Page 73 of Scout

It feels like a different lifetime. A version of us that existed in some alternate universe where none of this ever happened. Where Juniper still had a mom. Where I still had two people who made me feel… loved.

And not so alone.

I don’t even know what I want from them. An apology? An explanation? Or maybe just a moment where I don’t feel like I’m carrying the world by myself.

Because right now…

God, right now I just want someone to sit beside me on this couch and remind me that I’m still allowed to want things. That I’m not just a big brother and a legal guardian and a trauma checklist wrapped in skin.

I’m still me.

A version of me, anyway.

And maybe that version is allowed to miss the people who made him feel like he mattered.

27

Xavier

I don’t even knowwhy I’m staring at the grocery app this long.

Kendrix walks into the living room, towel slung around his neck from a post-run shower. “What’re you doing?”

“Ordering groceries,” I say without looking up. “For Scout. And Juniper.”

He pauses. “You think he’ll be okay with that?”

I shrug. “Probably not. But it’s not about what he’s okay with. It’s about what he needs.”

Kendrix nods slowly, watching me from across the room. “You want me to help pick stuff?”

“I’ve got it covered.” I glance up. “You’d probably just add candy and frozen chicken nuggets.”

“Juniper would approve.”

“Exactly why you’re not allowed near this order.”

He huffs a laugh but doesn’t argue.

I scroll, adding everything I think a preteen girl might want: Fruit-By-The-Foot, Gushers, strawberry Pop-Tarts, granola bars, Dr. Pepper, and two kinds of cereal—because who wantsto eat the same cereal every morning? I throw in easy dinners for Scout, too. Stuff that won’t spoil fast, that won’t need much effort, because I know him—he’ll skip meals before he skips out on taking care of her.

I hover over the checkout button before I hit it and add Scout’s address for delivery.

Next, I switch apps. Dinner. I want to send something warm. Comforting. But not something that’ll fall apart in transit. Chinese feels safest. It holds heat. Won’t get soggy or weird. It’s familiar and filling.

My lips twitch as I remember Juniper in that hospital bed—bandaged up, bossy as hell, side-eyeing her brother when he suggested delivery. “The bread gets soggy, Scout.” She was dead serious, too. No jokes in that girl’s Dr. Pepper-fueled rage.

That girl’s got more fire in her than most adults I know.

I add an extra egg roll and place the order.

He’ll know it’s from me. From us. There’s no one else it could be. But I don’t add a note.

It’s not about credit. It’s about presence.

I haven’t heardfrom Scout yet. And I know everything was delivered over two hours ago.

Groceries. Takeout. Little things that might help.