Kyle came and went like black mold. Just when Harley thought they'd scrubbed him out of their lives for good, he'd seep back in through the cracks.
They'd break up, scream and claw at each other like rabid cats, slam doors, swear it was over for good—and then, a month later, Kyle would show up with his smarmy smile and a six-pack, like he'd been invited. Sometimes they weren't technically dating, just "hanging out," but the fights were just as loud, the fallout just as toxic.
It was endless. His mom would have other boyfriends during their breaks, and Harley was always hopeful that would be the end of Kyle. But no such luck.
It was, by far, the worst relationship his mom had ever been in. Worse than the guys who forgot his name. Worse than the ones who drank too much. Even the ones who hit him hadn't wormed their way into their lives with quite the same permanence. Kyle was a rot in the foundation, and Harley could feel the house starting to sink.
The last time she'd kicked him out had felt final. There had been venom in her voice, real hatred in her eyes. And Harley had dared to hope—for once, really hoped—that Kyle was gone for good.
Harley stepped onto the back porch as cicadas buzzed in the heat-heavy evening. The boards creaked beneath his boots. The yard had grown into a mess in his absence. And the kitchen screen door hung slightly off its hinge—he'd have to fix that this week.
He stepped in and set his bag on the floor, heading to the fridge, but he paused when he saw all the beer cans on the kitchen counter. He frowned.
He went to a cabinet to grab a glass to fill with water, but all the glasses were apparently in the sink, waiting to be washed.
The tv was blaring in the living room, the sounds of some game carried into the kitchen.
Okay. Who was here?
Harley crept to the door, hesitant to find out, but he could hear muttered voices under the tv—an unmistakable smug drawl.
Kyle.
Harley's heart started to pound in his chest. If that idiot was here making threats again—
Harley stepped into the living room and froze. His mother was curled on the threadbare couch with a glass of amber liquor in hand, eyes slightly glassy. Kyle was beside her, arm draped over the back of the couch like he lived there, like he belonged.
"Harley!" his mom called, too brightly, her smile too wide. "You're back! How was New York?"
"It was good," Harley replied cautiously, eyes fixed on Kyle. "Everything okay in here? I didn't expect to see him after that phone call."
Her smiled faltered. "What phone call?"
Kyle smirked, lifting his glass in a mock toast. "It's all good. I'm just catching up with your mom. Old friends and all."
Harley's jaw clenched. "Can I talk to you alone, mom?"
She rolled her eyes. "Not this again. Just say whatever you need to say, Harley." She sounded impatient, exasperated.
"Fine. Let's talk." He pointed at her. "Did you take something of his? A stash, maybe? Because he's been calling me all weekend, demanding payment and making threats."
Kyle had the audacity to grin, shaking his head as he took another swig of beer.
Harley groaned and scrubbed at his face. "I should've known as soon as I came in and saw the broken door and the beer cans in the kitchen. Now here he is, all cozy in our living room like the world's ugliest Goldilocks!"
His mother glared at Kyle. "You called him? You shouldn't have done that."
Kyle cleared his throat, still smirking at Harley. "It's all water under the bridge. She obviously paid up."
Harley had never wanted to strangle a person more in his life. His hands flexed at his sides and Kyle's grin deepened.
"What is it, limp-wrists?" Kyle sneered. "You gonna swing on me?"
"Leave him alone," his mother warned. And for a moment Harley wasn't sure who she was talking to.
He shook his head in disgust. "I'm going to the garage." With any luck, Kyle would be gone in the morning.
"You just got home!" she called after him, but he was already halfway out the door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame.
"Harley! Stop!" His mom shouted as she followed him out. "I haven't seen you in days. Come inside and talk. We can fix dinner together."
He spun around to face her. "Is he staying?"
She looked up, startled. "What?"
"Kyle. Is he staying here?"
She waved a hand. "He crashes here sometimes. It's not like we're back together."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Don't be like that, Harley." She sighed, pushing her hair back out of her face. "I know what I'm doing."
"You don't." Harley shook his head. "Jesus, Mom—do you even remember what it was like the last time you were together? And now he's back and everything's…fine?"
"I'm tired of being alone, of being sad and bored all the time. Kyle... he's fun. He makes me feel … alive. Like I'm not just wasting away in this house."
"Alive?" Harley's voice cracked with disbelief. "Mom, he's going to kill you!"
"He'd never hit me."
"You know that's not what I meant."
"I can handle it," she interrupted sharply. "I've been doing this a long time, Harley. I would've died ages ago if I didn't know what I was doing."
Harley laughed bitterly.
"Hey," Kyle called from the porch. "This crap is getting old."
