Javi wakes for the second time that morning in his bed. He's sweat through his clothes and drenched his sheets. He still feels tired when he sits up, pushing his hair off of his sticky forehead. It's hot in his room but not so hot he should be sweating this profusely.

     It takes all the effort to get to the shower. He's dizzy the moment he stands, and almost has to crawl down the hallway. He has to stop and brace himself against the wall and then the door and then the sink.

     He feels like he's running a fever. He turns on the cold water and splashes it on his face. He's surprised when he gags. He hopes he's not going to throw up again. When his dad had woke him on the back porch, he'd made him eat some toast and take his morning medicine before he left for work. Oscar told Javi he could stay home, but he expected him to call and check in. Javi had gone back to sleep shortly after that.

     He doesn't throw up, just belches loudly, and the dizziness weans enough that he's able to run a cool shower and wash the stale sweat off of himself. He feels a little better, is slow to dry off and change into some linen shorts and a similar button up. The fabric is light and airy, which he needs thanks to his newfound sweating problem.

     Javi is surprised by the sudden onslaught of hunger. He looks through the fridge but there's only ingredients, nothing quick to eat. The hunger makes him violently nauseous. He eats a handful of shredded mozzarella before leaving the house.

     His mom's car is still parked outside the garage. It hasn't moved since he got there. He can't drive it though, not today, maybe not ever, so he goes into the garage and takes out his old bike. The tire's flat but there's a manual pump that he uses to fill it. He can already feel the sweat dripping down his back.

     He thinks briefly that maybe his body's rejecting his medication. Maybe it's making him sicker. His doctor told him he had to be rigid with taking it, that he shouldn't stop for any reason, and to consult her if he was having problems. He doesn't feel like this reaction requires medical attention but he also doesn't feel quite right.

     It's a short ride to the 7/11 where he buys a Blue Raspberry slushee, and a s'mores pop tart. It's enough to tide him over.

     He rides to Tate's house next, knowing that he shouldn't, that he has no business doing so, but unable to stop himself. He wasn't there for any of his own mom's last moments, and he won't make that mistake with Margie.

     Especially since she smiles when he walks up, raising her hand and flicking her wrist to say come in from behind the screen door. "It's a nice day," he says to her. "I thought we'd take a walk."

     Margie smiles again and nods, so Javi gets behind her and pushes her out of the house and down the ramp off of the side of the porch. He's careful as he brings her down the drive towards the road. There's no sidewalk, but the dirt road is so dry it's smooth enough to push her with little resistance.

     "You don't talk as much," Javi finds himself saying. He regrets it immediately, wondering if it's insensitive.

     "I don't like to," Margie answers quietly, her words coming out stilted. "It's hard now. I feel like. You can tell. That I'm not well."

     "And that bothers you?" She nods. Javi says, "Not being well's not a good reason not to do something."

     Margie shrugs. Javi says, "I'm not well, either."

     This piques her interest. "No?" she asks.

     Javi sighs. "No, not for a long time."

     "Is that why you came home?"

     "I would've came home sooner," Javi says truthfully, his voice trembling. This is a truth that hurts to admit. "I didn't know about my mom until it was too late."

     "People reached out to you. I know Tate did."

     Javi stops pushing so he can wipe his eyes. He's not even sure if it's sweat or tears at this point. Margie takes control of the wheels, turning her wheelchair around to face Javi. Her expression says her comment was more of a question.

     He clears his throat and says, "I was on a psychiatric hold. I didn't have access to my cell phone."

      Margie's expression changes, her eyebrows stitching together. He's surprised when she locks the wheels and pushes herself slowly to her feet. She opens her arms to him. He hesitates, more out of surprise than anything, and then he accepts her hug, sinking into her arms, needing it more than he realized.

     She's small now, so frail that he's afraid to hold her too tight. Suddenly Javi's crying and he can't stop.

     "It's okay," Margie says gently. "She knows. She forgives you."

❂

     Tate is disappointed when he shows up for work and Javi isn't there. Not because he wants to see Javi but because he likes having a place to put all the anger that's festered. He doesn't want to unleash it on people who played no part in it.

     He's surprised that Oscar's already let him off the hook, one day in. It's not like Oscar. He was always strict with Javi about work, about honoring his commitments. Tate figures none of those lessons really stuck, though.

     He isn't thinking when he looks to Oscar and asks, "No Javi today?"

     Oscar fixes him with a discerning look. "He had a late night," he says.

     Tate falters, mumbling an oh before he walks away quickly. There's no way that Javi told Oscar he'd gone there last night, but the way Oscar answered makes Tate think he somehow knew Tate had been there last night.

     It's their last day with this contract, so they're the doing finishing touches. Benny and him are carrying a sheet of glass inside for the shower door. Benny's fucking around though, tilting the thing into Tate, leaving him with most of the weight.

