lying around your house," he laughs to himself, stretching out his legs. He rocks his feet slightly, so it seems as thought the birds on his ankles are flying. I laugh.
"Yeah, I really do. Every now and then I'll find an old sketchbook I'd completely forgotten about. They're everywhere, full of silly old sketches and doodles. Some of them aren't even finished."
"Do you ever think about selling your art?"
"One day," I nod. "That's the goal. I'd like to be able to put myself out there for commission. Let people give me ideas, and then I can create something with it. It sounds so much fun, don't you think?"
"It does sound fun," he agrees, and then tucks in the primrose behind my ear, and I grin. It's the bright yellow kind, the kinds that looks like sunshine. "But...why don't you sell your art now?"
"Now? I doubt I have the time."
"Perhaps not work on commission. But pick your favourite designs that you've done, make some prints...set up an Etsy store or something. A little extra money, you'll be getting your name out there. You might start making some connections that will be beneficial after college."
And once again, I stop drawing, looking over at him. Looking over at the smile lines at the corners of his eyes, at his fluttering eyelashes and innocent, wise expression. I blink. "That's...that's another good idea."
"I've been keeping them stashed in my backpack," he laughs, looking back out to sea. "The way you keep questions under your hat."
We sit in the quiet by the ocean as I sketch across the paper, companionable silence filling us both. The time away is allowing my head to clear slightly, and the ring on my finger is helping my heart to settle down. Sell my art...it's strange that I haven't thought of that. But if I did as he said, if I made prints...I could make lots. And then I could buy wooden frames to frame them, or canvases to print them on to. That could be expensive...but if I factored in all the prices...the price of materials, time, framing, postage, into the price of the product, I'd not only breakeven but make a profit. And maybe that would be a good way to get my name out there. And above all...it won't replace college. But it will remind me what I'm striving for. Give me a taste of my future, which, up until now, has been looking hazy and obscure.
That's a thought I might just pursue.
I finish my bird drawing and then set the sketchbook down, leaving it open for the colouring to dry out, and then, sighing, allowing myself an elusive moment of contentedness, I lie back on the blanket and close my eyes for a second.
I open them when I notice the mild light that had been penetrating my eyelids has disappeared, and look up to see Jaime leaning over me, and I laugh. "Interesting. It's usually the other way around."
"Thought we should spice things up," he says dryly, and I giggle. With two fingers he plucks the primrose from behind my ear again, and starts to trace it over the lines of my face the way I did with him, and I just smile even wider. "Things are starting to look up, huh?"
"I suppose so," I nod, and then sag slightly as I reach up to put a hand on the back of his neck. "Things are less than perfect...it's good Mike is getting support now. He's been talking a little bit more. He's been downstairs more too. And I'm glad Mom quit, she's been a different person...I just wish there was justice. I wish I could see Phil Green go behind bars and get kicked out of Clairemont forever. He better pray I never find him, because if I do I'm going to really hurt him. For what he did to my brother. For what he did to my whole family, I'd crush him."
"Although I wouldn't usually advocate violence, I would completely support you in that endeavour."
"It isn't fair," I say softly, and he nods.
"I know. It's bullshit. But you've all been so strong throughout all this, you've been amazing family to him, and to each other. Things have only just started to look up. It'll get better and...he'll get his sunshine back."
I swallow. "I've missed his sunshine."
With the hand holding the primrose, he plays with my hair a little and then strokes curled fingers against my cheek. "It's in you too."
The only sound is the sound of the sea on the sand. In the bubble again, out of step with the real world, floating in space. There isn't much sun today - it's stuck behind a cloud. But Jaime sees sunshine in me, and maybe...just maybe he might be right. I trust him. I take his word.
Gentle and soft, quiet, almost like he doesn't want to disturb the silence as it lies, he dips his head and connects his lips to mine. The closeness and the heat against the cold is calming and welcome, and his kiss is slow and easy. Slightly salty tasting, as the spray from the sea has swept up in the air and coated our mouths, and yet somehow he makes it sweet.
He only pulls back for a fraction of a second, and then just teases another kiss, lips brushing against mine so tentatively, barely a kiss but a moment of contact, a brief spark, the tiniest rush. I don't open my eyes, but when he kisses me properly again I can feel the smile in it. Nobody ever walks down this stretch of the dunes, so I don't feel at all guilty or conscious of how close or connected we are or how much we kiss. Why would I ever care about anything else? I know it isn't true, but with his lips against mine it all feels okay. It all feels fixed.
"Isn't love amazing?" He muses when he finally pulls back again, and I smile, locking eyes with his beautiful hazel ones.
