Chapter 15 #3
"Legally, they can commit an adult with financial dependence. The question is whether we can stop them."
He laid out the problems with brutal efficiency.
Jesse was twenty-one, technically an adult, but financially dependent on his parents.
No history of legal emancipation. His parents could claim he was mentally unstable—use the public kiss as evidence—and get temporary conservatorship.
Force him into "treatment" against his will.
"So what do we do?" I asked.
"We file for a protective order. Argue that Restoration Ridge poses a clear and present danger to his health and wellbeing.” He was writing faster now, making a list. "We'll need medical testimony about conversion therapy harm.
We'll need to prove his parents' intentions pose imminent threat.
And we need to move fast. If they get him to Montana, jurisdiction becomes a nightmare. "
"How fast?" Andrew asked.
"They could come for him any day. We file tomorrow."
Sunday night, our house became a war room.
Professor Okonkwo brought two of his best senior law students to help with research.
Sam reached out to other conversion therapy survivors he was still in contact with who would be willing to testify.
Diana contacted LGBTQ+ advocacy groups for expert witnesses.
Phoenix orchestrated their social media theatre—turning Jesse's story into the kind of viral campaign they specialized in, because public pressure could help.
Jamie documented anything and everything that might be evidence.
Elijah stayed upstairs with Jesse when I wasn’t there, who was too fragile to help. Every time someone mentioned his parents or the hearing, he'd start shaking again. The fight-or-flight response was burned into him so deep, I wasn't sure it would ever fully fade.
I worked through the night on legal briefs, fuelled by coffee and determination. Around 3 AM, Professor Okonkwo found me at the kitchen table, surrounded by case law and constitutional amendments.
"Good work," he said, reading over my shoulder. "You know you'll make a fine lawyer someday."
"If we win this."
"When we win this," he corrected. "Jesse deserves freedom. We're going to make sure he gets it."
Monday morning, we filed an emergency motion for a protective order. The hearing was scheduled for Wednesday—remarkably fast, probably because Professor Okonkwo knew people. Judge Sarah Burrows was assigned, a former ACLU attorney. Good sign.
Monday afternoon, my phone buzzed with a text from Rebecca. She must have found my number in Jesse’s schoolwork.
We need to talk. About Jesse.
We met at a coffee shop downtown. She looked exhausted, like she hadn't slept since the night Jesse ran. Dark circles under her eyes, hands shaking around her cup.
"His parents are planning something," she said without preamble. "Soon."
My blood went cold. "What did you hear?"
"His mother called mine this morning. They're leaving for Montana Thursday morning." She leaned forward, voice dropping. "They want to move him before any legal intervention."
"Thursday? That's the day after our hearing."
"They know you're going to try to stop them legally. So they're just going to kidnap him and leave. They know where your frat house is."
The coffee turned to acid in my stomach. "Can you testify at the hearing? About what you know?"
Rebecca hesitated, staring into her cup. "If I testify against his family, mine will disown me too."
I wanted to tell her it didn't matter, that Jesse's safety was worth anything. But I couldn't ask someone to sacrifice their entire life. I wouldn't.
"I understand if you can't—"
"I didn't say I couldn't." She looked up, meeting my eyes. "I said they'd disown me. And they will. But Jesse is worth it."
She paused, then added quietly, "He's always been worth it."
JESSE
The two days after we filed the petition for a protective order were the longest of my life.
The house became a waiting room, thick with a tension so heavy it felt hard to breathe.
We were all on edge, caught between the hope of relief and the fear of what my father would do if the order was denied.
I spent most of the time in Adrian's room, a ghost haunting a space that wasn't mine.
I'd stare out the window, tracing the patterns of the branches, my stomach in a permanent knot.
Adrian was a coiled spring beside me, constantly checking on me, almost as if to reassure himself I was still safe, his jaw tight.
Downstairs, the others tried to maintain a sense of normalcy that felt utterly false.
Diana stress-baked until every surface was covered in cookies no one had the appetite to eat.
Andrew paced, wearing down the carpet into the pattern of his feet.
By the evening of the second day, the silence had become unbearable. We were all gathered in the living room, the uneaten cookies sitting on the coffee table like a sad offering.
Suddenly, Phoenix shot up from the couch, clapping their hands together with a loud crack that made me jump.
