{Cary}

It took some time to find Jon—long enough that Cary's hands started to sweat and there was an edge to his voice as he called Jon's name around the farm. One of Tru's collies dogged his heels as he went from one building to the next.

Finally he heard a response, faintly, from the loft of a vast old barn. "Up here."

Cary blinked in the darkness, waiting by the door for his eyes to adjust and breathing in the smell of straw dust and diesel. Machinery hulked in the dim corners, and empty stalls lined one side. He found the ladder and clambered up into a spacious, straw-mounded loft as sparrows chattered in the roof beams, protesting his invasion.

"Jon?"

"Here."

Cary saw him then, a shadow against the sunlight, folded in the corner of the window overlooking the yard. He carefully picked his way over the floorboards, kicking the straw aside to check for holes or gaps, none too confident the boards would hold his weight. His heart climbed into his throat as he realized the window was just a framed opening, no pane of glass, and a long drop to the ground. He lowered himself cautiously onto the sill, shooting sideways glances at his friend. Years of escaping to his rooftop had left him unafraid of heights, but wary of a fall. He'd tried to get to Gazebo Park that way once, straight down to a broken leg like an idiot.

Jon was hugging his knees to his chest, his face almost white in the glare of the sun.

"We can stay," Cary said. "For the week."

Jon turned his head toward him, shadows deepening the lines around his downturned mouth. "Thanks." He dragged a sleeve over his nose. "For going out of your way for me. You didn't have to do that."

Cary shrugged, fishing in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. He eyed the straw-filled loft behind them and thought better of it. "Figure I'll take you home Monday. When I go to talk at the trial."

Jon let out a shaky breath. "Sure. Makes sense."

Studying him, Cary felt his eyebrows pinch in a worried frown. "Did your dad...?" He saw Jon hunch and tried to soften his words. He was starting to get how rare it was for Jon to tell the truth—how he hid the most vulnerable parts of himself behind a smile. "Did Pete say something to you? You told Tru your parents don't want you back, but—I think they do."

Jon put his knuckles against his mouth, lifting his eyes to the swallows swooping effortlessly through the air, to and from the row of mud nests tucked under the overhanging barn roof. "They want...a good son," he said finally. "With no fucked-up bits sticking out of the mold. Judah, I guess." He shrugged and smiled, the lines around his mouth and eyes pulling tight. "Not me."

Cary suddenly went cold. In the indigo shadows, Jon was insubstantial as a sketch of a person, the angles of his folded body jutting in the too-large clothing. The cuts on his arm were blurry black lines. He looked like someone being erased. "What's wrong with you?" The urgency of his question made Jon's face flinch, and he bent his head so Cary couldn't see it anymore.

"Look at me," Jon said in a low voice. "Cary. I'm a fucking mess."

"I was a mess," Cary said. "When I came to your house."

Jon lifted his hands like he would fend off this conversation. "You're not their son." For a second, Jon met Cary's eyes, his expression raw and open to the bottom. Cary frowned back at him, trying to understand. "Look—when my dad looks at you, he sees you. The stuff that's good and the stuff that's messed up—what you need and how you're feeling. He just...accepts all that. When my dad looks at me—" Jon shoved his hands against his front, his voice roughening. "—he sees his son. He sees everything he hopes and expects for his son, and what he wants his son to do and be. He doesn't see—me." He turned his head to the side, rubbing the heel of one hand into his eye. "He hasn't for years."

Cary took a tight breath. That sounded uncomfortably familiar.

"I'm actually...so jealous of you, Cary." Jon's voice pressed to a whisper. "You were a mess when you came and my parents just...rolled out the welcome mat for you to bleed on. And told you—no lying. The rule for you to be in our family." He made a soft noise, trying to unstick the words from his throat. "You know what my dad told me?"

Cary shook his head, biting the corner of his mouth.

"He said I'm held to a higher standard. Because it's a privilege to be in my family. And they're counting on me to be good. So if I'm having a shit day, or I have my doubts about something, I'm supposed to remember that I'm an example and put a smile on my face, because my parents have enough to worry about. Their oldest son shouldn't be one of those things." Jon's eyes were black sockets of shadow as he tipped his head against the window frame. "I lie. Every day. To be in my family. That's the Jon they love. That's the Jon they want back."

Cary folded his hands together and put them against his mouth. He suddenly heard the things Pete had said this summer the way Jon must have felt them. Be good. I expect better from you. I'm disappointed. Jon used to make it look easy, but Cary realized carrying the weight of his family's expectations had never been easy for him.

