23. Tate
TATE
Iwatch them from across the bay, leaning against a cool steel support column.
My focus isn’t on Eli, or even the kid. It’s on her.
I see the tension clamp down on Jordyn, a familiar posture of bracing for impact.
Then, a slow release, a subtle slump as she watches them, her body’s war with itself.
She holds the moment for a beat too long, and when she finally turns away, the movement is sharp, a flinch from something bright.
Her hand finds the brick wall, a small, desperate anchor in a sea of emotion I know all too well.
It’s not just relief. It’s not just hope. It’s the two smashed together. It’s the pain that comes with seeing a future you were never sure your kid would have, and the sharp, lonely understanding that you can’t get them there by yourself. I’ve seen that look on my own mother’s face a hundred times.
I push off the column. My boots are quiet on the concrete, each step measured. I stop beside her, mirroring her posture, looking out at nothing in particular. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but the line of her jaw tightens. She knows I’m here.
"You want to see something?"
My voice is a quiet offering that doesn’t demand a response.
She gives a short, almost imperceptible nod, her eyes still fixed somewhere on the far wall.
I gesture with my head toward the west side of the bay, where the hand tools cover the wall in a meticulous, sprawling array of steel and chrome.
I start walking, not looking back to see if she follows.
I know she will. It’s an escape hatch, a pocket of air, and she needs one right now.
The rhythmic sound of her lighter footsteps falls in just behind my own, a quiet surrender.
Up close, she's all sharp angles and held breath.
Her jaw works like she's chewing something bitter, and her eyes dart between the boys and the exit, calculating distances, escape routes.
The kind of hypervigilance that comes from years of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Her hands rest at her sides, but they're not relaxed—fingers slightly curled, ready to grab, to shield, to fight if necessary.
I've seen this before. Not just the protective stance, but the specific weight of it. The way a parent holds themselves when they're carrying everything alone, when every decision feels like it could break or save their kid. When hope feels dangerous because disappointment might kill you.
She catches me watching and stiffens further, defensive walls snapping into place.
"You ok?"
"I'm fine."
The words are clipped, automatic. A reflex honed by years of people asking questions she doesn't want to answer.
I don't call her on the lie. Instead, I lean heavily against the tool wall, letting my shoulder take some weight. The position puts me at her eye level without crowding her space.
"I helped raise him," I say, nodding back toward Eli without making it a performance. "Me and Wes."
Her gaze flicks to where Eli sits cross-legged on the floor, showing Brody the inner workings of a dismantled radio. Both boys bent over the components with identical focus, their world narrowed to frequencies and circuits.
"Our parents did their best, but they were overwhelmed. Dad worked doubles, Mom was stretched thin with three kids and no roadmap for what Eli needed." I keep my voice even, matter-of-fact. "So we figured it out. Trial and error, mostly error at first."
Jordyn's posture shifts slightly, the rigid line of her body softening by degrees.
"It's not easy," I continue, watching her profile as she studies the boys.
"It doesn't get easy. Anyone who tells you it does is selling something.
" Her mouth quirks at that—not quite a smile, but close.
"You just get better at it. Learn to read the signs faster, trust your instincts more, stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault. "
She turns to look at me then, really look, and I see the question she won't ask written in the tired lines around her eyes: Will he be okay?
I can't promise her that. But I can give her something else.
"Eli has his own apartment now. Works part-time at the library, volunteers with the youth program on weekends. Has friends, hobbies, a life that's his." I pause, letting that settle. "Took us a long time to get there, but we got there."
I glance back at the boys, watching Brody's careful movements as he mirrors Eli's methodical approach to the radio components.
There's something in the way he holds himself—focused but not frantic, engaged without the underlying tension that usually rides his shoulders.
Eli points to a circuit board, explaining something in his quiet, measured way, and Brody nods, absorbing every word like it's gospel.
When I look back at Jordyn, she's watching them too, but there's something fragile in her expression. The kind of hope that's been disappointed too many times to trust itself.
"He's not behind."
The words are steadier than I feel them, but they're true. I've watched enough kids struggle through systems that weren't built for them to know the difference between delayed and different.
"He's just on a different track."
