{Cary}
The sound of the worship band warming up and people chatting seeped in through the office door. Pete checked the clock on the wall, his forehead wrinkling a little. "I can run you home, unless you want to stay for service?"
Cary shook his head. "I need to shower," he said.
He followed behind Pete's shoulder to the foyer and tried the blend into the coat rack when Pete went to talk to another man about leaving. There were people milling around, clean people with smiles on, chatting with coffee in their hands while the sound of the worship band came through the sanctuary doors.
A group of Eastglen kids were lounging at the café tables, and Cary felt like they were watching him. Probably they weren't. Then one girl's eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. She turned and spoke urgently to the others, and then they were looking at him for sure. Cary kept his face hard and turned away from them. He had his fists shoved under his elbows so tightly that the cuts on his arm throbbed faintly.
Pete came back and said something Cary didn't pay attention to. He followed Pete out the doors like there was a thread tying them together, one end anchored in the mess of his chest.
When they pulled into the Whites' driveway, the whole family was in the yard to meet them—Jon's two sisters in their Sunday dresses and Melanie on the doorstep, shading her eyes in the spring sunlight.
"Peter?" she called when Pete got out of the van. "I thought we were meeting you at the ... oh."
Cary climbed out of the passenger side and stood beside the vehicle.
"Cary was at the church," Pete said. "I brought him home for a shower and something to eat. This afternoon, we'll clear out my study to make it into a room for him."
Melanie crossed the lawn and embraced her husband, her eyes shining over his shoulder at Cary. "I'm so glad," she said. Cary put his eyes on the clouds wisping apart in the sky above the house.
Tabby wrinkled her nose. "How did he get so dirty?"
The screen door banged and Jon came down the steps in a rush, saying, "Sorry I'm late." He stopped short, staring across the sunlit yard at Cary. "You found him." His eyes went to his father. "Is he staying?"
Pete nodded and said something, but the roaring in Cary's ears drowned it out. He leaned against the van and squeezed his eyes shut. All he could hear was the sound of ice grinding over the house he used to live in, destroying it, and leaving nothing but the scrape of its passing. He hung onto the door behind him to stay on his feet.
When he opened his eyes, Jon was in front of him, his jaw sticking out like he was mad. "You couldn't call? You couldn't tell me you were okay? Where the hell were you, Cary?"
Cary lifted his shoulders, shoving off the van without looking at him. "I'm here now. Don't fucking hug me or anything."
"Don't pull that asshole act with me—" Jon came at him, his fists connecting with Cary's body.
Cary sucked in his breath and wrapped his arms hard around Jon, feeling the heat of his face crushed against his shoulder. The force of Jon's push shoved him back into the side of the van and drove the air out of him. He hung on, trying to get his breath past the stabbing in his side.
Jon went limp, and Cary threw his arms off him, his heart in his throat. Pete was looking at him across the lawn, poised like he was about to come over. Jon slumped against the van beside him, still in one piece, still breathing. Cary's breath was ragged, and he tucked his arm tightly against his ribs. He was cracked again—something hot and dark was pushing up past the icy cold. He put his head down and walked across the grass until Pete was in front of him, blocking his way up the steps. He didn't lift his face, just stood there waiting for Pete to tell him what to do. Get out or go to the basement or whatever.
Pete moved aside. "Go on and get your shower, son," he said quietly. "We'll make a room for you when we're back from church."
That word "son" in Pete's mouth made the skin on Cary's body shiver and jump like he had touched him with a live wire. He went up the steps and through the open door.
The Whites' house smelled like toast and the lotion Jon's mom used on the girls after their baths. Cary took off his shoes and set them on the mat, steadying himself against the wall. His legs were shaking like he'd run a hundred miles instead of just walking up three steps. This was his house now, because the other house and the people in it had tipped off a cliff and were gone, gone, gone. If he had felt something about that, maybe he would have dived over the cliff after them, but he was cold and immovable as a glacier. The only thing that told him he was still alive was the heat where his ribs had been broken and the way his body shivered, like he wasn't meant to be this cold.
{Pete}
Pete stood in front of his son, slumped against the van with the spring sunlight on his bowed head. "Are you all right?" His whole body had tensed, watching Jon collide with Cary, guessing how much hurt was hidden under Cary's hard exterior. If Cary had responded by lashing out, the whole tentative arrangement with their family could have fallen apart before it began.