     "Tell me about Oscar's son," Benny says when Tate snaps at him.

     "There's nothing to tell," Tate says. "Will you focus? You're gonna drop this thing and then I'm gonna kill you."

     "Oscar never even mentioned having a son," Benny says shaking his head. "That old bastard. Why would he keep something like that from us?"

     "Don't call him that," Tate snaps. "You know Oscar's private."

     "Oscar tells it like it is, though. Having a son should've come up. Unless he was actively avoiding it."

     "Well what does it matter if he was? It's none of your business."

     "Yeah but you know things."

     "I don't know anything."

     "You said you two were friends."

     "Benny, Jesus, drop it."

     "I'll drop it alright," Benny says tilting the glass again. "I'll drop this whole damn thing."

     Tate glares at him as they squeeze into the bathroom and set the fiber glass down, leaning it against the wall carefully. "He left," Tate says simply. "He packed up, he left in the night, and he cut off all communication. He ghosted everyone in this town. That's all there is to tell."

     "Damn," Benny says. "That's cold. Why'd he do Oscar dirty like that?"

     "I couldn't tell you," Tate grumbles. "Now can we get to work?"

     "Well what's your deal with him?"

     "I don't have a deal with him," Tate snaps, too quickly.

     Benny makes a face and mutters, "Sureee you don't."

     Tate is fine to leave it at that even though he knows Benny suspects there's more to the story. There is but he's not in the business of rehashing it. Tate spent years reliving the last four summers of his childhood, trying to understand how some of the best moments of his life could have led to the worst.

     He doesn't want to think about it anymore because it just hurts too much.

❂

     When Javi brings Margie back home, she insists he have some sweet tea with her on the back porch. He has nowhere else to be so he obliges. Margie rolls herself out onto the porch while Javi moves around Tate's kitchen, grabbing glasses from the cupboard.

     He can tell this is Tate's kitchen and that reasons he can tell that make him sad. Reminders of the Tate he was best friends with lurk in every corner. The half bag of pretzels folded on to the counter and nectarines hanging from a crochet'd hammock beside them, his favorite snacks.

     The fridge is full of meat, ground beef, turkey, cold cuts. There's no vegetables because Tate never liked them. The glass pitcher of tea is on the top shelf, next to a stack of Sprite cans. Javi pulls the pitcher out and sends his dad a text.

     Checking in. I'm at Margie's.

     After he pours two glasses, he gets a text back. He reads it while putting the pitcher away.

     You mean Tate's.

     Well, yes, he types back. But I'm here with Margie.

     He takes the glasses outside and hands the special cup to Margie. Her hands are trembling but she accepts it with ease, holding it in her lap. Javi takes a seat next to her in one of the wicker chairs. He recognizes them from their old house.

     "What happened to your old house?" Javi asks, looking at Margie curiously.

     Margie frowns, before taking a long drink from her cup. Some tea spills out of the side of her mouth and down over her chin. She leaves it. "Foreclosed," she says finally.

     Javi winces. "I'm sorry," he says and she shrugs.

     "Without struggle," she responds slowly. "We're nothing."

     Maybe, Javi thinks but he also thinks he's tired of struggling. The hardest thing he ever did may also be the thing that he'll regret for the rest of his life. It may be the worst thing he's ever done. But he's also sure it's the thing that saved his parents from financial ruin.

     And now all he's left with is struggle. It shouldn't be this hard, trying to stay.

     There's a soft wind coming through that makes the heat a bit more bearable but Javi can feel the sweat dripping down his chest. He tries to ignore it. He's never been this affected by heat before, but maybe he's just not used to being home and back in the humidity.

     He's surveying the backyard, and is surprised by the state of Margie's garden. She, like his mother, had an affinity for it and kept a beautiful garden. Now it was a hack job of a mess. He says, "Your gardens in desperate need of TLC."

     Margie laughs, nodding. "Tate's doing."

     Makes sense, Javi thinks. Tate was never any good with the outdoors. Back when they younger and had chores, Javi and Tate would tackle them together. Tate would put away dishes or do the dusting and Javi would do the yard work.

     Javi sets down his glass and walks down the steps, heading towards her flower beds. They need proper tending but he can at least get some of the weeds out now. He gets on his knees, pulling the weeds out by hand.

     It's even hotter without the roof over him and he starts feeling dizzy again. He ignores, taking deep breaths through his mouth. What starts as some weeding, quickly escalates. He finds himself rummaging through Tate's shed, pulling out gardening tools and getting to work.

     He has to see this through. He can't stop and he doesn't want to. Not until his body forces him.

❂

     The last day of a contract always moves quickly. They finish up early, and Tate's more than ready to go home, eat a hefty dinner, shower, and slide into bed. He calls in an order at Ruthie's barbecue and picks it up on his way home.

