⸻
Teddy has none of that. Not because of anything he did.
And there’s no version of that stage where a room full of eighteen-year-olds isn’t quietly, instinctively comparing.
⸻
So I didn’t want him standing up there getting measured against some kid from Parsons with a full portfolio and a scholarship interview coming up. I wanted him at a table with Mom instead, clapping, having a genuinely good night without any of that particular pressure sitting on his shoulders.
⸻
By February, he was out in the garage every single day after school, door pulled down all the way. Mom kept the key on her own keyring after the first week, refusing to explain why even when I asked directly.
I barely saw him for months.
⸻
I had AP exams coming up in May, and I was at the library most nights until nine, and by the time I got home, the garage light would already be off and his bedroom door shut.
⸻
The one time I actually caught him, it was a Tuesday around eleven, and he was coming in through the side door with sawdust dusted across both sleeves.
“Teddy, what is it?”
“Not telling.”
He put his hand on the banister and grinned at me with his whole face, the way he’s grinned at me since he was small enough that I could still carry him myself.
“Not telling.”
⸻
Three weeks out from prom, I went to Mom and told her maybe this was too much for him. Maybe Aunt Rachel could walk me in instead. Maybe he’d honestly rather sit in the audience, where he could see everything without any of the pressure of the stage itself.
⸻
She let me finish the entire speech before she said anything back.
Then she said, “He’s been out there since January, Josie.”
⸻
I want to explain something about Teddy, because I don’t think I did a good enough job of it in my own head, not for months leading up to that night.
