Signed, Meg D, with a messy sketch of a heart.

It was simple, and easy, and familiar.

He had to go.

Jack stared at his case and remembered Meg, her fierce smile on the field, the way he’d kissed her, her smell of cocoa butter and cream and turf, the way she looked like her mom.

Deb’s big hugs, and Jason tinkering, forgetting that Jack wasn’t one of their children, not really. Frank, patting him on the back with pride, and Quinn, studying and planning and working so hard against his own fear, because he knew down to his socks that he loved Dare and didn’t want to wait one more moment.

The life he’d always wanted. The success and the affection. The family that, no matter how hard he tried, wasn’t really his. Not yet.

And it was too early, and he was too young, but he thought—he thought it would be nice, someday, to have kids who looked like Meg, who maybe looked a little like him. Kids who’d never grow up the way he—

He couldn’t have that here.

He looked around the apartment, taking in all the details: the patch of damp plaster in the corner that never seemed to dry, the pokey little bathroom with the cracked mirror, the kitchenette stocked with his favorite cookies. The record player, the stack of LPs. The blue cotton sheets, serviceable, almost soft enough. The little tin of pomade, down to the last few drops.

The sound of feathers rustling, the lingering smell of hash.

Looking at it now, it almost reminded him of—

It wasn’t anything like the life he’d imagined for himself. This little apartment was just too close to the way he—the place he—

And so what, if he really wanted—if he wanted to have—

He thought back to a night in early July, when they’d danced straight through to sunrise, talking utter nonsense, laughing, sitting on the front stoop and chain smoking. It had been a beautiful night, and he’d felt purged, like every drop of sweat was an asperges, the salt-slick wiping away his sins. They’d talked about a lot of things, and without really thinking about it, Jack had slurred out, “Do you wanna have kids, d’you think?”

Theo laughed. “Fuck no.” He leaned back against the stoop, looking up at the fading darkness. “What would I have to pass on? No.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, waited five seconds, lit another. “Let the line die with me. Here lies Theodore Alexander Beaumont.” He gestured broadly. “Good fucking riddance.”

It had made sense, at the time. Maybe—maybe they were both too broken.

He thought of Theo, his tousled hair, his smooth skin, his nasty looks, the way he smelled—the fine trembling in him, his legs and hands, and the way he kissed. The way he loved him, maybe, but it wasn’t—it wouldn’t be—

Was it really enough? Enough to make a life out of?

His whole body was screaming at him, saying yes, yes—