The next time Tate sees Javi it's bright and early Monday morning at Maple diner.

     He's seated at a booth, wedged between Tucker and Benicio. He's fairly certain Hunter's foot is in his shin across from him. Why they all try to squeeze into one booth is beyond him but they meet every Monday morning for breakfast before work.

     Oscar normally beats them there but today he strolls in a few minutes late with Javi in tow. Javi looks better than the last time he saw him. The bruise on his cheek has yellowed, fading into the dark circles under his eyes. He's gotten some color Tate didn't realize he needed, making him look a little more alive.

     His presence is a total 180 from the Javi he grew up with. This Javi shrinks into himself, wanting to go unnoticed, commanding no attention. He keeps his head dipped as Oscar says, "This is my son, Javi. He's joining us for a few weeks."

     Tate's eyes bulge. Weeks? He thought, was even hoping, he'd be gone by the end of this week. There's a chorus of greetings from the guys and Javi does a subtle nod as acknowledgement. It looks like he doesn't want to be here, and maybe he's doing Oscar a favor, maybe he thinks he's better than everyone and above this kind of work.

     "Yo, that really his son?" Benny asks, whispering it to Tate. Tate nods and makes an affirmative sound. "We like el chapo?"

     Tate didn't move his gaze from Javi, certain they were in a match to the death with only their eyes as weapons. "No, no we don't."

     "Heard," Benny mumbled before he went back to his breakfast burrito.

     Tate isn't surprised when Sherry surfaces from the kitchen holding a tray of food and nearly drops it, screaming, "Javi!"

     She puts the tray down on a nearby table and grabs at Javi, pulling him into a hug. Tate glares, thinking traitor. Is everyone going to welcome him back with open arms?

❂

     Sherry smells like home. She hasn't changed at all, down to the powdery vanilla perfume she's always worn. Javi hugs her back, sucking down his tears. "Where you been, sweets?" she asks when she's pulled away. "You hightailed it out of here."

     He sees his dad shift in the corner of his eye, getting ready to interject, and Javi quickly answers, "D.C."

     "Oh, D.C.?" she repeats, fascinated. "What were you doing up there?"

     "I was working for a congressman," Javi says.

     His father is beside him, touching his elbow. "Do you know what you want to eat?"

     Javi is sure his father's only asking as a way to politely interrupt, because he proceeds to order for him and Javi, not waiting for Javi to respond. His father had said over dinner last night that Javi had lost weight.

     He didn't say it with criticism in his voice, so much as an acknowledgment. He then told Javi that losing too much weight can make you sick even if you don't look sick, even if you don't look bad.

     Javi did focus on how he looked quite a bit. Montgomery preferred him smaller than him, so he could subdue him, liked when his abs were visible and you could see the sharp lines of his triceps through his fitted shirts. And what Montgomery liked, Javi did.

     There's no room at the booth and with the way they're all looking at him, Javi doesn't feel particularly inclined to join them. He doesn't know if Tate's rallied them behind his cause or what, but he's okay with being hated. Actually kind of prefers it.

     His father and him take the booth behind the group. Sherry gets their breakfast out to them fast and Javi's not all that hungry. His father had made him toast when he woke. Had it waiting on the kitchen table with water and one of his pills.

     When his meals were watched and his medication was dolled out to him in intervals at the hospital, it'd been so frustrating and demoralizing. But when his father did it, all he could feel was the love behind the act. He didn't know just how much he missed being cared for.

     "You and Tate talk?" Oscar asks between a bite of eggs. Javi grimaces without meaning to. "I noticed he was staring at you pretty angry."

     "Some might call that a glare," Javi mumbles.

     Oscar sighs. "I just don't get it, Jav."

     "Don't get what dad?"

     "Why you stopped talking to him? He was your best friend. You two were thicker than thieves."

     Javi stares at his fork, counts backwards till the hot, prickly feeling behind his eyes dulls. "Things change," he says finally.

     "Things changed awfully fast. And they didn't change for Tate."

     "I don't know what to say," Javi says but what he means to say is I don't know how to say it.

     "Try the truth," Oscar says simply. "Did something happen between you?"

     That is a hard truth, one Javi isn't willing to give up here in the diner to his father. Instead, he shakes his head and says, "Nothing happened. I just—I couldn't. I wouldn't stay away if I did. If I kept in touch with any of you. And all that suffering would've been for nothing."