"It certainly is."
"And there's lots of different kinds. Between you and me, but then with you and your family, and with you and my family...they're all different kinds, and they're all beautiful."
"Definitely," I say softly, placing one hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair down. He sighs, looks away for a moment, gaze travelling over the dunes.
"You see, I called Sarah 'Mom' again, the other day. By accident again, only I noticed this time. And I felt really guilty...but I didn't know why. So I was talking to your mom while you were out doing the grocery run, and she helped me realise that the reason I felt guilty was because I felt like I was replacing my real mom. It still scares me, all the time, that I'll forget her. And when I say it scares me, I mean...it brings all the anxiety back up. Like, my stomach starts turning and my mouth goes dry, my head hurts...sometimes I panic. Sometimes I just sit in my room and suddenly remember my mom, and I just have a panic attack right there and then."
"Baby..." I mutter softly, sympathetic. His smile is fallen slightly. His eyes are turned inwards again, feeling all that pain, as if he's eight years old and his mother has just now passed away. Reliving the very second his entire world disintegrated.
"But your mom told me something," he continues, one corner of his mouth twitching up into a sad smile. "She told me that my mom loved me and Tom so unbelievably much...that must have been the only goal she ever had. To love, because it's the most important thing. And I love Sarah and Andrew. I really do, and they're my parents. And your mom said that I shouldn't worry about 'replacing' Mom, because I never could. She'll always have a special place in my heart that nobody else gets. And she would be happy that I'm starting to call Sarah 'Mom', because it's love again. And that's all that my real mom ever wanted, and everything she ever gave, and that she'd be proud of me and happy that I was finding it again. Does that make sense?"
"It makes perfect sense," I say quietly, trying not to let my voice break - something about the sincerity with which he's said this is choking me up, and I try my hardest not to cry.
"For a long time I was angry at Tom, because he loved Hayley and Martin, and because he called them Mom and Dad. Perhaps it was one of the things he hated me for. I always told him no, that he shouldn't say that because they weren't our parents. And I know, I really do know that whenever Mom came over to see us and Tom cried and Hayley had to calm him down, that it broke her heart like nobody would believe. But she never grew angry. Because it was love. And I should have seen that...perhaps if I had, my brother wouldn't have hated me quite so much."
"You were young," I assure him, tilting my head slightly. "That's a very complex and mature thing to realise. And you can't come down too hard on yourself, because the reason you felt that was because you loved your mom so, so much. That's love too. That's where all of this came from, in your past."
"Well, you're going to make me cry," he laughs, blinking hard and shuffling away slightly. We both sit up, pressed together, and look out to sea. "But I know it now. I understand it. And I wouldn't know it if it wasn't for you."
Suddenly taken aback, I turn to face him, and tilt my head. Eyes still on the ocean, glistening with every memory in his past, he smiles a small and careful smile. "I think, in loving me, and in me loving you, you've taught me to love. You've taught me what it's like to feel love without guilt. And I think I knew that, once, and forgot. I still wouldn't know, if it weren't for you. In a roundabout way, I'm saying thank you. Because what's the point in feeling guilty, or feeling jealousy or anger towards someone, when love is a beautiful thing anyway, and it's out of your control?"
A profound silence comes over us both as we process what he's said. Slightly stunned, I just sit there, brain ticking over the words, touched and moved so we've stepped beyond the alteration of reality and way out into our own time frame.
Into my head springs the idea of Phil Green - and for the first time, although it makes me instantly angry, and I'm allowed to feel that, and I should, I feel both contempt and sorrow as well. He is violence and anger and cruelty. He does not have love like we have, and that's why he targeted Mike - a boy with love all over him, with sunshine, who had a family that cared for him endlessly, friends who adored him, a boyfriend who let him into his world. Looked upon fondly by every teacher, the little brother of last year's valedictorian. And he was epileptic; he was different to others. Phil Green saw all that. He saw the smiling boy, the loving boy who was loved by all, and wanted to take it away in jealousy and spite.
And Mike is broken because of it. I can't possibly deny that. His mental health is in tatters, his body was hurt, his seizures have worsened too. But you know what? Phil Green did not succeed.
Because he couldn't take away the love, no matter how hard he tried to beat it out of him, to violate and degrade him. He failed, because love is too strong and it will knock hate and cruelty into a cocked hat any day of the week. He couldn't take away the people who love him. He couldn't take away me, or Mom, or Dad, or Tony or Nick or Jordan or the teachers or Jaime and Jaime's family. And because of that, he couldn't even take away the love Mike had in him too. His sunshine, perhaps, but not his love. He trusted us to tell us what happened, he loves us to try and spend time with us even when he feels like disappearing. Phil Green failed. He failed.
