Chapter Seventy Seven - Jackson's New Start

The afternoon light bled softly through the bedroom blinds, painting long golden stripes across the hardwood floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the sunbeams, like time itself had slowed for this moment. His duffel bag lay open on the bed—an old navy-blue thing with a busted zipper on one side and a patch sewn where a tear had once been. It was the same bag he'd used for football camp in middle school. The same one he hadn't touched in over a year.

Now it was for something he didn't exactly want to do.

But he knew it was for the best.

Jackson stood at his dresser, pulling out clothes one drawer at a time—shirts, sweatpants, socks bundled into messy balls. He paused on a faded hoodie with a cracked print of an old band logo across the chest. He'd worn it the first time he'd kissed Ashley. He stared at it for a second longer before folding it slowly and laying it gently in the bag, like it might break if he handled it too fast.

Aura sat cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, folding laundry in a silent rhythm. She was methodical, her fingers neat and quick, folding each item like it was a ritual she had performed a thousand times. There was a small crease between her eyebrows—worry, or maybe concentration. Probably both.

"You don't need to bring that many sweatshirt." she laughed softly, nodding toward the growing stack on the bed. "You're only going for eight weeks, not living off the grid forever."

Jackson smirked but didn't look away from the drawer. "Yeah, well. I don't know what I'll want to wear when I'm... detoxing from life."

Aura didn't laugh, but she smiled. Quietly.

The room smelled faintly of detergent and something lemony—Camila had washed everything for him, even though he hadn't asked. She'd done it this morning, without saying a word.

"You'll be okay, right?" Aura asked after a pause, her voice soft but steady. "Like... really okay? Over the summer?"

Jackson stopped what he was doing. He rested his hands on the edge of the dresser and stared down at his reflection in the mirror. His curls were tied back messily, and his eyes looked tired—but clearer than they had in months. "I think so." he said after a moment. "I mean, I hope so. This is a step in the right direction."

He turned around to face her, rubbing the back of his neck. "I need this. Like... really need this."

Aura nodded and picked up another shirt, smoothing it out across her knees. "I'm glad you're going."

There was a moment of silence, thick and charged with everything they weren't saying. Jackson sat down on the edge of the bed, the duffel bag between them. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"I told Ashley." he said, almost like a confession.

Aura blinked. "You did?"

"Yeah. Couple nights ago. I called her when I couldn't sleep." He let out a breath, then looked at Aura with something close to disbelief. "She didn't even hesitate. She said she's proud of me. That we'll work through it. Together."

Aura's lips lifted into a small, warm smile. "That sounds like her."

Jackson nodded. "She's sticking around. Says she wants to see who I am on the other side of all this."

"That's love. You're lucky to have her in this moment, most people probably would've ran away." Aura said, and she meant it.

He smiled faintly, that tired-boy softness on his face again. "I'm scared, though. Not of the rehab, really. But of what comes after. What if I come back and nothing feels different?"

Aura looked up at him, her expression calm. "Then you keep trying. You don't stop. That's what matters."

He looked down, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I just don't want to come back and still feel like I'm drowning."

Aura reached across the bag and touched his wrist. "You won't. And if you do... we'll be here. We'll help pull you up."

A long pause passed, filled only by the faint sounds of the house—Camila's footsteps in the hallway, the creak of a cabinet door downstairs, a car driving by outside.

Aura cleared her throat. "Are you going to repeat your school year?"

Jackson shook his head. "No. They've got this education program at the centre. Like, classes and tutoring and stuff. If I stay focused, I might be able to get my GPA back up. Maybe even avoid having to repeat."

"Really?" Aura's eyes widened a little. "That's... kind of amazing."

"Yeah," he said, and this time, there was a real note of hope in his voice. "I didn't think I'd get a second chance like that. I didn't want to repeat a year of school.."

Aura stood and brushed lint off her jeans. She walked over to his desk, where a framed picture of their whole family sat from a summer barbecue three years ago. Cody had his arm slung around Jackson, and everyone looked a little sweaty, a little sunburnt—but happy. Whole.

Even Harper smiling, which everyone knew was rare. 

She picked it up and handed it to him. "Here, take this."

Jackson looked down at the picture and let out a soft laugh. "What, so I don't forget what chaos looks like?"

"No." she said, bumping her shoulder into his. "So you remember who's waiting for you when you come home."

He stared at the photo for a long moment, then nodded and tucked it carefully between two folded sweatshirts in his bag.