Harley felt his teeth grate against each other. "I'm not talking to you, Kyle. I'm talking to my mom."
The man spat into the yard. "And you'd better stop if you know what's good for you. I've never heard of a boy trying to be in charge of his mom. Disrespectful. If you were mine you'd have been out on your rear ages ago."
Harley glared daggers at the man and then glanced at his mom to see that she was…silent. She wasn't going to defend him.
"We'll talk later when he's gone." Harley huffed quietly, shaking his head. Then he disappeared into his garage and didn't come out until it was time for bed.
Kyle didn't leave. He stuck around day after day just to be spiteful. It was torture. But Harley had plenty to distract him.
School was starting the next day. It was going to be a good year—junior year.
All sorts of things happened junior year. He'd take the SAT and ACT, and a few of the subject tests. He hadn't been able to afford to take those as a sophomore, so he was a little nervous. But he'd probably do fine. He'd tour a few colleges, fill out some applications, and figure out life.
He was ready.
His bag was already packed for the day ahead, sitting by the door with fresh notebooks and pens. He'd done a load of laundry and his clothes were laid out. His phone was charged.
He tried to focus that night, finishing a last bit of summer homework for an honors class while stooped over his desk. But the arguing started up around 10 p.m.
At first it was the usual—muffled voices, accusations bouncing down the hallway. Harley turned up the volume on his headphones. The fan hummed beside him. He tried to refocus on the novel he was analyzing.
But then a shout cut through everything, sharp and too close.
"Don't walk away from me like you're better than everyone else!"
Kyle.
Harley stiffened, shoulders curling in. He tugged his headphones down and listened. His mom snapped back, voice thick with drink and frustration. Something shattered—a glass maybe.
Harley stared at his old, unabridged copy of Les Misérables, and didn't move for a long time. The fight continued through the house.
After a while he glanced at his phone, wishing he could just text Pete about it. He wished he could talk to Tony. He wished he was there with Peter and Tony.
Harley didn't sleep for a long time that night. He could never sleep when there was fighting.
By morning, Harley had showered. Dressed. Eaten half a granola bar he didn't taste. He was exhausted, but kind of excited to finally be going back. He liked school.
He double-checked his backpack and ran through his mental checklist for the first day. Pens, phone, ID card. He was ready, everything was in order.
He would take the bus and leave the car with his mom in case she needed it.
But something was wrong.
The house was too quiet.
He stepped downstairs. The living room was a wreck—bottle caps on the coffee table, one of the throw pillows ripped at the seam. The silence wasn't peaceful. It was unnatural.
The bathroom door was cracked open. The lights were still on.
He found her on the floor—half-sprawled, pale, groaning. Her mascara was smudged in thick rings under her eyes. She was cradling her wrist to her chest like it was injured, but she looked okay. Or at least, she didn't look as bad as she sometimes did after a bender.
"Mom?" He dropped to his knees. "Hey. Hey, get up."
She stirred, eyes blinking at him like she wasn't sure who he was. "What time is it?"
"Almost seven. My bus will be here in twenty."
She closed her eyes again, letting out a shaky breath. "Wanted to shower but I guess I fell. You got any Advil?"
He looked down at her. At her wrist. At the way she winced every time she breathed.
He helped her lean against the vanity and guided her slowly—painfully—into the living room. She didn't protest. Just curled into the cushions and let him tuck a blanket around her.
Harley got her a glass of water. A cold washcloth. A pillow.
"Are you okay if I leave?" he asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.
She didn't respond. Just squeezed her eyes shut and turned away.
He sat next to her as the clock ticked past 7:03.
The bus came and went.
She showered and sobered up and he drove her to urgent care for a wrist x-ray. Drove her to the pharmacy for a wrist brace and a laughably useless prescription for pain meds that she already had. And then drove her home.
That night, when Peter asked how his first day went, Harley smiled and said, "Didn't make it. Gotta pick up my textbooks tomorrow." Like it was nothing, but he was so tired, and sad, and angry inside.
And as soon as he saw Tony on the screen, he lashed out.
He managed to make it to school the next day
But then he missed the day after when Kyle returned.
By Thursday, Harley had only been to school twice that week. He was off to a stellar start.
The sun was low in the sky, casting warm amber streaks across the uneven lawn. The grass was ankle-high, tangled with burrs and half-dead dandelions. He'd meant to take care of it weeks ago, but things kept… happening.
He dragged the rusted rake through the yard with a stubborn rhythm, gathering brittle leaves and sharp little sticks into sloppy piles. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, his forearms smeared with grime and scratches.
Harley pulled the old mower from the shed. The belt squealed when he tried to start it. He was bending to check it when the screen door creaked behind him.