     That was part of the truth and Javi's learned that all you need is a part for the whole thing to sound true. And anyway this was only a lie by omission.

     Oscar pins him down with a thoughtful look. "And what was it for now? All that suffering?"

❂

     Tate drives behind Oscar with Hunter in the passenger seat. Tuck and Benny are in the backseat, arguing about some girl they both swear they laid eyes on first. Hunter's playing with the radio and Tate's irritable, eventually swats his hand away and silences the damn thing.

     "What's up with you?" Hunter asks offended. "You've had a stick up your ass all morning."

     There's only one person in the car who does any sort of higher thinking and that's Tuck. He coughs and says, "Not all morning."

     "Fine, most of the morning," Hunt snaps. "You gonna be a downer all day?"

     "The part of the morning when Oscar got there," Tuck says vaguely.

     Benny goes, "The fuck are you going on about? Just spit it out."

     "You got a bone to pick with Oscar?" Hunt asks.

     "I don't have a bone to pick with Oscar," Tate says fiercely. He wants that to be clear. In a small town, ideas have a away of spreading more than facts do.

     "Nope, not Oscar," Tuck says again.

     Tate goes, "Can you fuck off?"

     "So what like his son? The city boy?" Benny asks.

     "He's not a city boy," Tate says and regrets it. He's not supposed to be talking about Javi because he does not care about Javi, nor what anyone thinks about him not caring about Javi.

     "Didn't he say he was up in the capital?" Hunt asks. "Pretty sure that makes him a city boy."

     "He was born and raised here," Tate says and fuck if he doesn't shut up.

     "Right, well you can always ditch your roots. He don't look like he was born n' raised here," Hunt says with a shrug. "Why's he got you all twisted? You do that to his face?"

     Tate rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "When have you ever known me to fight someone?"

     "True, you little pacifist," Hunt says with a laugh.

     "Doesn't change the fact little Javier's got your panties in a bunch," Tucker says.

     "Fuck off, Tucker," Tate snaps.

     "See," Tuck says.

     "I'm gonna drop you on the side of the road."

     "Why don't you tell us what really went down between you two?" Tucker says. "You two got history you can smell from a mile away."

     Tate grinds his teeth. How does he get through this with minimal damage? With a little bit of truth. Enough to satiate, enough to be believable. That's always been his way. He was the one always talking Javi and him out of sticky situations. Javi was never any good at telling a lie. (It's not a lie Javi, if you sprinkle in some truth.)

     "We were best friends growing up," Tate says finally. "But we got old. Shit changed."

     "Yeah and he became a city boy," Hunt says.

     "He's not a city boy," Tate insists and honestly, he's gonna gag himself if he doesn't stop whatever it is he's doing. Defending Javi. Or his image, at least.

     "He's a pretty boy," Benny says finally. "Doubt he'll even get his hands dirty today."

     Tate doesn't say anything else, happy to finish the drive in silence. He'd like to go back to the time where he could get through days without uttering Javi's name once. Back when Javi was old news and there were better things to focus on. Back when Lena was still alive and his mom wasn't that sick, and he was much happier than he is now.

     When they get to the house they're working on, Oscar's already gotten out and is pulling stuff from the bed of his truck. Tate gets his tool belt, clips that around his hips before he grabs his kit and starts walking towards the side door. The client, some hoity-toity from the big city, is doing a full basement reno for their son. They've asked that they only use the side door directly to the basement.

     Tate looks back and sees Javi's asleep in the passenger seat, head resting against the window that's cracked.

     Confused, he calls out to Oscar and says, "You're not waking him up?"

     Oscar shakes his head, moving fast so he doesn't have to scream when he answers, "No, he needs to sleep."

     That. That confuses Tate. Needs to sleep? It would be so like Javi to come home only because he's terminally ill. Tate could kill him if he weren't maybe already dying.

❂

     Javi startles awake, disoriented, his head snapping back painfully. He's expecting a ceiling but instead, he's staring directly at Tate. Which is maybe more confusing than waking to a strange ceiling.

     "Oscar sent me to wake you," Tate says as way of explanation.

     It doesn't explain enough because Javi's still unsure where is, what time it is, and what he's doing here. His hearts beating fast, flipping back and forth between fight and flight like a pancake.

     Tate stares at Javi, his expression hard, and then he goes, "What's wrong with you."