"Right, I can't do this anymore," they announced to the room at large. "This silent, respectful waiting thing is actively corroding my soul. We need a distraction. A terrible, glorious distraction." Their eyes gleamed with manic energy. "It is time... for Bad Movie Night."
Andrew looked up from his laptop, his brow furrowed. "Phoenix, I'm not sure a cinematic diversion is appropriate given the potential legal ramifications we're—"
"It is entirely appropriate," Phoenix declared, already scrolling through a streaming service with furious intent.
"We can't control the judge. We can't control his psycho father.
But we can control our God-given right to mercilessly mock terrible acting.
Ah-ha! Found it." They held up the remote like a trophy. "Galaxy Gladiators of Gorgon-5."
Sam, from their armchair, let out a long-suffering sigh. "Ah, yes. The one where the main villain's helmet is clearly a painted colander."
"It's a masterpiece of budgetary constraints!" Phoenix insisted, dimming the lights. "Diana, popcorn protocol, please!"
Diana, looking relieved to have a mission, hustled into the kitchen.
Adrian sat down next to me on the couch, draping an arm over my shoulders.
This time last week the contact would have sent me scrambling for polite distance.
Tonight, though, something different happened - my body melted into his side before my mind could protest, my face instinctively finding the warm hollow between his shoulder and collarbone like it belonged there.
Perhaps it was the adrenaline crash leaving me too exhausted to fight instinct. Perhaps it was the way Adrian inexplicably smelled like safety to me. Or perhaps, after years of flinching from touch that always came with conditions, I was starving for contact that asked nothing of me but to exist.
"Just go with it," Adrian murmured, his breath warm against my ear, thumb tracing idle circles on my upper arm. The gesture should have felt condescending. Instead, it sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. "It's how they cope. Better than staring at the wall."
How strange - none of my carefully memorized scriptures ever mentioned that hands could speak their own language.
The firm press of his palm against my shoulder said I'm here.
The rhythm of his thumb said You're alive.
The heat radiating from his side said Stay.
And for once in my life, I couldn't remember a single reason why I shouldn't.
A moment later, Diana returned with two huge bowls of popcorn, and the movie began. As a giant, rubbery monster appeared on screen, the commentary became a running symphony of sarcasm.
"His laser pistol is a glue gun with an LED taped to it," Sam observed, their voice bone-dry. "I respect the hustle."
"Why is she running from the Gorgonoid in stilettos?” Diana demanded of the screen. "You're in an alien swamp, Jennifer! Wear some goddamn practical footwear for fucks sakes!”
I watched them, a silent observer in their strange, chaotic ritual. They weren't ignoring the anxiety; they were fighting it.
Adrian leaned in close as the monster waved its tentacles menacingly. "Terrifying, right? I think we have that bath mat."
A small, unfamiliar sound escaped my lips before I could stop it. A quiet huff of air, almost a laugh. Adrian squeezed my shoulder, his smile warm in the flickering darkness.
On screen, the hero struck a pose, his jaw set heroically. "I cannot let the Gorgonoid menace consume the innocent star-children of Nebula-9!" he boomed, his voice echoing with cheap reverb.
It was too much for Phoenix. They shot to their feet, clutched their chest dramatically, and began to silently lip-sync along, their expression one of operatic agony. They mimed wiping away a single, noble tear as the camera zoomed in on the hero's face.
Diana threw a piece of popcorn at them. Andrew sighed, "His emotional appeal is completely unsupported by the presented facts."
It was the combination of it all—the glue-gun pistol, the bath-mat monster, Diana's outrage over footwear, and Phoenix's ridiculous, heartfelt pantomime. A strange feeling bubbled up in my chest, foreign and uncontrollable. It started as a snort, which I tried desperately to stifle behind my hand.
But it was no use.
The snort turned into a full-blown laugh. It burst out of me, sharp and loud and real, echoing in the dark room for a brief second before being swallowed by the movie's synthesizer score. The sound shocked me more than anyone. My hand fell from my mouth, my eyes wide.
The movie kept playing. Phoenix continued their performance. But for a moment, the room was connected in a silent, shared victory. Diana's eyes met mine over the popcorn bowl, a soft, happy smile on her face. Sam gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod from their armchair.