Chapter 27. Soren
The engine on the workbench has been waiting for me since Monday, a Norton Commando with a cracked primary case and a previous owner who apparently believed duct tape was a load-bearing structural element.
I’ve been taking it apart slowly, each component assessed and set aside in order, and when the shop door opens and Kit’s boots hit the concrete, I don’t look up right away.
I give it another three seconds, my hands still on the primary cover.
Kit’s footsteps cross the shop toward me.
He works here properly now. Not helping out, not hovering around the lifts until I invent something for him to do.
He has a schedule, his own jobs on the board, his name in the payroll system, and a paycheck that lands in his account every other Friday.
He argued with me about his starting rate for twenty minutes because he thought I was paying him too much.
I showed him what I would pay another mechanic with his skill level and told him to stop trying to discount himself.
He did, eventually. Mostly.
He’s smiling when he reaches the bench, and that always makes my heart melt a little.
I set down the primary cover and pull off my right glove.
“Let me see it.”
Kit looks confused for a second. Then understanding flashes across his face, and he digs into his jacket pocket and drops his phone into my palm.
Seventy-three percent.
“Good boy.”
I pinch his cheek lightly.
He giggles, and it might be the most adorable sound he makes. I can see how proud he is of himself. My cute little boy.
I hand the phone back and strip off my other glove, setting both beside the dismantled Norton.
“Get ready. We’re leaving soon. Therapy’s at two.”
Kit looks at me in surprise, almost as though he expected me to have forgotten. Which is ridiculous. He knows better than that. These days, he knows quite a lot of things about what I will and will not forget.
His therapy appointments. His medication. Which roll he’ll complain about if I leave it off a sushi order. The fact that he likes his cocoa almost offensively rich. The drawer in my dresser that started as his and, eventually, became insufficient.
He fully moved out of his apartment last week.
There was no dramatic conversation about it.
No declaration. We both knew he was already living with me in every meaningful sense, and at some point paying rent on an apartment where he barely slept became objectively ridiculous.
So we packed his remaining things into boxes, drove them across town, and stopped pretending.
His clothes take up far more than one drawer now.
On top of the dresser, directly above the drawer that used to contain nearly everything he kept at my place, sit three teddy bears. Milkshake. Duffy. And Pretty.
Pretty came out of a box wrapped carefully in one of Kit’s old shirts.
Kit went very quiet when he unwrapped him.
I didn’t ask questions. I watched him smooth the bear’s fur with his thumb, carry him to the dresser, and set him between the other two.
Then he stepped back and looked at all three of them.
That was it. I noticed. Of course I noticed.
Later, in the truck, Kit lasts four blocks before his leg starts moving.
I keep my eyes on the road. Afternoon traffic does what afternoon traffic does, and I merge onto the main street without commentary.
Kit’s gaze stays fixed on the passenger window—the city moving past outside, a dry cleaner, a parking structure, a coffee shop with its sandwich board tilted against the wind—and he’s looking at none of it.
“You ever notice,” he says, his voice picking up the particular brightness that means he’s decided on deflection, “how all therapy offices are in the most aggressively beige buildings possible? Like they’re trying to preemptively lower expectations.”
“They’re designed to feel neutral.”
“There’s a very good argument,” he continues, “that today is a terrible day for therapy. Emotionally speaking. I’ve had a very full week. Overstimulated. I should probably sit with what I’ve already processed before I add more material.”
“That argument is not going to work.”
His fingers drum their pattern against his knee.
“Worth a shot.”
Kit shifts in his seat. The drumming stops, then starts again, slightly faster.
The therapist’s office building appears on the right about eight minutes later.
It is, in fact, beige. A glass front door.
A small placard beside it. A parking lot with painted lines and three empty spaces near the entrance.
I turn in, find a space, and cut the engine.
Kit doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
I give him space.
Eventually, he turns toward me.
His chin is set at the angle I’ve come to recognize. Not defiant. Stubborn, which is a different animal. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, and his eyes are already bright at the corners.
“Please, Daddy,” he says. “I don’t want to do this.”
I turn toward him fully and stroke my thumb across his cheek.
