Page 61 of Redline Baby

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."