Aura stepped back, her arms crossing gently over her chest. "You're doing something brave, Jacks."

"I don't feel brave." he murmured.

"You don't have to. Just be honest. And show up every day. That's enough."

He stood and zipped the duffel bag closed. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

Then, for a moment, Jackson just looked at his little sister. "Thanks for helping me pack."

"Always." she said, and there was no hesitation.

He took one long breath, then another, letting it settle in his chest. He wasn't fixed. Not yet. But something inside him—small, fragile—had started to shift.

The rehab centre sat tucked into the hills just almost outside of town, surrounded by dense pine trees and long gravel roads that curved away from the main highway like they were trying to hide. It didn't look like a hospital. It looked like a rustic retreat—clean white walls, tall windows, wildflower beds out front that buzzed with bees. A small sign read 'Glenwood Recovery Center'. Nothing fancy. Nothing intimidating.

Jackson sat in the backseat of the car, his duffel bag at his feet, earbuds dangling from around his neck even though he hadn't pressed play on anything the entire drive. His knee bounced restlessly. His fingers kept picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his hoodie. Every minute that passed felt like a countdown.

His dad drove. His mom sat in the passenger seat, her hands resting stiffly in her lap, her thumb rubbing over her wedding band again and again. No one had said much during the hour-long trip. It wasn't the kind of silence that came from tension. It was the kind that came from trying not to cry too early.

As the car turned into the centre's long driveway, a sudden stillness fell over the vehicle, like the moment had pressed pause on everything else in their lives.

Jackson looked up.

There were a few people outside, some staff in forest-green polos, some patients sitting under umbrellas at a picnic table, sipping coffee or reading. It all looked... normal. Not like the hellscape his brain had conjured during the sleepless nights leading up to this.

His dad put the car in park. No one moved right away.

"You want us to come in with you?" Camila asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jackson swallowed. His throat felt tight. "Just for a bit. Until I get checked in."

Thomas nodded and stepped out to grab the bag from the trunk. Jackson hesitated a beat longer before pushing open the door and stepping onto the gravel.

The air smelled like pine and sunlight. It should have been calming, but his stomach was a fist of nerves.

Inside, the front lobby was warm and welcoming—soft beige walls, a stone fireplace, oversized couches. A woman behind the front desk greeted them with a kind smile and asked for Jackson's name. His voice cracked slightly when he gave it, but she didn't blink. She simply passed him a clipboard of forms to sign, like this happened every day.

Because it did.

When the last box was ticked, the receptionist called over a young staff member named Will—mid-twenties, clean-shaven, calm energy. "I'll take you back to intake in a sec." Will said gently. "Take a moment with your family first."

Jackson turned around to face Camila and his dad. And suddenly, the weight of everything he hadn't said in the car sat heavy on his chest.

Camila stepped forward first, her eyes already wet. She reached up, cupping his face like she had when he was little, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks.

"I'm so proud of you." she whispered, her voice shaking. "You hear me? I am so proud of you, Jackson Baldwin. For choosing this. For facing it."

His throat tightened instantly. "I don't feel brave." he said, voice rough.

"You don't have to feel it to be it," she said. "Bravery doesn't always look like charging into battle. Sometimes it looks like packing a bag and showing up when it would be easier to disappear."

He laughed softly, just once, but it caught in his chest.

She hugged him then, arms wrapped tight, like she could shield him from the world for just one more second. And for a heartbeat, he let himself be small again, tucking his face into her shoulder like he used to after scraped knees and broken bones.

When she pulled back, her eyes were shining. "I want you to work hard. Talk. Really talk. Let them help you. Let yourself heal, Jacks. We'll be here when you come back."

He nodded, too choked up to speak. His dad stepped forward next, gripping his shoulder.

"We're proud of you, Jacks." he said, his voice low and steady. "It takes guts to admit you need help. Don't waste this chance, alright? Some kids don't even get to this point."

Jackson nodded again, harder this time.

"I'll write." Camila promised. "Every week, okay?"

Will gave a gentle nod from the hallway. "You ready, Jackson?"

Jackson turned to look at his parents one last time. Camila wiped her tears but didn't hide them. His dad stood tall, steady, but his eyes were misted too.

He picked up his duffel bag and threw it over his shoulder.

"Yeah." he said. "I'm ready."

And with that, he followed Will down the hallway—toward the unknown, toward the hard work, toward the version of himself he hoped was waiting somewhere on the other side