     He drives up and parks next to Pepper's car. He gets out, reaching in for the two bags of food. He always gets enough to last a few days. He hates cooking and would avoid it all costs if he could. It's really out of necessity that he can make himself anything.

     He's surprised when he starts up the porch and sees Javi's bike resting against the railing. Surprised and then instantly pissed off. What is he still doing here? The least he could do is be gone by the time Tate gets home.

     He grinds his jaw and storms into the house, ready to start a fight. There's no one to fight with, though. At least not Javi because he's lying on the couch, seemingly unconscious, and Pepper's starting an IV on him.

     "What the hell?" Tate drops his bags at the door and rushes over.

     "He's had multiple syncopal episodes," Pepper says but she can't be talking to Tate because he has no idea what that means. "He's diaphoretic and hypotensive. And his blood sugar's fifty-six."

     "What does any of that mean? Is he going to die?"

     Tate is dizzy now, the room spinning. He crouches by the couch because at least it's a shorter distance to the floor if he passes out. A hot prickly sensation rushes up his spine and over his skull, pulsing to his brain. He may hate Javi but he can't die. They're not finished.

    Pepper is calm as she tapes down his IV and squeezes the bag, forcing the fluids into him. There's a wet rag on Javi's forehead and Tate can't tell if that's sweat or water dripping down his head.

     "He's not going to die," Pepper says frankly. "He was out in the heat too long." Pepper stands, still holding the bag, but now out to Tate. "Here, hold this for a second."

      Tate takes it, shifting so he's sitting on the edge of the couch by Javi's feet. Margie is as white a sheet and staring intensely at Javi. "My fault," she says dreadfully.

     Tate is too taken aback by her speaking to tell her it isn't. He's not sure how it could be. He doesn't have a chance to ask though, as Javi rouses slowly.

     "I should call Oscar," Tate realizes, thinking aloud.

     When Javi's eyes are fully open, they dart back and forth. He's clearly confused. Javi looks down at his arm and overreacts, shocking Tate when he rips the IV right out. Blood spurts out of the wound and spreads like paint thinner down his arm and along the floor. Tate audibly gags before his instinct rears its head and he clamps a hand down on Javi's arm, holding firm pressure.

     "Let me go," Javi demands, his voice sluggish.

     "Stop," Tate snaps reaching for his jaw and holding his face still, forcing eye contact. "Javi, look at me. Stop fighting."

     Javi looks so distressed Tate can't stomach it. He's reacting like a stuck pig, like he's up next for slaughter. There's real fear in his eyes. Maybe that's all it is. That he doesn't remember what's happened and he's just scared.

     "It's okay," Tate says softly. "You're okay."

     He's panting still but he nods, understanding Tate. "Just calm down," Tate says anyway, hoping that'll get the fear off of his face.

     Pepper walks back in the room then, with a plate of Tate's pretzels and a peeled nectarine. "What the heck? That was a perfect line."

     She sets the plate down on the coffee table and crouches by her medical bag, pulling out gauze and a bottle of saline.

     Javi is mumbling something incoherent at first and then he springs forward, sitting up, and says, "I have to go."

     "Take it easy," Tate instructs still holding pressure where Javi ripped out his IV. "Don't move so quickly."

     "Mm fine," Javi mumbles. "I'm fine."

     "You're not fine," Tate snaps loudly. Everyone quiets, turning to look at him. He sighs, annoyed. "You're clearly not fine."

     This is so like Javi. He comes home and all Tate wants is to be pissed at him. But he's sick, in some way that Tate hasn't figured out and can't fathom. But it's getting in the way of his anger and that's just making him angrier.

❂

     It's humiliating.

     After the initial fear and lack of awareness wears off, Javi is left lying on the couch as this girl he does not know cleans up his arm. His hands are shaking from the nerves. He can't stop it and she's definitely noticed, Tate's noticed, hell Margie probably noticed.

     He wishes he could die from embarrassment. "The IV," the girl says. "That you so recklessly pulled out, was supposed to give you fluids and sugar."

     "Sorry," Javi mumbles. 

     He doesn't know why he'd reacted that way. When he came to, it felt like that moment in the hospital when he woke and realized he was still alive. How quickly he became a trapped animal.

     When you try to die and you don't, it becomes everyone's sole mission to keep you alive. Before anyone knew he wanted to die, nobody cared. He'd seen doctors for depression and they never took him seriously. Now he was taken so seriously he was strapped down to a hospital bed and treated like a threat to himself and everyone around him.

     That was what he felt when he woke on Tate's couch. It was a debilitating type of fear. He hadn't pulled the IV out to be an asshole, he just knew what it was like for someone to have free access to pump him with whatever drugs they wanted. He'd spent the first three days after his attempt mildly sedated.