     It doesn't feel like a question. Javi sits straighter, clearing his throat before he says, "Nothing."

     "Bullshit," Tate snaps. "You've been sleeping for the last four hours. And Oscar just let you. What's that about?"

     Javi shrugs. "He's an appreciator of naps."

     "Stop bullshitting me," Tate says. "Just tell me what's wrong with you."

     Javi raises an eyebrow and answers, his voice sounding bored, "You want the short or long version?"

     "So then you are sick," Tate says, trying to swallow when his mouth's gone dry. "What is it, cancer?"

     Javi startles. "I'm not sick."

     "You just said—." Tate sputters, flummoxed.

     "I was kidding."

     "That's not a good fucking joke, Javi."

     "Since when you do curse so much."

     "Since about the time you showed up in town."

     "Cute," Javi snaps. The irritability comes on so abruptly he's sure its an affect of the medication. So is the splitting headache. He needs to hydrate better.

     "Don't even," Tate snaps back.

     "Me don't even?" Javi gapes at him. "You don't even."

     "I got the right to be exactly how I am," Tate snaps.

     Javi rolls his eyes. "Okay, and what gave you the right to start working for my dad?"

     Tate crosses his arms, assuming a position of authority he most definitely doesn't have over Javi. "I got that right when you walked out of town. When you left him high and dry with no one to help him. When your mom got sick and he couldn't keep working while trying to take care of her."

     Javi is surprised by how quickly his stomach regurgitates his breakfast up his throat and out of his mouth, with absolutely no warning, no feelings of nausea. Just sudden, spontaneous, projectile vomit that just barely misses Tate. As an afterthought, Javi kind of wishes it didn't.

❂

     Tate barely dodges Javi's vomit. He watches Javi grip the door for support, bent at the waist, coughing and sputtering. It's clear to Tate now. Not sick but in withdrawal. It makes sense when he really thinks about it. Javi said he'd gone to D.C. and was working for a congressman. Late nights, excessive work, nothing a little cocaine or maybe meth can't help.

     "Javi?"

     Tate turns and there's Oscar coming out the side door. He nearly breaks into a run, coming down the path. Javi waves a hand at him. "I'm okay," he says groaning.

     "Go home," Oscar says pulling his keys out.

     "I'm okay," Javi repeats, lifting his head and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

      "You're not. Go home." Oscar slaps his keys into Javi's hand and closes his fist around it.

     Javi heaves a deep breath, resigned, and steps down from the truck, skirting past Tate. Tate steps out of the way, watching him closely. He only stops looking once Javi's fastened his seatbelt and taken off.

     When he's out of sight, Tate looks to Oscar and goes, "Was he on drugs?"

     Oscar makes a surprised sound and shakes his head, quickly. "No, not drugs."

     "Then what's wrong with him?"

     Oscar says, ever-helpfully, "You'd have to ask him."

     "You're not going to tell me?"

     "I'm not going to tell you."

     Tate all but frowns. "But it's not drugs."

     "Not drugs." Oscar shakes his head again. "Maybe you should try talking to Javi."

     Tate tries not to sound as pissed as he feels when he says, "That hasn't been working."

     "You two were very close once."

     "That was a long time ago, Oscar."

     "Maybe, but you were friends for longer." Oscar turns and starts to walk away.

     Tate follows him, trying to ignore the pit his words have opened in his stomach. "Do you know where he was? What he was doing all this time?"

     He glances over at Oscar and the man's frowning at the ground as he walks. "No," he says. "Not really. Whatever it was, it was no good for him. Whatever it was, I think it broke him."

     Funny enough, Tate used to think that Javi leaving had broke him.

❂

     Javi has to stop on the drive to throw up again.

     At some point in the drive he decides not to go home. Instead, he makes the executive decision to go to Tate's house and see Margie. It takes some time to find. The only vague memory he has is that he lives on Voyager Lane.

     At first he drives right past it because it's hard to see Tate's house hidden behind a litany of trees and a shrub fence. When he doubles back, he recognizes the mailbox near the sidewalk, a bright royal blue. He remembers looking at it when Tate drove him home, thinking it was violently in your face.

     He drives up the gravel path and parks on the side of the house under the attached carport. He doesn't know what he's doing here but he does know it's absolutely an intrusion. He stumbles getting out, feeling sticky with sweat and uncomfortable. He should've stopped home first, showered and probably brushed his teeth.

