{Cary}
When Cary woke up the next morning, his mind was mercifully blank. He rolled onto his back, registering Jon's room, his posters and comic books, and Jon himself asleep in a nest of blankets on the floor. This was the safest place Cary knew: this room with that person in it. He wanted to put the blankets over his head and hide here the rest of the day.
The gears of his thoughts started to grind and anxiety stroked his stomach. He remembered getting turfed from the shelter, the surreal car ride through the rain, and Pete believing him. One conversation—one phone call had set in motion the thing that would wrench his family apart. Whatever hope he'd had of making a life with his mom and his brother—he had to bury that like a dead thing. At the end of this the police would come for his father, and his mother would never forgive him for that. The only thing he'd been good for was how much he could take and still stay silent.
He put his hands over his face, trying to keep breathing. His knuckles were swollen and hurt to bend. He'd punched the hell out of something last night. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. The cuts were bumpy and tasted like blood. The kid at the shelter must have decked him a couple times too. All Cary could remember after pushing off the wall was a haze of red and then three shelter staff hauling him off.
He sat up carefully, closing his fists. That fight was another thing to shove into the basement with the other scary shit and close the door. He did that as best he could. It hurt more than it used to. He got up, dug his clothes out of the laundry hamper and got dressed, shivering at the damp touch of his shirt on his skin. He straightened the blankets and folded the pyjamas on top of Jon's bed.
Jon never even woke up, sleeping with one hand flung above his head and his mouth open. Cary filled his pockets with his smokes, his cell phone and his pencils, and then he slipped into the hall.
It was spring break; Jon's sisters were on the couch in the family room, wrapped in blankets and watching cartoons. He ducked his head and went to the kitchen. Jon's dad and mom were there, reading the newspaper with the remains of their breakfast on the table around them. Cary stopped in the doorway, frozen. There was no place to hide here, and he'd left his jacket in Leonard's room.
Jon's mom looked up first. Her smile dimpled her cheek: Jon's smile. "Morning, Cary. Can I get you some breakfast?"
Cary shook his head. He darted a look at Jon's dad. Pete looked tired.
"How are you holding up?" Pete asked.
Cary stared at him, swallowing. He had no idea how to answer that.
Pete sighed and rubbed a hand over his beard. "I spoke to Child Protection this morning. They're sending someone this afternoon."
The impact of that set him back on his heels. This was really happening. Today. He turned his face aside and edged out onto the back deck before Pete could ask him any more questions.
It was cool and misty. A heavy dew bent the blades of grass in the backyard. The sun was just touching the lumber frame of the garage, turning it from grey to yellow. Cary took out his cigarettes and lit one, watching the sun slide up the two-by-four ribs. It seemed like forever ago that he had spent his afternoons building that garage with Jon and his dad and been happy. He had been right; happiness didn't belong to him.
Jon found him curled over his knees and sat down on the steps next to him. "Morning." His hair was standing up, and he still had his pyjamas on under a hooded sweater. Cary took out his cigarettes to light another for himself and offered one to Jon.
Jon waved it away. "So are you going to be able to go back to your mom and Liam after today?" he asked.
Cary shook his head once. "She won't take me back after this. I'll go with the social worker wherever." Wherever they put fuck-ups like him.
Jon frowned. "You don't belong in foster care."
The word made Cary's stomach roll. He pressed his lips tightly shut. He could do it. Nobody was going to want a kid with his record, but he already knew how to put his head down and survive someplace toxic. He would shunt from one house to another until he was old enough to live on his own. If he had a problem with that, there was no one to blame but himself.
His hands shook as he jammed the smokes back in his pocket. On second thought, he felt too sick to smoke another.
Jon said, "Cary, I want you to stay with us. We could be your family."
The word, the idea, reached into his chest and yanked him tight. "Shut up, Jon. You don't know what you're talking about."
"We have room for you," Jon said. "If you're not too proud to share. At least here you would be with people who know you."
Cary's fists clenched so his battered knuckles ached. No fucking way.
Jon got up. "I'm going to ask my dad for you."
Cary shot to his feet and hit Jon so hard he went head over heels onto the grass. Cary was on top of his chest with his fist pulled back to hit him again before Jon got his breath.
Jon's nose was bleeding. His arms were flung wide, gripping the grass. He looked up at Cary with the same terrified, stubborn face he'd used to face Todd.
All in. All that was left to do was pound every ounce of hate he had inside him into Jon and get the hell out.
Cary stood up and dragged Jon to his feet. He had a handful of Jon's sweater; they were face to face. "Hit me."
Jon tried to pull away, wiping his bloody nose on his sweater sleeve. Cary yanked him close and slapped his cheek with his open hand. "Hit me. Come on, do it."
Jon threw his hands out like he was falling. "I won't. Cary. I don't know why you're mad, but I'm not going to fight you back."
He was crying. Cary shoved him away, out of his reach. Jon turned from him and stumbled, lifting an arm to protect his head as if Cary would be on him again if he fell. Cary watched him go, wrapping his hand over the cuts in the crease of his elbow. They itched and he hated himself so fiercely he could have torn the skin off his arm with just his fingernails.