"I don't think..." he began hesitantly, "...they know you feel that way."

Jon wrapped his arms over his stomach, his face twisting. "Of course they don't know. It's the one thing I'm really good at. Lying to make my parents happy. Did they know about me before—you told them? Did they even guess I was using?"

Cary shook his head, wincing.

Jon lifted his shoulders, like he'd made his point.

Cary's throat ached, and his words came out soft and tight. "Do you think Pete would listen? If you tried to talk to him?"

Jon shook his head, shaking the tears out of his eyes. "You have no idea, Cary. How much he doesn't want to hear it." He was silent a few moments, his eyes following the flight lines of the dark narrow shapes of birds collecting their insect supper from the air. "Wouldn't you have stayed with your family, if you could have figured it out?" Jon asked softly.

Cary tasted blood in his mouth, remembering how black those days had been, trying to swallow all the hurt into his own body to be with his mother.

"I'm going to figure it out." With agonizing slowness, Jon pushed himself to his feet. "I have to get better. Or fake it 'til I am. That's all."

Cary's eyes followed him up, and he felt his heart squeeze and break. It had never been more clear to him how fragile Jon was—how worn and battered he'd become under the mask of his smile. "Takes a toll," he said. "Lying like that."

Jon stood poised on the ledge for a moment, looking down at the concrete pad at the bottom. "That's life," he muttered, turning away from the long drop. "It's not like they're leaving marks on me."

Cary's skin prickled like it did when someone was lying to him. It was true Jon's parents weren't leaving bruises, but the marks of his hurt were all over him when you knew where to look. And they'd been there before Jon ever took a pill.

What he couldn't figure out was how Jon got here, with good parents like Pete and Mel. While they had expectations for him, his parents also told him they loved him pretty much every day, and Cary had seen the way they put that into practice with each of their children—and even him. When had Jon started to doubt that they really meant it, or that he was worthy of their love? Did something happen to introduce that poisonous idea, or did it sneak up over the years, eating away at Jon's confidence and self-worth?

Jon cleared his throat, heading for the ladder. "I assume you promised Tru we'd work our asses off to stay here?"

Cary's eyes followed him. "Yeah." It was obvious Jon didn't want to talk about this anymore, and for the first time, he had trouble keeping his mouth shut about something. "If we're good here, she needs us in the garden."

Jon shot him a look, his eyes muddy and unreadable, then climbed out of sight.

///

Tru was on them as soon as they came into the yard, her face like a thunderhead. Cary was beginning to think that was her normal expression. She jerked her chin at him. "Day's a-wasting. Packed you a supper." She hefted a pail with some wax paper packages and a glass bottle of milk. "There's a job in the garden that should occupy you 'til sundown. Tomato plants and vines pulled up, potatoes and carrots pulled outta the ground. Corn stalks dug."

Cary jogged to keep up, trying not to trip over ruts in the yard and catch her instructions at the same time. Tru's garden was behind a 10-foot tall chain-link fence. She unlatched the gate and strode up a row without pausing, jabbing her finger at the shaggy brown growth lying everywhere. "Pumpkins, zucchini, cucumbers, tomatoes, potatoes, carrots."

All the plants looked the same to him, and he exchanged an anxious glance with Jon.

"This is blight." She fingered a wide leaf with black spots. "You cut all these off and put them outside the gate to burn, or next year's crop will catch it. The rest you leave to lie on the dirt. Winters here, the ground needs the cover." She pulled something from the bucket and held it out to Jon. It was a curved blade on a rugged wooden handle.

Jon stepped back, his hands closing tightly at his sides. Cary intervened, taking the blade.

"Shovels and fork are by the fence," Tru said. "Got that?" She faced him with her hands on her hips.

After a moment's hesitation, Cary nodded. "You want us to dig this all up. Pile the plants with blight outside. Leave the rest on the ground."

"Nothing wrong with your listening skills," she said drily. "I'll be in the barn if you need me. I don't expect to be interrupted." She stumped off in her boots and overalls.

Cary went to the fence and returned with two shovels crusted with dirt, holding one out to Jon.

Jon took it, surveying the shaggy plot. "You know what we're supposed to do here?" It looked the size of a football field.

"Guess we'll start on the corn," Cary said. It was the only plant he recognized. He stuck his spade in at the base of the stalk experimentally. "I'll cut it down and you dig up the root."

