Chapter Seventy Five - Rehab?

That Monday, Marcie's office smelled like lavender and something vaguely citrusy. The hum of a small white noise machine in the corner blended with the occasional chirp of students in the hallway beyond the door. It was warm, almost too warm, and Jackson immediately regretted keeping his hoodie on.

He dropped into the gray couch like a stone. Slouched. Fidgeting. Avoiding eye contact.

Marcie sat across from him in her usual chair—legs crossed, notebook closed in her lap, giving him space.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to, Jackson." she said gently. "We can sit in silence too. Some people find that more helpful than talking."

Jackson gave a quiet snort. "What, just stare at each other like we're in a cowboy movie?"

She smiled. "If that's what works."

He pulled at a loose thread on his sleeve. "I'm not good at this."

"There's no wrong way to be here."

He sighed and stared down at the floor. "I drink. A lot."

She didn't react. Just waited.

"I guess that's why they sent me here, right?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Got caught with a water bottle full of vodka in my bag. Stupid."

"Not stupid." Marcie said. "But it's a sign something bigger might be going on."

Jackson swallowed hard. His throat burned. "I drink before school sometimes. Mostly vodka. I steal the little bottles—my mom buys them in bulk now. Thinks they're harder to notice when one's gone."

Marcie's brow furrowed. "How often are you drinking, would you say?"

"Every day. Maybe... five, six times a day. Depends." He shifted. "Usually before school if I go, during lunch if I can sneak it, and after. It helps me stay... numb."

"Numb from what?"

"Everything."

Marcie's voice was soft, steady. "Tell me what 'everything' looks like."

He sighed. "My house is a mess. Not physically, like... emotionally. Harper's gone again—back at Warren. Mom says it's only temporary, that she'll be back but no one believes that. Aura won't talk about it. Harriet's suddenly all grown up and busy with her own crap with the police. Cody's in and out. And me?" He laughed bitterly. "I don't even know about me.."

Marcie tilted her head gently. "Do you visit Harper often?"

Jackson shook his head. "I used to. I can't anymore. Last time I went, she didn't even look at me. Just stared at the wall like I wasn't there. She just is struggling.. I can't blame her. She hasn't been the same since camp. She's empty, hollow.."

"That must hurt."

He didn't reply. Just scratched at a scar on his wrist—an old one, faded like a bad memory.

"How are things with your parents?" she asked gently.

Jackson gave a dry laugh. "You mean the ghost and the wreck?"

"Which is which?"

"Dad's the ghost. He's... there, but not really. He works too much. Avoids us. Mom's the wreck. Crying in the laundry room over everything that's happened. Always forgetting what day it is. She says she's okay, but I see her hands shake when she pours her wine during dinner."

"Does she know about the drinking?"

"Not really. I think part of her does, but she doesn't want to admit it. She's barely holding it together. I don't want to be one more thing that breaks her."

"What about your siblings?" Marcie asked. "You mentioned Aura and Cody and Harriet. Are you close with any of them?"

Jackson hesitated. "I am close with Aura. She gets me, you know.. "

"And Cody?"

Jackson shrugged. "He's just Cody.. My big brother who is rarely there now. He leaves every chance he gets."

Marcie was quiet, absorbing it all.

"I don't hate any of them." Jackson added, eyes wet. "I just feel... outside of everything."

"That sounds incredibly lonely."

"It is." he whispered. "And the drinking... it fills that gap. Makes me feel warm. Even if it's fake."

Marcie nodded slowly. "Jackson, what you're doing to survive right now—this drinking—it makes sense. Given everything. It's a coping mechanism. But it's not a safe one. And it's starting to take from you."

He didn't respond. Just nodded slightly, as if admitting it for the first time.

"There are programs, you know." she continued. "Designed for kids and teens. Rehab doesn't have to mean padded rooms and sterile halls. There are outpatient groups, counseling sessions with other kids your age—people who've been through similar things."

He looked up, surprised. "You think I need rehab?!"

"I think you deserve some help." she said gently. "And if this drinking feels bigger than you—if it's becoming something you can't stop even when you want to—then yes, that might be a step in the right direction."

He stared at his hands.

"You wouldn't be alone." she added. "And it doesn't mean you're broken. It means you're strong enough to ask for support."

Jackson blinked hard. "I don't know how to tell them. My mom. My dad. I don't think they'd even care."

"I really think they would." Marcie said. "But if you're scared, we can do it together. I can help you have that conversation. You don't have to carry this alone anymore."

He looked at her for the first time—really looked at her—and something cracked open in his chest.

"You really think there's a way out of this?"