"There is love all around Mike too," Jaime says, almost as though he's reading my thoughts, and I smile in agreement, and suddenly start crying.
When I look over, he's started crying too, and we both laugh in strange hysteria. Overwhelmed, burnt out, tired but with life in us yet we fall into each other's arms, sitting there sobbing on each other quietly, interspersed with occasional laughter. For the first time in so long, the tears are happy tears.
We pull away from each other but keep our arms around each other's shoulders, smiling as we cry, foreheads touching, sniffing, weeping, but it doesn't matter because we love and we are loved and we are love. When we start to calm down a little I unwrap my arms and wipe his tears away, and as I do so, removing my fingers from his wet cheeks, I notice that this is another connection. Another point where we connect. Not joints, not limbs, not muscle or bone, not hands, not even by the fine thread joining the rings on our fingers. Our tears.
"You're right," I nod, throat dry, when we finally stop crying. He smiles back, adjusts the Hufflepuff beanie on my head.
"We both have a lot of healing to do, still," he says quietly. "But we can."
Knowing that, once again, he is right, we just stay wrapped up in each other's arms and watch the sea, heads resting against each other. When I check my sketchbook again, the colouring has dried out, so I take one of the fine black pens from my pencil case and go over the outlines in it. Jaime loves it.
For a long time, we don't go home, making it last as long as we can. Jaime's taken the past week off work so he can help out at home, and he's going back tomorrow. I might go the library - we'll see. But for now, we just sit wrapped up by the ocean.
Once, we lay here, and I traced a pastel pink centaury over his face, tapped it against his features. Then, I did the same again, but the centaury did not look nearly so pretty. And now, things are different.
Now, we have a primrose, and its colour is dazzling yellow.
* * * * *
In the background of the Skype call, Jack walks into the bedroom from the other side of the dorm, glass of water in one hand, assortment of oddly shaped pills in the other. In the most hardcore display of normality I've ever seen, he puts his hand to his mouth, tips his head back, takes a chug of water and swallows all of the pills in one go.
"Holy shit," Alex laughs, turning round in his chair for a moment, and Jack grins.
"What?"
"That's fucking incredible."
"What, knocking them back in one? You get good at it after you've been on this many drugs for a while. If you do them one by one you'll be there for days."
The both of us laugh - up until Jack told Alex during the last Skype call that he had bipolar disorder, Jack had been hiding his medication and taking them in secret, in the early hours of the morning when everyone else was asleep. He doesn't have to now; it's almost as if he's been given some kind of permission. Apparently Rian and Zack were equally supportive when Jack told them, so his awkwardness and fear has diminished since then and he no longer feels as though he has to keep it quiet.
"Mike has learnt to do the same things with his AEDs," I reason, and Alex smiles softly.
"How is Mike?"
"Still bad," I sigh. "But improving very, very slowly. We'll take what we can get."
"Tell me more about this group therapy thing, it sounds great."
"Yeah, it's called the Infinity Project and it's charity run so it's free of charge. It specifies in support for victims of sexual violence so everyone there has gone through the same or similar. I think it's good for him to see he isn't alone in what he's experienced. He's struggling to say much in group at the moment, but he'll learn. And he can keep going back for sessions as long as he wants. They have a therapy dog too, called Posy. She's a ruby cocker spaniel, apparently, goes around administering hugs to everyone in the group."
"That's fantastic."
"It is. He said he felt a little out of place because there are only three boys including him in the group, the rest are girls. But...he'll get used to it. I think even just the fact he's getting some kind of help now is helping him. He'll need proper CBT at some point of course, but this'll do until we can get the money together."
"Sounds like a step in the right direction," he says gladly, and I smile.
"I think it is. And we're getting the home schooling sorted out. Andrew's going to do some tutoring with him and Tony has set us up with a few others for other subjects. He isn't going to carry on with the same workload, he's just going to have the basic subjects covered. So English, Math, some combined science. Dad is going to teach him music, and Drew's going to teach him psychology as an extra. The logistics could be complicated...I'm going to have to talk with Alan and work out my timetable so that he won't be alone in the house for extended periods of time. But we can work that out at a later stage, I'm off work for a little bit yet."
"Are you going to get any more time signed off?"
"Maybe. I feel kind of bad about not working, but...things need to be okay here first. The last thing we need when things are finally starting to improve is me going back to full scale stress-head. Knowing my luck my first shift would be with Andy."