They worked up and down the rows without speaking, Jon doggedly keeping up with him. When they were done with the corn section, they went to the bucket by silent agreement. Jon splashed milk into the canning jar provided and drank until he had a white moustache on his upper lip. Cary took a chug straight from the milk bottle, eyeing their work. The corn was lying neatly in rows, hummocks of roots piled alongside them. There was a sea of vines sprawling next to them, and he sighed, flexing his fingers around the handle of the knife.

Jon wiped sweat off his face, leaving streaks of rich black dirt behind, and waded through the vines, checking the leaves. "Do you know what these are?"

Cary shook his head. "Never seen a vegetable outside a grocery store."

Jon snorted. "You sure you can hack it as a farm kid?"

He shrugged, his shoulders tensing. He wasn't sure, but he didn't think he had a better option.

Jon said, "Need the knife over here."

Cary joined him and they worked silently, cutting out spotty leaves and piling them in the wheelbarrow to trundle to the gate. The sun was touching the tops of the trees, the light thick and blue, by the time they were done with that section. Cary threw himself down on the grass and Jon stiffly lowered himself next to him, groaning. "Geez, I'm an old man," Jon groaned.

Cary huffed a laugh. "All of 15 and falling apart. You're outta shape is all." He rifled through the bucket, pulling out two wax-wrapped packages. His middle felt hollow. "Samitches." He used Bea's word without thinking as he held one out. "Canned salmon, I guess."

Jon made a face. "There's gotta be so much mayo to redeem that shit. Is there?"

He unwrapped his, checking the mushy pink filling, then taking a big bite. "Yuh," he said through his mouthful.

Jon glumly unwrapped his supper and eyed it. "I miss mom's cooking. Hell, I miss your cooking. If you're staying, you're going to have to take over in the kitchen."

Cary stayed silent, looking over the garden with the long blue shadows falling in the humps and furrows. The idea of being here alone, with no Jon to talk to—not even asshole opioid-withdrawal Jon—was hard to look at directly.

"So," Jon said hesitantly, swallowing his mouthful. "How bad did I fuck this up?"

Cary swung his gaze to look at him. Jon's mouth lifted like he was trying to smile, but the skin around his eyes was tight. "What would it take to be friends again?"

Cary fingered the wrapper on the ground beside his legs, eyeing him.

"I'm sorry—you know?" Jon's eyes were dark as the evergreens lining the edge of Tru's property. "Maybe it's too late to say this, but I really—really am."

Cary dropped his eyes. The unexpectedness of this apology caught him off guard and opened him up. "That's okay, Jon," he said softly.

"It's really not." Jon took a short breath, touching his fingers to his own chest, the place where Cary had an "x" carved into his skin. "I was a piece of shit to you this summer. You needed someone and I bailed. I said so much garbage to you that I wish I never let out of my mouth. The whole time I was making you out to be this—twisted fuck-up with no hope of changing—it was me. The twisted fuck-up is me." Jon blinked, and two tears dropped onto his cheeks, glittering like gems. "I really respect the person you are, Cary, and the way you handled everything. I needed to say that to you even if it's too late, and you can't hear it past the asshole I—"

"Stop—Jon." Cary cut him off, the ache in his chest making his voice rough. "I forgive you already. We're good."

Jon swayed back, his face a white in the gathering dusk. "I'm not," he whispered. "I'm not good."

Cary huffed a dry laugh. "So you're not," he said. "Nobody is. Get over yourself already—Jesus." Jon's laugh sounded strangled and surprised. Cary got to his feet and his breath expanded his chest like it was making him wider. He swung his hand down and pulled Jon to his feet too.

Jon surveyed the landscape, a smile slowly stretching his face. He took in half of the garden, still covered by a jumble of plants and weeds, tomato cages tipping crookedly, and his face fell a little. "We're not getting this done tonight, are we?"

"Probably not," Cary said. "You're slow like an old man too. Good thing there's nothing up tomorrow."

*Finally!! I was so relieved to wrap up this conflict between Cary and Jon. It wasn't that Jon's previous apology was insincere--he just didn't know half of the hurt he'd paid out on Cary over the summer. There's a saying that a gallon of hurt needs a gallon of apology--when people offer a teaspoon of apology the right words might be there but if they don't really feel or understand what they're sorry for, it's hard for the wronged person to accept and trust again. I'm not saying people have to apologize perfectly and never fail again in order for trust to be restored--we're all a work in progress! ♡

How do you feel about Jon's apology now? *