Chapter 16. Soren
I clock him before I've even gotten my jacket off.
Kit's at the bar, back to me, one boot hooked over the rung of his stool exactly the way it was the very first night I watched him from across this room, before I knew his name, before any of the last two months happened.
His good hand is doing the wide, sweeping gesture that means a story is building toward its punchline, and even from here, over the noise of the crowd, I can hear the pitch of his voice climbing.
Too bright. Too fast. Filling every available inch of silence around him. I stop just inside the door and watch for longer than I mean to.
It's the bandaged arm that does it, I think.
The visible proof of exactly how close he came to not walking into this room at all, sitting there propped on the bar top like a prop in his own performance, like the story he's telling right now is already being rewritten into something funnier, something with better flair.
The same way the sponsorship story got smoothed down into a punchline. His boot heel taps the rung. Fast. Uneven. The same restless pulse I've come to recognize as the exact opposite of the ease he shows me when it's just the two of us.
I hate it.
I hate watching it happen in real time.
Hate that two months of sushi and bowling alleys and Ferris wheels and eggs on a Tuesday morning haven't touched whatever this is.
Hate that some part of him is apparently still standing on the exact same ledge he was standing on the night he put his bike down on that county road.
Ni slides a bottle of dark German lager across the worn wood of a two-top before I've fully settled into the chair tucked against the far wall, away from the pool tables.
"He's been like that since he walked in.
" Ni turns his own bottle a slow quarter-turn against the table, not looking at me.
"Louder every week since the accident, not quieter.
Like the closer he gets to actually being okay, the harder some part of him fights it.
" I don't answer that. I keep my eyes on the bar.
On the tap of that boot heel. On the laugh that's half a decibel too loud for the joke that produced it.
Something settles low and grim in my chest, the same weight I felt watching him from exactly this angle the very first night Ni brought me here.
That's when Allie cuts through the room.
She's tall, dark-haired, wearing a red cardigan and a pair of boots that look like they've walked through mud on purpose.
Her jaw is set. She looks upset. Her eyes find mine across twenty feet of crowded floor and hold there, and I know immediately that whatever's coming isn't small talk.
She reaches me.
"Can I talk to you, Soren?"
I nod and get up.
We take half a step to the side, and she looks directly into my eyes.
"Kit hasn't been to therapy in over a month. And now he's avoiding me. I know he's been talking about you, and that you helped him after the crash, so you're my last hope. He doesn't listen to any of us."
Her hands come together in front of her, fingers interlacing, knuckles pressing against each other hard enough that the skin whitens. She doesn't look down. Doesn't break eye contact.
"I'm worried," she says. "I've tried talking to him. He deflects. You know how he is. He's very good at it. And I—"
She stops.
"I don't know how to reach him without making him run. And I'm afraid if he runs again, he'll run somewhere I can't follow. I know he was fired, but he's already paid for all these sessions in advance. He needs it, Soren. He really does."
"I'm worried too," I say. "I've been watching him do exactly this since I walked in tonight. I'll talk to him."
She smiles, relieved. We both turn at the same time. Kit is still at the bar. Bottle in his good hand, head thrown back in a laugh. His bandaged arm rests on the bar top. And I know this isn't how he behaves when he's at ease. Because I've seen him at ease with me.
His boot heel taps against the barstool rung.
Tap.
Tap-tap.
Tap.
Tap-tap-tap.
His knee bounces.
"He needs to go to therapy and take his meds as prescribed," Allie says quietly. "I don't know if he's doing either one. When Charles was with him, he kept Kit on track with his meds and therapy. Now..."
I raise my eyebrows at that. A lot of how Kit works makes sense now. I watch him for a full ten seconds. The laugh. The gesture. The bandaged arm. The tapping heel. The way his eyes scan the room between sentences, quick and restless, mapping exits the way he always does. The performance.
Allie is watching him too.
Her arms are crossed now, and she has the look of someone who loves a person enough to see through them and hates having to.
"She's going to discharge him," she says quietly. "His therapist. If he doesn't show up for the next scheduled appointment, she's closing his file. He knows that. I told him." A pause. "He laughed."
