Don't Go by L.J. Breedlove (series like harry potter txt) 📕

have done DACA before Trump. That had been a step forward — really just a Band-Aid for these kids who were in limbo — not accepted by the country they grew up in and no ties to the country they were born in. And now Trump had gutted DACA, putting admissions on hold in spite of court orders.

Ryan wondered where Teresa had gone. He wondered why she would come to him now, when she hadn’t when Rafael was born. He wondered how she’d been, if she’d missed him as much as he’d missed her. He hoped she was safe wherever she was, but he wished she’d trusted him enough to stay with him. He wondered why she hadn’t.

Mostly, he wondered why she’d trust him now. He’d been pretty messed up when she’d left him. Hell, he still was messed up. But at least he was clean. Drug free, alcohol free, 1,000 days soon. He would take up Dr. Clarke’s offer to talk, he thought. He wouldn’t go with the Reverend to get J.J., but he’d call Dr. Clarke. Ironic that J.J. had ended up in the care of the woman who’d been so instrumental in his own recovery.

He really didn’t recall a lot of the details of those first two years of college. The parties, the cocaine, the alcohol, the sex. Eyewitness News had saved him really. He and Emily and Cage had arrived there at the same time, as sophomores, trying it out. And it had become a home he didn’t know he’d needed. The editors all had to put up with a lot of his shit, he thought looking back. But they’d persevered with him. He had wondered why then, but now, he knew them as friends, and knew their stories. They’d gone through shit of their own, and someone had been there for them. Pass it on, they told him. Pay it forward.

So, he did. And he would with J.J.

He thought about Cooper noticing the tension with McShane, and he grimaced. You bet there’s tension, he thought. If McShane ended up dead someday, Ryan would be on the short list of suspects. But he could deal. He had little choice.

He shut down that train of thought. He would deal with his own history another day. Perhaps with Dr. Clarke, who already knew some of it.

But right now?

He had a son.

He got up off the floor and got undressed for bed. He hesitated, deciding that some exercise shorts and a T-shirt might be good to sleep in. Sleep came quickly, somewhat to his surprise. He just had time to think about what a strange household the Washingtons were creating here, and he was out.

Chapter 5

6 a.m. Wednesday, the Washington home — Ryan woke up to the soft sounds of his phone alarm and to a warm body cradled up against him. Rafael had apparently woken in the night, crawled in bed with him, and fallen back asleep. Something woke inside him as Ryan cuddled the little boy against his chest. There was something precious about the little boy’s trust.

A knock on the door, and Rev. Washington stuck his head in. He saw the two and smiled. “They’re like that at that age,” he said softly, and then he chuckled. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Pretty soon they’re six-foot-three and too big to cuddle.”

Ryan smiled back. “Hey, hijo,” he said softly. “Time to get up. Breakfast. Desayuno.”

Rafael opened his eyes, looked blank a minute and then smiled. “¿Papá?” he said. “¿Dónde mamá? ¿Vamos a hoy?”

“No, no mamá  hoy,” Ryan said. His heart broke for Rafael, and, he realized, for himself. He’d like to go find Teresa, too. “But breakfast? And Mrs. Washington? OK?”

“OK,” Rafael agreed. He climbed out of bed.

“How about you come with me, young man, and get cleaned up for breakfast?” Rev. Washington said, and held out his hand. Rafael took it obediently. The Reverend looked at Ryan. “We’ll use the downstairs bathroom; you can shower and such up here.”

Ryan nodded, and waited until the door closed, before getting up. Add that to the long list of things he needed to learn, he thought ruefully. What does a little boy have to do to get ready for breakfast? Probably the same things as a big man did, he thought. But at three? Could he brush his teeth unassisted? Use the toilet? He hadn’t been wearing diapers, so he assumed that meant he was toilet trained. Showers?

Ryan padded over to the bathroom and went through his morning routines, more conscious of them, as he tried to translate them into the life of a toddler. He was more grateful than ever for the Washingtons’ generosity. What would he have done without them?

Something, he realized. He’d have figured out something. Emily probably would have had answers. She usually did. Someone would have known someone. It was those connections, that sense of community, that had kept him afloat before. Had kept others afloat. He was not alone.

He went downstairs, and his stomach growled at the smells of eggs and toast. “Can I help?” he asked, as he entered the kitchen.

Mrs. Washington smiled at him. “I’ll let you help with clean up,” she said. She dished up hashbrowns, scrambled eggs, toast. Rev. Washington was pouring orange juice into a sippy cup for Rafael. He said grace and started passing plates of food around.

“Martha tells me you’re staying here and leaving me to get J.J.,” Rev. Washington said.

Ryan blinked. “Oh!” he said. “I just realized. Your name is Martha Washington.” He reddened and apologized. “I’m sorry that was rude.”

Martha laughed, and reached over to squeeze her husband’s hand. “Not rude. You don’t know how long I dithered about keeping my own name when he proposed rather than face a lifetime of being teased about my new name.”

Her husband grinned back at her. “I persuaded her,” he said complacently.

Ryan laughed. He wanted this someday, he thought. Someday. “But yes, that will give you time to talk to J.J., and time for me to learn