"I do." she said softly. "And it starts with one honest step."

Jackson didn't say anything, but he nodded. Just once.

Later that night, the Baldwin house had never felt so heavy.

It was the kind of silence that pressed in from all sides—thick, stifling, not born from peace but exhaustion. The kitchen light buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the floor. Dinner was over. The dishes were drying in the rack. The leftovers had already been packed away, untouched by anyone but Aura.

Jackson stood in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the living room archway like it was a doorway to another life. One where he hadn't messed everything up. One where he could still be a kid.

But he wasn't anymore. Not really.

He took a shaky breath and stepped in.

His mom was curled into the corner of the couch under her threadbare knit blanket, one hand wrapped around a lukewarm mug of tea, the other absently scrolling through her phone. Her eyes were dull with fatigue, her cheek resting against her palm. His dad was slouched at the dining table, hunched over a spreadsheet on his laptop, his shirt still half-tucked from work, glasses slipping down his nose.

"Hey, mom, dad?" Jackson said quietly.

They both looked up—slowly, as if surfacing from water. Camila sat up straighter immediately, her senses alert, reading his tone with the practiced instinct of a mother who had seen too much change too quickly.

"Everything okay, hon?" she asked, voice cautious.

"Can we talk?" he said. "Like... actually talk."

Thomas shut his laptop with a soft snap and stood, the chair creaking beneath him. He joined Camila in the living room without saying a word. The way he moved—careful, braced—told Jackson he already knew this wasn't going to be a normal conversation.

Jackson sat down on the floor, cross-legged, facing them both. His heart was racing, palms slick with sweat. The weight of what he was about to do made his limbs feel heavy, like they were dragging chains behind them.

"I need to tell you something." he started. "And I need you to let me finish before you say anything."

Camila nodded immediately, her hand tightening around her mug. Thomas mirrored her stillness, folding his arms.

Jackson reached behind him and unzipped the front pocket of his school bag. He pulled out the bottle—small, clear, half-full of vodka. He didn't bother hiding it. Didn't try to sugarcoat it.

He placed it on the coffee table in front of them with a dull clink.

Camila froze. Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.

"I've been drinking, but you already know all that." Jackson said, his voice dry and distant, like he was reciting someone else's life. "Not just recently. Not just casually.—just little bottles from Grandpa's old cabinet. Thought it made me cooler. Made me sleep easier."

Thomas's expression didn't change, but Jackson noticed the slight twitch in his jaw, the way he clenched his hands just once before forcing them to relax.

"Lately, it's gotten worse. It's not just a thing I do at stupid parties or when I'm bored. It's every day now. Before school. During class. After dinner, sometimes before bed. It's... constant."

Camila blinked, her eyes glossy, fixed on the bottle like it might explain something she hadn't seen coming.

"I thought I could control it. That I was still being careful. But I stopped caring. And it got bad. Really bad."

He took a breath. His chest hurt from the pressure of trying not to cry.

"I spoke to Mrs. Calvert." he said. "She called me into her office about my attendance. My grades. And the drinking. She knows. So does my teachers. I'm failing every class. They said I'll probably have to repeat the year."

Camila let out a breath she'd clearly been holding. It wasn't disappointment. It was pain.

"And then I met with Marcie—the school counselor. She was nice. She didn't treat me like I was some kind of delinquent. She just... asked me why. And I told her the truth."

He swallowed hard. "That I drink because I don't know what else to do. Because it helps with all the noise. The grief. The guilt. My Grandma's been actually murdered, Harper being back at Warren, everything going to shit at home. I feel like I'm floating outside of everything. Or sinking. It changes day to day. I don't know what to do anymore.."

Thomas rubbed his hand over his mouth. "Jackson..."

"I know this isn't easy to hear." Jackson said, his voice cracking now. "But I don't want to keep going like this. I don't want to be numb anymore. I don't want to fake it."

Camila leaned forward, her eyes never leaving his. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

"I think I need help, like actual help." he said. "Real help. Not just a counselor once a week. Not just a pep talk. I think I need rehab or something. Somewhere for people like me."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was full of shock, yes—but also tenderness. It was the sound of two parents processing that their son, the boy they raised and worried over, was breaking open right in front of them. And trusting them to catch the pieces.

Camila moved first. She slid down off the couch to the floor, knees pressed into the rug, and reached for him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in close, pressing her face to his hair.

"You're so brave," she whispered. "So incredibly brave."

Jackson let himself fall into her hug. Really fall. No armor. No pretending. He buried his face in her shoulder and wept—big, heaving sobs that wracked his body and soaked her sweater.

He hadn't cried like this in years.