"Totally," he laughs. "Well, you just take your time to recover from all this. I have to say, you're looking a little bit healthier. Got some colour back in your face, you looked like a ghost last time we spoke."
"Yeah, I know it."
"Is your mom job shopping?"
"No," I smile, shaking my head, and he pauses, a slow smile spreading up onto his features.
"Good."
"Yeah, I'm glad. It was her kids, in the end. We're still babies, to her. And she saw that we need her, so she put her foot down. No job shopping until the worst of the storm blows over. And I think it's just about starting to...Hey, your hair is lighter."
On the screen, a beam of sunlight has lit up Alex's face through the window, and I see that his blond streaks are bolder and thicker. In fact, in the sun he looks entirely a paler shade of brunette, and he smirks and runs a hand through the strands, ruffling it, fixing up the fringe. "Got some more blond put in it. Thoughts?"
"You look hot."
"Thank you hoe," he grins, and I wink.
"Any time, bitch. So. Enough of me rabbiting on. How are you all doing? Any more adventures?"
"Every day is an adventure!" Jack celebrates in the background, sitting on the edge of the bed, throwing his hands in the air and falling backwards onto the mattress. He said earlier that he's slightly more on the manic side of things right now - thankfully, the meds mean he won't go anywhere near a dangerous high, so his good mood is perfectly reasonable. Alex laughs.
"Absolutely, Blue. No more late night shopping ventures, if that's what you mean. We've worked out where to get off the bus if it's diverted, now. Although the other day, Rian got lost in one of the seminar buildings. Apparently he was going up and down the stairs for like, twenty minutes. Couldn't find the way out or the seminar room he was supposed to be in. Eventually he just sat cross-legged next to the lift knocking back a Starbucks and waiting for someone to come out. I found him eventually."
"College sounds like a wild fucking ride," I laugh. Behind him, Rian pokes his head in through the doorway that connects to two bedrooms.
"What are...hi Vic!"
"Hello!"
"Alex?"
"Yeah," Alex turns around, slinging one arm across the back of the chair.
"Are you telling more people about me getting lost in the Jackson Building?"
"Of course! Think I'm going to let you forget that?"
Rian groans, hanging his head for a moment as the rest of us laugh, before stepping into the room and standing against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He looks a little different to the last time I saw him; not entirely clean shaven, but it suits him. Hair a little longer and unkempt, but that suits him too.
Come to think of it, Alex is looking a little scruffy around the jaw, and when he turns back to me I pick up on it. "Alex, my good man, you need to shave."
"I know," he snorts, rubbing the scruff around his jaw. "College is making me lazy."
"I know that, because I have no birthday present in my post! Where is it, you slag?"
The response isn't what I expect. He smiles, but it's a cunning smile, and it makes me frown. He doesn't look surprised, or like he's forgotten it. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
There's a pause. I raise an eyebrow, sceptical and dubious, and look slowly around the room; at Jack, then at Rian, then back at Alex. "Um...actually, yes I would."
"Oh, too bad, too sad," he says, suddenly cocky and sly, leaning back in the computer chair and swivelling in it slightly. "Well, I suppose you just need to allow some time. Play the waiting game. Only time will tell."
He looks far too smug and self-assured for his own good, and his smiling tone makes me smile too, head tilted, completely baffled. "Lexi, what are you up to?"
"Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock..." he responds, and I laugh.
"Alex! Okay, fine, don't tell me. But I'll keep this little cryptic episode in mind when I'm buying your present in December."
"You do that, my friend," he shrugs, and then checks his watch, sighing. "I need to dash, I have a lecture in fifteen minutes and it takes, like, ten minutes just to get across campus. Good exercise."
"Sure."
"Now, you listen here, Victor," he says strongly, pointing a finger. "You take care of yourself, keep in touch, keep your chin up. Things will be okay."
"I think so," I nod, believing myself for the first time in a while. He smiles.
"Also, that promise ring looks stunning."
"Oh, I know that," I blush. "Talk soon, Alex. And shave, for heaven's sake! Nobody's going to make out with you with scruff like that."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he dismisses, and whatever I'm about to say goes dead in my throat as my jaw drops involuntarily.
"...what's that supposed to mean?"
He looks down at the floor for a moment, the smile on his face one I haven't seen much before. Private, genuine...positively smitten. After a second he looks over to Jack, who smiles back, and my jaw drops even further as I make some peculiar strangled noise, unable to adequately respond.
"Later, Vic," Alex says eventually, hand on the laptop keypad, ready to close the screen. Before he ends the call, I manage to get a word in.
"You're an asshole!"
"I know!" He says gleefully, and then the call ends and his face disappears off the screen.
* * * * *