Jon dragged his arm over his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "Fine."
Pete took in Jon's drawn face and the purple thumbprints under his closed eyes, and he wished for another option. He needed to be at the front of the church in a matter of minutes, and he needed Mel to help with the girls. "Can you stay here with him?"
Jon shrugged. "Yeah." His hazel eyes were dark as they touched Pete's. "What happened?"
Pete hesitated. "He turned up at the church. I told him about the decision to emancipate him from his parents. I don't think he heard anything except he can't go back to his family. He's lost everything." He swallowed, his throat tight. "Go easy, son."
A little heat kindled in Jon's look. "I know about loss, dad. You go do what you have to do. I'll be fine."
{Jon}
Jon stood in the hallway outside his bedroom, listening to Cary move around behind the closed door. He was right there, warm and breathing, not dead and cold in a back alley. He had imagined how happy he would be when Cary came home—but he had imagined Cary would be happy too.
He was such a child.
There was a dull ache beating in his head, and he ducked into the bathroom to run cold water over his hands and lay them against his face. Cary wasn't Judah come back to them—this wasn't his family. He wasn't coming home.
Jon stayed leaning against the sink with his eyes closed. He rolled the shoulder where his neck had a crick in it from Cary grabbing him so tightly. He could still feel Cary shaking while his heart hammered under Jon's cheek. Cary could make his words sound like he was tough and angry and didn't care about anything. His body told the truth.
Jon let out his breath slowly. Two weeks weren't enough to heal. Under his shirt, Cary still looked like a sadistic art canvas, with yellow and purple beaten into his skin. Jon should have remembered that.
There was a small sound in the doorway, and an intake of breath. Jon opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Cary. His friend's face was blank and still above the bundle of clean clothes he clasped against his chest.
"I'm sorry," Jon said.
"I couldn't call," Cary said in a flat voice. "She took my phone. I thought if I came here, your dad would have to call the cops to take me back." He pressed his lips in a hard line, shutting up. He didn't break eye contact, as if he had more to say, but he didn't know how to say it.
Jon nodded, straightening. "You want some breakfast?"
Cary ducked his head. "Sure."
Jon brushed by him in the doorway, clasping his arm briefly on the way by. "I'm glad you're here." He didn't ask if he was okay—he could still feel Cary shivering through his fingertips.
He was eating a piece of toast at the table when Cary appeared in the doorway, his wet hair waving back from his face and his arms bare in a clean T-shirt. Jon tried a smile, getting up to make two more pieces of toast. "So you live here now. For real."
Cary shoved his hands in his pockets, pulling his arms close to his body. The square of gauze inside his elbow was grubby and black around the edges of the tape. "My mom gets her wish."
Jon looked sideways at him. "What happened? After you went home with her?"
"She grounded me." Cary put his eyes on the window over Jon's shoulder. "She doesn't want me there—scaring her. Hurting Liam. She thinks it was all me."
"How can she think that?" Jon asked sharply. "Like you beat yourself?"
Cary shrugged without looking at him. "I covered it up. She forgets."
The toast came up with a chunk and Cary jumped a little and drew in his breath.
Jon's forehead wrinkled. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"
Cary shook his head, turning his face aside. In the quiet, Jon realized he didn't know which question Cary had answered.
Jon turned aside to find the orange marmalade Cary liked. He used the time to call for help, like maybe he should have in the first place. Anger was prickling the back of his neck, not at Cary, but for him. He pulled the toast out, blowing on his smarting fingers when it burned him, then spread the jam to the edges like his mom did for him.
He set the plate on the table, and his friend edged into the chair. Jon fiddled with the coffee maker, then rummaged through the cupboards for where he thought his dad kept the can of grounds. The silence was thin, and he didn't hear Cary eating. He let his hands fall onto the counter and bowed his head. "You lost Liam. I'm sorry."
"He's still there. He's fine."
Jon turned to look at him. "Will you get to see him?" His voice wavered, and his throat was tight. "Will he even know he has a brother?"
Cary's face was empty. He lifted his shoulders and shook his head once.
Jon swore, rubbing his hands over his face. "That sucks so much. After everything you did for him and your mom. I feel so angry and sad for you."