I nod once.
Tap.
Tap-tap.
Tap.
I push away from the wall.
I reach the bar and place my hand on Kit's shoulder. His laugh cuts off mid-note. His head turns. His eyes find my face, scanning quickly, reading for intent. Whatever he finds there makes him stop.
"Hey," he says. His voice lands in the bright register, the one he uses for strangers and deflections. "If you're here to tell me my tab's getting ambitious, I have a very compelling speech prepared."
The grin accompanies it. I don't take the bait. I keep my hand on his shoulder and my voice level.
"We should find somewhere quieter."
It's not a question. His grin disappears. Fast.
"Sure," he says, quietly. “Quieter's good."
He slides off the barstool.
We move through the room, and I catch some people watching us. Especially his friends.
We move into the corridor.
At the far end is a fire-exit door with a push bar.
The corridor is otherwise empty.
I turn to face him.
My back finds the wall, and I settle my weight against it, arms loose at my sides, posture open and unhurried. Kit stands in the center of the corridor under yellow light that makes him look more exhausted than the bar ever allowed.
"I know you've missed more than a month of therapy," I say.
Shock flashes across his face. His lips part.
"Allie's worried," I continue. "I'm worried too."
Kit's response is immediate.
Rehearsed.
"Okay, first of all..." He holds up his good hand, index finger extended.
"I've been busy. And second, therapy's great, I'm a huge fan, very pro-therapy, but it's not like I'm skipping chemotherapy.
It's talk. I can talk to people for free.
I talk to Ni. I talk to Dex, Sol, Allie.
I talk to the guy at the gas station. Very cost-effective. "
Another finger.
"And third, it's really not a big deal. At all. Seriously. I've had colds that were more consequential. I'll reschedule. Next week. Maybe the week after."
I wait.
I let the deflection complete its arc. Let the words land. My back stays against the wall. My arms stay at my sides. My eyes stay on his face.
I wait.
Silence.
Kit opens his mouth again. Nothing comes.
His heel stops tapping. The corridor goes completely still.
"I want you to reschedule by tomorrow," I say. "If money is part of the problem, I'll help."
"That's not it!"
I don't answer. Kit looks down, slowly. His whole body goes still for a second.
"Okay," he says quietly.
I push away from the wall and step toward him, close enough now that I can see the fine tremor still running through his good hand.
"Good boy."
The words come more easily this time than they did at the hospital. I know exactly what I'm saying. His entire body answers first. Breath catching. Eyes going wide and wet all at once. He stays quiet.
Doesn't reach for a joke. Doesn't reach for anything.
"I need you to hear something before we go back in there," I say.
His eyes find mine. He looks exhausted. The kind that's been hiding underneath the noise for as long as I've known him.
Poor little boy.
I want, badly, to make some of it easier.
"I want to help you correct this," I say.
"What does that mean?" His voice is quiet. He's genuinely asking.
"It means I want to help hold you accountable for the choices you're making. Starting with therapy. I want you to reschedule. I want you to actually attend the appointments instead of letting yourself disappear from them."
I pause. Let him absorb it. His eyes stay on mine.
"And beyond therapy, I mean the other things too. The riding. The speed. The way you walk into rooms and perform instead of being present. I want to be able to call you on it when I see it."
Kit swallows. His eyes are wet.
"You don't have to do that," he says. The words come out rough, scraped on the way up. "You don't owe me anything. We're not—I'm not your—"
He stops. His face folds around whatever word he can't finish.
"I know what we're not," I say. I take another half-step closer. "But I'd like to be, if you want that too."
Silence.
Kit looks down. I let him. I don't touch him.
"I'm not offering you something easy," I say.
"I need you to know that upfront." His eyes lift again.
"Avoidance has been the easy option for a long time.
People let the deflection stand because they're afraid pushing you will make you run.
People watch you disappear and hope you'll come back on your own. "
His mouth tightens.
"I don't want to do that." I keep my voice level.
"If you pull away, I'll give you room. I'm not going to trap you in a conversation you need to leave.
But I'm also not going to pretend the problem vanished because you walked away from it.
