Out of the Shower, Into the Fire

Being led by the hand through the house he grew up in by a woman as incredible as Aynsley was beyond what Joey had ever imagined for his life. He used to cower in her presence, eyes fixed to the ground when she would pass in the school hallway. She was the kind of woman who knew her power and loved to throw it around.

Well, at least she used to be.

Joey wasn't entirely sure what kind of woman Aynsley was anymore. She seemed so different. Not just in her affection for him, which her behaviour implied was deep and profound. No, the biggest change was that her aggressive entitlement seemed to have vanished. In its place was an eager deferment to Madison, Aynsley's best friend. Where once there was a woman who would erupt if she wasn't given what she thought was her due, now stood a woman who was eager to please, happy to play along, enjoying life as an active participant in other people's lives rather than forcing people into her own.

She pulled Joey into his bedroom, the room where Bianca had slept the night before. The place was spotless. The girls must've put real effort into it—his clothes were folded, bed made, even his tangled mess of cords and chargers somehow looked... curated. There was a faint lavender scent in the air, fresh and clean, not overpowering.

"I told Madison you'd be impressed," Aynsley said proudly, turning toward the closet. "She said the flannel had to go, and she was right. God, she’s always right."

Joey stood there in just his towel, hair still wet, as Aynsley pulled open drawers and flipped through hangers like she'd been dressing him for years. And maybe from now on, she would be.

"This shirt," she said, holding up a deep forest green tee. "It makes your eyes look incredible."

He didn't argue. What did Joey know about fashion? Aynsley was not only hot, but an amazing dresser. Disagreeing with her fashion advice would be like a dung beetle telling a chef how to cook a steak. She helped him into it, smoothing it down over his chest. Her hands were gentle, affectionate, like he was something precious. She picked out jeans that fit a little snugger than he was used to—he'd always preferred baggy, loose stuff—but Aynsley cuffed the ankles and adjusted the hem until he looked, well... cool. In that moment he truly felt like someone with a girlfriend. Or several.

She stepped back and gave him a once-over.

"Perfect," she whispered, then stepped up to him until their toes touched, leaned over, and kissed him.

He kissed her back. It was soft and slow and kind, and when she pulled away, she looked at him like he was the sun.

"I love you, Joey Granger."

He blinked. Then nodded, barely thinking. "I love you too, Aynsley Cho."

And as the words left his mouth, he realized they weren't just reflex. He meant it. Or at least—he meant it right now. It was a complicated kind of love. But it was real.

She beamed. "I’ll go clean up the shower. Madison would kill me if we left a mess after we spent all that time cleaning it this morning."

She kissed him one more time, quick and sweet, then padded off barefoot down the hall.

Joey stood there for a second, absorbing it all. The smell of clean clothes. The shape of his body in the mirror. The weight of those words.

I love you too.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand. One new text. It was his dad.

"Hey bud. I don't really know how to say this, so I'll just say it. Your mom and I are having some problems. I've moved out and I'm staying with a work friend. Her name is Sarah. I'm sorry you're finding out like this—maybe we could talk soon?"

Joey's thumb hovered over the screen.

The words didn't even make sense at first. His dad had moved out? When? Why? And then the guilt hit him like a wave of nausea.

Of course his dad had moved out. This was his fault.

He sat on the edge of the bed, phone limp in his hand.

Joey hadn't meant to do it. Any of it. His mother, the girls at school, his teacher, Bianca, all of them were victims of his power, all of them forever changed by his inelegant execution of a responsibility that he probably should have never been given. And now his parents had broken up.

What did he expect? Looking down at the text, he felt stupid. Of course he would have left. Why would he stay? Joey was pretty sure he'd baked a rejection of his dad into his mom's new personality. How could he possibly have stayed?

It hadn't felt real at the time—his mom doting on him, his mom dressing up for him, his mom taking him to the hotel... Joey had told himself he wasn't hurting anyone, that in fact he was minimizing the damage that he had already done to his mother. And that it was okay, because she wanted it too.

But of course she wanted it. He made her want it. He twisted her mind until she looked at him not like a son—but like a man. He'd made her forget boundaries. Made her forget his father.

And now his poor dad—his dad, the man who'd never really connected with Joey, but was arguably a good man, who taught him to drive, who never missed a birthday—was living with some woman named Sarah. All because Joey had used his power without thinking.

His stomach churned. He felt like puking.

And the worst part?

The worst part?

Even if he could change his mother back, he didn't want to give her up.

He loved his mom. Not just loved her—wanted her. And she wanted him. And whatever they had now, it felt so much better, deeper, more intense than anything they'd ever had when things were "normal."

He had taken something sacred and broken it. Reformed it into something new. And now, looking at the price—his father's heartbreak, the wreckage of his family—he still couldn’t say he regretted it.

Not completely.

But maybe there was still something he could do.

Joey stood up, phone still in hand, and headed for the stairs.

He needed to talk to his mom.