“I know you don’t.”
His jaw tightens beneath my hand.
“But you’re going to do it anyway, because you’re a good boy and you follow through even when you’re scared.”
The stubborn set of his chin doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t need to. I’m not asking him to stop being afraid. I’m asking him to walk through the door while afraid. I hold his gaze.
“Right, sweetheart?”
He swallows.
“Right?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
The words are small. My thumb moves once across his jaw.
“Good boy.”
I let him go and open my door. I walk around the truck, open his door, and hold out my hand. He looks at it. Then at me. There’s still a slight pout on his bottom lip when he takes it.
The waiting room is neutral and boring, exactly as he predicted.
I’ve been sitting in it for forty minutes.
My phone is open to a parts supplier’s catalog because I need a replacement primary case for the Norton and my usual supplier is backordered.
I scroll without urgency. The receptionist has answered the phone twice.
The plant in the corner is almost certainly fake.
Kit comes through the therapist’s door at exactly fifty minutes. He waves goodbye to her, then looks across the waiting room. He sees me. Something in him goes slightly less guarded.
I stand. We walk outside together in silence. At the truck, I don’t immediately go to the driver’s side. I open Kit’s door first and let him climb in. I don’t ask what happened in the session. That belongs to him.
I get behind the wheel, start the truck, and put it in reverse.
“We’re making a stop.”
Kit looks through the windshield.
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
There’s a beat.
“That’s not ominous at all.”
“No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”
He giggles, and the sound warms my chest.
“Is it the good kind of surprise or the kind where you’ve decided I need more vegetables in my diet?”
“Can’t it be both?”
“No. Those are mutually exclusive categories, and I need you to respect that boundary.”
“Noted.”
He laughs properly at that, some of the residual tightness from the session finally easing from his shoulders. His knee goes still against the door.
“You’re not gonna tell me anything, are you?”
“I told you where we’re going. You. Will. See.”
I glance at him at the next red light.
“Patience is a virtue.”
“I have never once in my life been accused of having that virtue.”
“I’m aware. I’m hoping today’s the day you develop it.”
“Doubtful.”
But he settles back against the seat anyway.
For the rest of the drive, he doesn’t push.
He watches the road go by with something loose and curious in his posture, occasionally glancing over at me as though he might be able to read the answer from my face.
He fails every time. The restaurant is twelve minutes from the therapist’s office.
I’ve barely turned into the lot when recognition starts to dawn on Kit’s face, slowly and then all at once.
“Wait.”
He sits up straighter, craning to see the sign.
“Wait, is this—”
“Mhm.”
“This is the place from our first date.”
His whole face changes. “You brought me back here.”
By the time I’ve put the truck in park, he already has his seat belt off.
“Did you plan this? You planned this.”
“I plan most things. It’s a personality trait.”
“You’re insufferable and I love it.”
He climbs out the second I unlock the doors, and I have to increase my pace to catch him at the entrance. A new experience. Being the one left behind.
Inside, the smell of rice vinegar and warm food hits immediately. The host seats us at the counter, and we’ve barely settled onto the stools before the first dishes begin arriving.
Kit stares. A plate of spicy tuna. Dragon roll. Nigiri. Two bowls of miso. Then the volcano roll arrives. His mouth drops open. He looks at me.
“You called ahead.”
“I called ahead.”
“While I was in there talking about my feelings, you were ordering my spicy tuna.”
“Our spicy tuna.”
“And the dragon roll.”
“Yes.”
His eyes land on the next plate.
“And the volcano roll.”
“Against my better culinary judgment.”
“The volcano roll is an emotional support roll. I explained this to you months ago.”
“You did.”
“I’m glad it stuck.”
He’s grinning now, still faintly disbelieving.
“This is so amazing. Thank you so much, Daddy.”
“You went to therapy.” His smile softens slightly. “You walked through the door even though you were scared. You stayed for the whole appointment.” He looks down. “And you didn’t fight me past the parking lot, which, for you, is basically a personal best.”
That gets the laugh I wanted. “You deserve the reward.”
Kit reaches for the spicy tuna before the waitress has even finished setting down our tea.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, my boy.”