     Tate holds the plate out to Javi. "Eat," he commands so Javi listens.

     After Pepper cleans up his arm and bandages it, she checks his sugar. It's up to 74. "Better," she says. "But you need a meal soon. Some complex carbs to stabilize your sugar."

     Javi clears his throat. "What happened?" he asks, his question pointed to Margie who he's looking at.

     Margie's pale and her eyes are bloodshot. He can see the tremors moving up her arms. It looks like she's continuously flinching, the muscles twitching in her shoulders. She shakes her head. "You went down," she says finally. "I couldn't do anything."

     Javi nods. Tate is staring at his mom like she grew a second head. "I couldn't do anything," she repeats dropping her chin to her chest.

     Pepper clears her throat and says, "You were lying in the garden when I got here, knocked out. You came to a little bit, I got you into the kitchen and then you passed out again. Came to, got you to the couch and you knocked out again."

     Tate makes a weird sound. "Is that normal? To pass out that much?"

     Javi sits up, swinging his legs onto the floor and pushing the empty plate onto the coffee table. Pepper says, "I mean it's not normal. But given his vitals, it made sense."

     "I'm sorry, who are you?" Javi interrupts, slightly offended she's just flagrantly talking about him, but trying not to sound offended since she did help him.

     "This is Pepper, my mom's nurse," Tate tells him.

     She's a nurse. This makes sense now. "Well, thank you for your help," Javi says tightly. "I need to go."

     Javi stands and is disheartened to find he's not completely better. He sits back down, everyone's eyes still on him. "I need to go in a minute," he mumbles.

     "Hospital," Margie says.

     Javi's head shoots up, already shaking profusely. "No hospital."

     "She's right. I think you need to go to the hospital," Tate agrees.

     "No," Javi says sternly. He looks at Margie, feeling like a child again. His voice is pleading when he says, "No."

     He hears a voice in his head telling him to suck it up. The voice sharpens and he recognizes it to not be his own but Montgomery's.

     I know you like humiliation, but now you're just embarrassing me.

     Stand up. Pretend you're fine and eventually you will be. Nobody cares if you aren't actually. It's all about about perception, Javi.

     Javi swallows. He stands. He feels like the floors not under him but he pretends it is, wiping his palms on his thighs. "I'm feeling much better," he says, his words tight. He loosens up. He can't sell this otherwise. "Thank you again for your help," he says to Pepper.

     "Goodnight, Margie," he says to Tate's mom and then he steps past Tate. "Sorry for intruding," he tells him, keeping his voice low so only Tate will hear him as he walks away. Nobody tries to stop him.

     The nights cooled down and the breeze is refreshing. He gets a few more steps before he has to stop, reaching for one of the porch's posts. He takes a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

     Who knew you were such a weak bastard.

     He startles at the sound of the door behind him. The footsteps that follow are heavy. Tate is beside him, picking up his bike with one arm. He doesn't say a word, brushing past Javi, walking down the steps quickly. He tosses Javi's bike into the bed of his truck a bit violently.

     "Let's go," he snaps at Javi.

     "I don't need your help," Javi says weakly.

     Tate opens the driver's door. "I won't tell you again."

     The drive is tense and Tate is going ridiculously slow. He's moving slow enough that Javi could actually open the door and hop out without injury. And then he wouldn't have to be in this sort of purgatory of silence.

     "What was that back there?" Tate asks finally.

     "So we're talking now?"

     "Just answer the question, Javi."

     "What was what, Tate?" Something about this is funny to Javi and he's thankful it's dark in the cab because he's fighting back a smile.

     Tate hesitates and then asks, "Why'd you pass out?"

     "I don't know," Javi answers. "If I had to make a guess, dehydration. I've been sweating all day, I was out in the sun, and I vomited earlier. Probably electrolyte imbalance."

     "And what's with all the vomiting?"

     "Pregnancy," Javi answers sounding surly.

     Tate makes an annoyed sound. "I don't know why I would expect any type of honesty from you."

     Javi knows manipulation. Knows exactly the reverse psychology Tate's trying to pull on him. But he's been honest with everyone else — Oscar, Margie, himself. He owes Tate some of it. "My medication makes me sick. It's why I've been throwing up."

     Tate takes a long time to respond. "You're not going to tell me what the medications for."

     "I'm not going to tell you."

     The next question surprises Javi. "But you're not dying?"

    "Only the way everyone is," Javi answers and he's surprised when Tate laughs.

     "In some ways, you are exactly the same," Tate murmurs.

     Javi thinks but doesn't say, in the ways that matter the most, I hope. Because he does hope it but also knows no, not in the ways that matter. The good parts of him have all died.

     "You don't have to be nice to me because I passed out in your house."

     "I'm not being nice to you."

     "Okay."

     "I still hate you."

     "Good."