She blinks, her gaze shifting from the boys to me. Something passes across her face—not relief, exactly, but recognition. Like I've named something she's felt but couldn't articulate.
"The school keeps talking about milestones," she says, her voice carrying the weight of a hundred meetings, a hundred well-meaning professionals who've never lived this reality. "Social benchmarks. Grade-level expectations."
"Schools love their charts." I keep my tone light, but there's an edge there. "Problem is, they're measuring distance traveled instead of ground covered."
Her laugh is short, more exhale than sound. "That's... actually a good way to put it."
"Eli didn't speak in full sentences until he was ten.
Didn't make what anyone would call a friend until high school.
Teachers kept pushing him toward things that felt impossible while missing everything he was actually good at.
" I watch as Eli hands Brody a small screwdriver, both of them completely absorbed in their task.
"Turns out he has a gift for patterns, for seeing how systems connect.
The library hired him because he can organize information in ways that make sense to people who think like he does. "
Jordyn shifts beside me, her weight settling differently against the tool bench. The movement brings her closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something clean and floral.
"I keep waiting for someone to tell me I'm doing it wrong," she admits, her voice barely above a murmur. "Every choice feels like it could be the one that..." She trails off, but I hear the rest. The one that breaks him. The one that holds him back. The one that proves you're not enough.
"You moved here for better resources. You advocate for him at school. You brought him somewhere he feels safe." I count these on my fingers, small victories she probably doesn't even see anymore. "Sounds like you're doing it exactly right."
She adjusts her grip on the bench, her knuckles brushing against mine. The contact is light, accidental, but neither of us pulls away. Her hand is smaller than I expected, calloused in places that speak of work and worry, but warm against my skin.
"It doesn't feel right most days," she says, but there's less weight in the words now.
"Welcome to parenting. Pretty sure nobody knows what they're doing. We just get better at pretending."
The moment settles between us like dust after an explosion—heavy, changed, but not unwelcome. I let my hand drift away from hers, the movement casual, unremarkable. Just two people sharing space at a tool bench, watching kids tinker with radio parts. Nothing to see here.
Except everything's different now.
I push off from the bench, rolling my shoulders like I'm working out a kink. Standard firefighter stretch, nothing more. The distance I create feels both necessary and wrong, like stepping back from a fire that's still giving off heat.
"I should check on the afternoon equipment rotation," I say, the words coming out steadier than they have any right to. Professional. Routine. Safe territory.
Jordyn nods, her focus drifting back to the boys. "Of course."
But I don't move. Not yet. Instead, I find myself cataloguing details I have no business noticing.
The way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear when she's thinking.
How her guard drops just enough when she watches Brody that I see the fierce love underneath all that protective armor.
The small scar on her knuckle that speaks of hands that have worked for everything they've ever had.
My gaze shifts to Brody, who's explaining something to Eli with the kind of intense focus that means he's found his rhythm. The kid's shoulders have dropped, his voice animated but not frantic. He's not performing or masking—he's just being himself in a space that lets him exist without apology.
And then back to her. Always back to her.
The realization hits me sideways, quiet and devastating.
This isn't the measured concern of a first responder anymore.
This isn't even the protective instinct of someone who understands what it's like to raise a kid who sees the world differently.
This is something else entirely, something that's been building since the moment I found Brody curled up in that supply closet, since I watched her drop to her knees in relief outside the school.
I'm invested now. Not just in the outcome, not just in their safety or comfort or whether Brody finds his place in this town.
I'm invested in her laugh when she thinks no one's listening, in the way she second-guesses herself even when she's doing everything right, in the stubborn tilt of her chin when the world pushes back.
I'm invested in them as a unit, as a family I want to be part of instead of just helping from the sidelines.
The equipment rotation can wait. Hell, everything can wait.
Because standing here in this bay, watching her watch her son discover that he's not broken, just different, I understand something fundamental has shifted.
I'm not just offering support anymore. I'm not just being neighborly or professionally helpful.
I'm already in this. Deep enough that walking away would leave marks.
The thought should terrify me. Should send me straight to the equipment bay and the comfortable distance of routine maintenance. Instead, it settles into place like a piece I didn't know was missing.