When you're ready to come back, I'll still be here. And we'll finish the conversation."
His shoulders begin to shake. Barely.
"You don't have to say yes to any of this," I tell him. "That's the part I need you to hear clearly."
His breathing stutters.
"I'm telling you what I'm offering. I'm telling you what I'd like this to look like. The choice to let me do any of it is yours."
I nod toward the bar behind us.
"You can walk back into that room right now. I'll sit down, finish my beer, and this changes nothing between us unless you want it to."
The tears have gathered along his lower lashes. His face is the face of a boy who has been holding something too heavy for too long.
"But if you want to try something different," I say, "I need you to tell me. Out loud. Not with a nod. Not with a look. Not hidden inside a joke."
I wait.
"A word that means you're choosing it."
Kit breathes in. His mouth opens.
"Yes."
The first tear doesn't fall. It just sits there.
"Yes," he says again. "I want to try."
My heart is going a million miles an hour. I don't let it show. I smile. Then I lift two fingers slowly toward his chin. I give him enough time to move away. He doesn't. My fingertips settle lightly beneath his jaw. Kit lets me tip his face up until his eyes meet mine.
"Then here's what happens next."
He waits.
"You're going to get a spanking."
His eyes widen.
"A spanking," he repeats. His cheeks turn red. "Like—right now? Here?"
"Not here."
The red gets worse.
"Not tonight either, if you need time to sit with everything we've just said."
He swallows.
"But soon. And not because I'm angry with you, though I want to be honest that some part of me still is, a little, about the accident specifically."
My thumb rests lightly along his jaw.
"Mostly because I think you need somewhere to put the weight of it. You've been carrying every bad choice alone for months, and I don't think you know how to set any of it down once you've decided it belongs to you."
"That's—"
He stops. Swallows. Tries again.
"That's a lot to just say out loud in a hallway."
"I know. I meant it to be."
"Is it gonna be like—a whole thing? Rules and—I don't even know what I'm asking."
"It can be whatever we build it into together, over time."
His eyes stay on mine.
"For now, it's simple. You skipped therapy for over a month. You got on a bike after I'd explicitly begged you not to, and you could have died on that county road."
My voice doesn't rise.
"And instead of any of that making you slow down, you're back in there tonight pretending the whole thing is material for a joke."
His face crumples slightly.
"So. A spanking. Starting there."
"That's..." A short, wet laugh escapes him. "That's fair, actually." His eyebrows draw together. "I don't know why that's the part that's making me want to cry, out of everything you just said."
"Because it's the part that means someone is actually going to follow through." His eyes close for half a second. "Not just say the words and let you talk your way out of them by morning."
He looks at me again. The tears are still sitting at his lower lids.
His breathing has gone ragged. "I don't know how to do this," he says quietly, raw.
"Like—I want to. I think I want to really badly, actually.
More than I've wanted anything in longer than I can say.
" He draws a shaky breath. "But I don't know how to just let someone follow through.
Nobody's followed through on anything with me in a long time. "
"You don't have to know how yet." My hand stays steady beneath his jaw.
"That's not a prerequisite." His eyes search mine.
"You just have to be honest with me every time.
Yes when it's yes. No when it's no. If it changes halfway through, you tell me.
If you're angry, tell me. If you need space, tell me. If you want me closer, tell me."
His shoulders slowly lower.
"Your yes only matters to me if your no is safe too."
His eyes close. His throat moves around a swallow.
"Yeah," he says. "Okay. Yes, please."
"Say the rest of it too, if you can." His eyebrows pull together slightly. "I want to hear what you're agreeing to. Out loud. Not just yes to something vague."
Kit breathes in.
Holds my eyes.
"I'm agreeing to therapy."
A pause.
"Actually going. Actually staying."
I wait.
"And to you calling me on it when I'm doing the loud thing instead of being real."
Another breath.
"And to the consequences."
His cheeks color again.
"Including the spanking."
The smallest ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "I'm not gonna pretend I don't want that part too. I do." His eyes stay on mine. "And I want you to actually follow through. On all of it."
And it’s just Kit. Choosing me.
My boy.