"I don't feel anything," Cary said.
Jon took a breath and let it out, trying to ride the wave of anger that was rolling through him. "I know you don't," he muttered. How long had he been numb after Judah had died? It seemed like weeks. Nothing broke through to him until after the funeral. Jon turned and opened the basket of the coffee maker, staring at the grooves stained by daily use.
Cary got up and pulled the coffee filters out of the cupboard to hand to Jon.
"Just tell me if you feel like cutting again, okay?" Jon said in a low voice.
Cary knocked the tablespoon against the side of the coffee can to level it. Tap-tap-tap. Up close, his face was as smooth as clay. "I won't. I promised your dad I wouldn't to live here."
"That doesn't mean you won't feel like it."
Cary snapped the basket of the coffee maker closed and thumbed the brew button. "I think you have more feelings than I'll ever have."
Jon's throat tightened, watching Cary shove the coffee can back into the cupboard and close the door. He had one friend, and right now, that friend felt as far away as the ice fields. "Do you think those feelings really aren't there?" he asked in a low voice. "Or you just covered them up so good you can't find them?"
Cary was still, looking out the window while the coffee maker groaned and sighed between them. "Why would I want to find them?" he asked slowly.
"Because they're a part of you?" Jon said tentatively. "And you're kind of ... scary like this. Like you wouldn't think twice about hurting someone ... because you never hurt."
It was silent a moment except for the hiss of the coffee maker. "It hurt when I hit the car," Cary said. "When you pushed me. I felt something then." He winced, ducking his head. "Your dad was watching, and I was afraid."
"That he would hurt you?"
"That I would hurt you."
"I'm okay," Jon said after a moment. "That was my fault for being stupid. I hurt you and I'm sorry."
Cary looked sideways at him, a deep frown on his face.
"Now you say—I forgive you, Jon." Jon laughed uncomfortably.
"Okay. I forgive you." Cary took a careful breath, smoothing a hand down his side like he had a stitch from running. "Now what?"
Jon's conscience stabbed him, realizing he really had hurt Cary when he was so hurt already. "I'm really sorry, Cary. Seriously."
Cary stayed still, looking at him with his hand spread against his side. "I already said I forgive you. I thought you only had to say it once."
"Well, I should have known better." Jon crossed his arms tightly.
"I know you should have." Cary's voice was soft and rough. "I've done shit too—and said sorry 'til it bled outta me. So I'm letting it go, Jon. Like how I wish someone had let me go. Okay? So you don't have to keep saying sorry."
Jon blinked. He thought of Jesus saying something like that—to treat other people how you wanted them to treat you, and forgive because God forgave you. He nudged Cary's arm, a smile tugging his lips. "You're going to be a great pastor's kid."
In the second of stillness that followed, he realized that was too soon. Heat kindled in Cary's expression, and Jon anchored his feet wide to meet whatever came next, relieved to see Cary act a little more normally.
"Get this clear in your head, Jon," Cary said. "I'm not anything to your dad. He took me in, and that's more than he should have done. I have a father. And a family. You get what you get."
"I can share what I get," Jon said, glaring back at him. "If I want."
Cary's nostrils flared. "I don't want that."
"Bullshit you don't," Jon snorted. He turned aside to bang the mugs and sugar bowl down on the counter. "You can quit telling yourself that because you live here now. We're what you get. Whatever you want to call it, this is yours." He sloshed the coffee into two cups and turned to hold one out.
He caught Cary's white expression before he took the cup and hid his face in the steam.
Jon took a slurp of his own coffee and made a face. How did something that smelled so good taste so bad? He spooned a pile of sugar into his cup and left Cary alone to turn over what he'd said. He didn't know why being in this family scared Cary so badly, but it obviously did. He should quit pushing it, but he hated it when Cary pressed his anger down until he turned cold as stone. He would rather they were fighting—at least then Cary acted alive. Actually, keeping Cary alive seemed like a full-time job right now.
"What do you want to do today?" Jon finally asked. "Watch movies? Go to the ravine?"
Cary shook his head. "I want to stay here," he said, quiet and flat. "With you. And not talk."
Jon's laugh was short and dry. In other words—shut the hell up, Jon. "Sure. We can do that."