Cary looked around the yard, at the garage, and the back alleyway that led to the bus stop. He couldn't stay here in Jon's house with Jon and his sisters and mother. Pete was the only one he didn't think he could hurt. His fingers slipped on his skin; he was scratching and he couldn't help it. He made himself stop, clenching his arms around his body until he could find a hiding place where nobody could see he was bleeding. He went to Jon's room to pack his bag.
{Pete}
Pete heard the back door bang open and leaned back in his office chair to check the hallway. Jon blew by with his hand cupped under his nose. Pete found him bent over the bathroom sink. The sight of his son's blood running crimson down the drain jolted Pete with adrenaline.
"Jon, what happened?"
Jon didn't look at him, hitting the tap on full. "It's nothing."
Pete stared at him, appalled. "Your nose just started bleeding?"
"Dad, I'm fine. Just leave me alone."
He tried to think what had just been going on to explain what he was seeing. "Did Cary hit you?"
Jon straightened, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. He didn't answer but he didn't need to. The truth was in his face. Pete's eyebrows lowered as he turned to find the other boy.
"Dad." Jon caught his arm. The strength of his grip surprised Pete. "He made a mistake. Don't—don't go do what you're thinking."
Pete looked at him. They were standing face to face, and they were almost the same height. "What do you know about what I'm thinking?"
"Don't kick him out. He's my friend. I can handle it."
"You can handle it." Pete couldn't keep his voice steady.
"Yeah, I can. I'm not a kid anymore."
"And is that why you lied to me about Cary's family? Because you thought you two could 'handle it'?"
Jon dropped back against the sink. It was a second before he could speak. "No, that's not why. I wanted to tell you. But it was... Cary's secret to tell. And you would have called the police."
"Which is exactly what you should have done." The words came out like a slap. He'd been awake most of the night, haunted by the shapes beaten into Cary's skin, and how things could have been different if he'd paid attention when Cary first came to their home.
Jon went a little whiter, and put his eyes straight ahead. "I know that. Cary wouldn't—look the way he does if I had. I have to live with that now."
Jon straightened his shoulders with some effort. "I know it doesn't make sense, but Cary stayed in that house because he wanted to. Because... that's his family. He doesn't have anyone now. Except us." They locked eyes. "Nobody at Social Services will do a better job taking care of him than you."
Pete wanted to touch his son's face and check the bruise. He closed his hands at his sides. "And what about you?"
Jon didn't flinch. "This is more important than me."
"Not to me," Pete said.
Jon drew a breath, glaring at him. "Look, you can't have it both ways. You can't make me give up my friends and my home for you to follow God and then keep me from following God myself because you think it's too hard. I want to do this. Cary has a chance with us."
Pete felt like he was seeing a different Jon—not the child who had moved here, and not the angry teenager he'd been living with the past few months. For a moment, he saw the man that Jon would become—bigger on the inside than he was on the outside. Strong enough to carry this.
He let his anger go and found that mostly he was afraid. And sad. "Let me look at your face." Jon stayed steady while Pete examined the bruise. Pete sucked his breath through his teeth. This wasn't play-fighting; Cary had hit Jon hard. The whole left side of Jon's face was swelling. Jesus, this is my only son. What do you want me to do here?
"Jon, this is not okay. We are not keeping Cary if this is how he is going to behave."
Jon's face was thunderous. "He's not like a dog you can just take back to the shelter because he's too much work."
Pete withdrew his hands, looking helplessly at him.
In a moment Jon's anger had turned from a thunderclap to rainfall as soft as tears. "I'm sorry. I just...I know him. I've seen him look after his little brother, and this is not how he is." His voice stretched almost to breaking. "I don't think he'll make it a week with people who don't know him, who don't know that he's not tough like he looks, that he's just—barely holding together."
Pete pressed his finger hard against his top lip, thinking about how long it would take before Cary wasn't so hurt and angry he didn't just lash out at anyone who came close. How long it would take him to heal, if he could. And if Pete didn't have children of his own, he would have stepped up to attempt it—to be a safe place for Cary to fall apart and maybe help put the pieces back together.
But he did have children. And his only son was standing in front of him with a bruise so fresh it made Pete's own face hurt.
"I want you to think seriously about what you're asking me, son," Pete said. "Cary would be sleeping in your room and going to your school. You're talking about bringing a stranger into our family to live with us with no end date."
"Not a stranger," Jon said. His clear-eyed expression reminded Pete so vividly of Jon as a child that his eyes stung. When his brother died Jon had looked like half of himself had been torn away and put in the ground. He had grown up and filled out, and somehow Pete had forgotten that there was still a hole where Jon's brother used to be. He guessed Cary had a hole where a family should have been. They fit. How had he missed seeing that before?
He sighed. "What do you want me to do?"
Jon's face filled with painful hope. "Can you talk to him? Can you get him to stay?"
Pete thought of Cary's white, tight face as he'd edged into the kitchen this morning. "I don't know." He turned aside and his heart burned like it had under the orange streetlight. "I will try."