     Too late now he thinks as Margie Rowe wheels herself out onto the front porch. She looks down the steps at Javi, who's froze on the walkway.

     "Well don't just stand there," she says her voice scratchy and trembling.

     That's how Javi finds himself in the kitchen with Marg, pulling a pitcher of sweet tea out of the fridge so he can pour her a glass. As he's doing it, Marg makes a sound and shakes her head. She lifts a frail hand and points to the cupboard.

     Javi opens it, finds what looks like sippy cups in the cabinet. They're clear, plastic cups with lids, two handles, and a straw down the center. He takes one out, uncapping it so he can pour some sweet tea into it before setting it in front of Marg at the breakfast table.

     He sits down across from her on the bench, setting his own glass in front of him. He realizes in some vague place in his head now that this is totally inappropriate. He should not be hanging out with Tate's mom unauthorized. But then he thinks Tate's out here working for his dad, has been for years.

     "How long have you been like this?" he asks gently.

     Her hands are shaking when she holds them up. All five fingers on the left splayed out, two on the right. Seven years. So since Javi left.

     "What is it?" he asks next.

     She frowns, twisting her mouth. "Puh, puh," she says before pressing her mouth closed and her eyes shut tight. She takes a breath and goes, "P-parkinson's."

     Javi knows of it, vaguely, the gist, that it affects your nervous system, makes you shake. He thinks it may impact memory, too. There was a movie he watched once, his mom liked cheesy romances and she loved Anne Hathaway. He's pretty sure she had Parkinson's in the movie.

     Javi sinks, his shoulders falling forward sadly. "I'm sorry."

     She shakes her head quickly. "Don't," she says sternly.

    "And Tate's been taking care of you all this time?" He doesn't ask it so much as voice the thought. This has to be hard on him.

     When Margie answers, her words come out slowly, like she's thinking over each sound and making sure she forms the letters right. She's a five year old reading from a book for the first time. "He's been good to me," she says. "Too good. He needs to focus on himself."

     "Better he be good to you than be the son who ran off," Javi says shamefully.

     "Why did you run?" she asks, enunciating each word, making the question sound harder. He realizes that's just her way of making sure her sentences are clear.

     Margie is looking at Javi with Tate's eyes but they're old eyes, the ones he remembers from before he left — warm, open, earnest. She still cares for him, he can tell. She doesn't hate him for what he's done.

     "Why don't you hate me?" he asks. She turns her head questioningly. "You should hate me."

     She shakes her head, cupping her hands together in her lap. "Life's too short."

     "Not short enough." He doesn't mean to say it aloud but it's too late now, she's heard it. She looks at him carefully, thinning out his layers with just her eyes, getting to the source of his sadness within a blink.

     "Why did you run, Javi?" she asks again.

     He chews his bottom lip, bringing the glass to his mouth to buy time. The sweet tea tastes just like childhood. Margie always made the best tea. The perfect ratios. He doesn't mean to drink so much from the first sip, nearly downing the glass.

     "My dad's a smart man," Javi says. "I never thought he wasn't. Even though he didn't graduate high school and he had a lot of shame around that. I thought the world of him growing up. I still do."

     Javi sighs, hating unearthing this truth more than anything. He's never spoken about this before. "But even smart people do stupid things sometimes. I don't know. Maybe that's just the nature of being human." He shrugs. It's too heavy a thing to break down here. He'll lay in bed thinking about the things that make people human. "I wasn't a great student but I knew what I needed to. I knew when we started getting letters from the IRS there was a problem."

     Marg looks surprised for only a second before she neutralizes her expression. She has deep-set frown lines, but maybe they're actually smile lines. The woman who raised Tate, who Javi knew and loved, was carefree, always laughing, the happiest and sweetest mom. She worked two jobs to keep her little house and take care of her only son. And in her free time she made magic on the piano, a gift she passed down to Tate.

     Javi drops his head into his hand, his elbow balanced on the table. "There was a man," he says, his voice muffled by his palm. "And he promised to make it go away. He made me a lot of promises. And when it was time to leave...it was easier to cut everyone out of my life. I couldn't do it otherwise."

     Javi stares at Marg and he wants to tell her the rest. The ugly truths. He wants to say, I thought about coming back all the time. I thought about reaching out. But there were things — things I did. I didn't want anyone to see me, to see what I'd become.

      To see what I'd let someone do to me.