Kyle stepped out onto the porch, cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Harley kept his back turned, hoping he'd just go back inside.
No such luck.
Kyle took a slow drag off the cigarette and exhaled. "All those summers you spent with that Stark fella—figured he might make somethin' of you. But you came back all soft. Fancy. Got your little clean jeans and your little phone with your smart-boy apps."
Harley stiffened, his grip tightening around the rake's handle. He forced himself to keep his focus on the task.
"You even sound different now," Kyle added with a sneer. "Like one of those artsy New York boys who drinks coffee with his pinky out." He took another drag on his cigarette. "If you're lookin' to be someone's pampered little city princess, maybe this ain't the place for you."
Harley's jaw clenched. He turned slowly to face Kyle, meeting his gaze head-on.
His knuckles were white around the rake. "Say whatever you want about me," he said, voice tight. "But I built this place back up after every guy like you knocked it down."
Kyle's grin widened like he'd just been handed a reason. He stepped off the porch, boots crunching in the gravel. "You built nothin'. You're just squattin' in the ruins, boy. Playing pretend. Just a sad, mangy little pup who doesn't know when he's worn out his welcome."
"I'm not the one who's worn out his welcome." Harley spat.
Kyle shoved him hard.
Harley staggered backward, catching himself, breath caught halfway in his throat.
"You think you're better than me?" Kyle hissed. "You run off to your rich friends, playing with robots and coming back talkin' like you've been somewhere—and then act like you got the right to judge me?"
"At least I'm doing something productive," he shot back, his voice steady but laced with restrained anger. "Unlike some people who just sit around all day, leeching off others."
Kyle swung.
His fist connected with Harley's cheekbone, a sharp crack of knuckles on bone. Harley reeled, the rake slipping from his grasp, the world spinning sideways.
"Kyle!" a voice shrieked. His mother stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide.
But Kyle didn't stop.
Another blow to Harley's jaw. Blood filled his mouth.
"You gonna cry now, princess?" Kyle sneered.
Harley swayed but stayed upright. His whole face burned, but he stared Kyle down through blurred vision. He wouldn't fall. Not for him.
"Enough!" his mother screamed, shoving herself between them. She pressed her hands to Kyle's chest. "That's ENOUGH!"
Kyle raised his hands with exaggerated calm. "Fine. Whatever. But I'm not sticking around to watch some dainty little punk act like he owns the place." He turned, brushing past her. "He needs to go," he muttered, loud enough for Harley to hear.
She followed him inside without a word.
Harley stood alone in the yard, blood seeping down his chin. The air was thick and humid, the cicadas screaming around him.
He waited for her to come back.
She didn't.
Harley stood in the doorway to the kitchen, blood still dripping from his lip. He watched his mom rinse dishes that weren't even dirty. Her hands trembled.
"You can't let him stay."
She didn't look at him. Her fingers stilled on the rim of a chipped mug.
"He shouldn't have hit you." she whispered.
"Then say something! Do something! You said it wouldn't happen again and I believed you."
Her breath caught. Her shoulders hunched slightly.
"I just need… a little time," she said.
Harley's heart dropped. "Time?"
Her eyes finally met his and she winced at his face. She handed him a towel. "Hold that to your lip to stop the bleeding."
He took it and tried to press it to his face but it stung too much.
"Look, Harley. Everyone's too hot right now. Maybe it's best if you… stayed somewhere else for a few days. Just 'til things settle."
The words didn't make sense at first.
He blinked at her like maybe she'd said them wrong.
"What?"
She rubbed her temple, exhausted. "I don't want any more fights. Not in this house. You being here just sets him off."
You being here.
"You're siding with him," Harley whispered, disbelief cutting through his chest.
"I'm not—Harley—he's not perfect, and I'll talk to him. He will do better. I'll make sure of it. But you—" she broke off, eyes flicking to him with sudden weariness. "Right now, you bring a lot of tension. I just can't deal with this stress right now, Harley. I'm trying my best."
"I'm your son."
"I know, baby." Her voice cracked. "But I think it would best if you go cool off. Stay with Frank. Or one of your friends from school."
His heart felt like it had caved in.
"Mama," he said, barely a breath.
She looked away.
He hadn't called her Mama in years. Not since he still thought she could protect him from the world.
"Mama, please." His voice broke on the word. "Please don't choose him over me."
Tears filled her eyes—but she didn't budge.
"I'm not choosing anyone," she said softly. "I'm just asking you to give me some space to figure things out. You are practically grown, Harley. It's not like I'm abandoning you."
Harley took a step back. Like he'd been struck again. But softer this time. And deeper.