WAKE (Wattpad edition)

42. Ledge.

{Cary}

It took some time to find Jon—long enough that Cary's hands started to sweat and there was an edge to his voice as he called Jon's name around the farm. One of Tru's collies dogged his heels as he went from one building to the next.

Finally he heard a response, faintly, from the loft of a vast old barn. "Up here."

Cary blinked in the darkness, waiting by the door for his eyes to adjust and breathing in the smell of straw dust and diesel. Machinery hulked in the dim corners, and empty stalls lined one side. He found the ladder and clambered up into a spacious, straw-mounded loft as sparrows chattered in the roof beams, protesting his invasion.

"Jon?"

"Here."

Cary saw him then, a shadow against the sunlight, folded in the corner of the window overlooking the yard. He carefully picked his way over the floorboards, kicking the straw aside to check for holes or gaps, none too confident the boards would hold his weight. His heart climbed into his throat as he realized the window was just a framed opening, no pane of glass, and a long drop to the ground. He lowered himself cautiously onto the sill, shooting sideways glances at his friend. Years of escaping to his rooftop had left him unafraid of heights, but wary of a fall. He'd tried to get to Gazebo Park that way once, straight down to a broken leg like an idiot.

Jon was hugging his knees to his chest, his face almost white in the glare of the sun.

"We can stay," Cary said. "For the week."

Jon turned his head toward him, shadows deepening the lines around his downturned mouth. "Thanks." He dragged a sleeve over his nose. "For going out of your way for me. You didn't have to do that."

Cary shrugged, fishing in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. He eyed the straw-filled loft behind them and thought better of it. "Figure I'll take you home Monday. When I go to talk at the trial."

Jon let out a shaky breath. "Sure. Makes sense."

Studying him, Cary felt his eyebrows pinch in a worried frown. "Did your dad...?" He saw Jon hunch and tried to soften his words. He was starting to get how rare it was for Jon to tell the truth—how he hid the most vulnerable parts of himself behind a smile. "Did Pete say something to you? You told Tru your parents don't want you back, but—I think they do."

Jon put his knuckles against his mouth, lifting his eyes to the swallows swooping effortlessly through the air, to and from the row of mud nests tucked under the overhanging barn roof. "They want...a good son," he said finally. "With no fucked-up bits sticking out of the mold. Judah, I guess." He shrugged and smiled, the lines around his mouth and eyes pulling tight. "Not me."

Cary suddenly went cold. In the indigo shadows, Jon was insubstantial as a sketch of a person, the angles of his folded body jutting in the too-large clothing. The cuts on his arm were blurry black lines. He looked like someone being erased. "What's wrong with you?" The urgency of his question made Jon's face flinch, and he bent his head so Cary couldn't see it anymore.

"Look at me," Jon said in a low voice. "Cary. I'm a fucking mess."

"I was a mess," Cary said. "When I came to your house."

Jon lifted his hands like he would fend off this conversation. "You're not their son." For a second, Jon met Cary's eyes, his expression raw and open to the bottom. Cary frowned back at him, trying to understand. "Look—when my dad looks at you, he sees you. The stuff that's good and the stuff that's messed up—what you need and how you're feeling. He just...accepts all that. When my dad looks at me—" Jon shoved his hands against his front, his voice roughening. "—he sees his son. He sees everything he hopes and expects for his son, and what he wants his son to do and be. He doesn't see—me." He turned his head to the side, rubbing the heel of one hand into his eye. "He hasn't for years."