Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Brice going through it

maybe he is human after all

“Hey hey, ho ho, Brice Colton’s got to go!” they chanted.

Chant this from the rooftops

I mean, condolences

Nigga, ain’t nobody trying to hear about this whiny bitch boy being sad. If he would’ve had his baby mama living with him, she wouldn’t have gotten her shit caved in.

All I know is we smoking on that Jimmy pack twice over and the Skylar pack and it’s all gas

fuck it, I'll put the pack up for Skylar's hoe ass and baby Jimmy that if we keeping it a buck, no one really wanted (Skylar only saw a paycheck and Brice saw a liability)

[djp73]

Brice finna hit the portal, some school out there willing to ignore it all

[Soapy]

Brice finna hit the portal, some school out there willing to ignore it all

it's already spring

[Soapy]

[Caesar]

Soapy, is this not the same update you posted yesterday?

[Soapy]

Soapy, is this not the same update you posted yesterday?

[Soapy]

Season 7, Episode 11
The bus station bench bit into Nia’s thighs through her thin jeans as James squirmed against her chest.

“Shh,” she whispered, bouncing him gently. The motion sent pain shooting through her lower back. How long had they been sitting here? Twenty minutes? Two hours? Time had gone fluid, stretching and compressing without warning.

James made a soft sound, his face scrunching. Not quite crying yet, but heading there. Nia recognized the progression now.

A bus hissed to a stop at the curb, belching diesel fumes that made her stomach lurch. The smell took her back to the first night, huddled in the back of a Greyhound. James had cried for hours, his face nearly turning purple.

She’d mixed the formula in the tiny bathroom sink, hands shaking so badly she spilled half the powder on the wet floor. The bottle nipple was wrong and James had choked, formula bubbling from his nose.

“I’m sorry,” she’d sobbed, as if the words could undo what had already happened. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The memory dissolved as a man in a stained jacket shuffled past, too close. Nia pulled James tighter against her chest, turning her body to shield him. Her eyes tracked the man until he disappeared around the corner.

James fussed again, louder this time.

“I know, I know,” she murmured, digging in the backpack with her free hand. Her fingers closed around the last clean bottle. How many scoops left in the formula can? Four? Five? Not enough.

She’d learned to stretch it by the third day, when she realized how fast they were going through the supply she’d managed to obtain. One scoop instead of two, topped off with extra water. James had accepted it at first, but by the fifth day, he’d started refusing the watery mixture.

The memory of the gas station flashed through her mind. She’d slipped the formula can into her backpack while pretending to study the ingredient list on a jar of baby food. The bell had jingled as she pushed through the door, certain that at any moment a hand would clamp down on her shoulder.

“Here we go,” Nia said now, her voice a cracked whisper as she mixed the bottle one-handed. The routine was becoming familiar. James latched on immediately, his tiny hands coming up to grasp at the plastic.

A car horn blared from the street, and Nia’s head snapped up. For a split second, she was back in Skylar’s driveway, ducking behind the bushes. Footsteps on gravel.

She blinked, and the bus station materialized around her again. James was still drinking, his eyes half-closed now. His dark lashes rested against cheeks that seemed thinner than they had been two weeks ago.

“You’re okay,” she told him, though she wasn’t sure if that was true anymore.

The fourth night, they’d slept at a bus stop on the outskirts of some town whose name she couldn’t remember. She’d propped herself against the plexiglass shelter, James secured in her arms. Every time her eyes had started to close, a jolt of terror had shot through her. Someone would take him while she slept. Someone would find them. Someone would know.

She hadn’t slept that night. Or the next. By the sixth day, her vision had started to blur around the edges, reality taking on a dreamlike quality that made it hard to distinguish what was happening now from what had happened hours or days before.

The withdrawal had hit on day eight. Or was it nine? Her skin had felt too small for her body, nerves firing at random, stomach cramping viciously. She’d been trying to feed James when the first wave of nausea hit. She’d barely gotten to the bathroom of the rest stop, placing him on the changing table while she stumbled into one of the stalls.

When she’d returned, shaking and covered in sweat, he’d been lying exactly where she’d left him, silent and still. Too still.

“James?” she’d called. “James?”

The seconds before he’d responded, a small hiccup, then a cry, had been the longest of her life. She’d scooped him up, pressing her face against his warm head, inhaling the sweet-sour scent of his unwashed hair.

“I’m sorry,” she’d whispered into his ear.

A police car rolled slowly past the bus station. Nia froze, her breath caught in her lungs until the vehicle disappeared from view. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the ambient noise of the station.

The memory of the hospital entrance surfaced without warning. Standing in the ambulance bay at 3 AM, James bundled in the cleanest blanket she could find. She’d placed him carefully on the bench near the sliding doors, making sure his hat was secure, the note she’d scribbled tucked into his blanket.

She’d backed away slowly, made it almost to the corner before the sound of his cry reached her. Just a small, questioning noise, as if he’d sensed her leaving. Her feet had stopped moving of their own accord.

Five minutes later, she was back on the bus, James against her chest, the note crumpled in her pocket. Not because she was brave or good or even because she loved him, though maybe she did, in her broken way, but because walking away felt like leaving a part of herself behind. A part she couldn’t bear to lose, even though keeping it might destroy them both.

James had fallen asleep now, his breath warm against her neck. A digital clock above the ticket counter blinked 6:47 PM. The next bus would leave in twenty minutes. She had enough money left for just two more fares.

Her gaze caught on James’s hand, resting against her jacket. His fingernails needed cutting. She should go inside, buy the tickets. She should find somewhere to clean him properly, to wash his clothes. She should feed him something better than watered-down formula.

She should, she should, she should.

Nia remained on the bench, paralyzed by the weight of all she couldn’t do. James stirred against her, one small hand opening and closing in his sleep. His breathing had developed a slight wheeze over the past day, so faint she sometimes thought she was imagining it.

Nia looked down at James, at his flushed cheeks and chapped lips, at the slight tremor in his small body even as he slept. She looked at her own dirty fingernails, her unwashed hair, the backpack with its dwindling supplies. She looked at the bus schedule, the list of destinations that all promised the same thing: nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, nowhere to be safe.

…

“Ms. Gardner?”

Connie looked up to see a woman with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses on a chain around her neck. “Yes?”

“I’m Barbara Winters. I can speak with you now,” the woman gestured toward a hallway. “This way, please.”

Barbara’s office was small but tidy.

“So,” Barbara said, settling into her chair after Connie had taken a seat, “Candice at reception says you’re here about a closed adoption from a few years back?”

Connie nodded, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes. My daughter. I—I gave her up through your agency when I was in high school.”

Barbara’s expression softened slightly. “And you’re hoping to make contact?”

“I just want to know if it’s possible,” Connie said, trying to keep the words from flying out of her mouth. “Not to disrupt their lives or anything. I don’t want to take her back. I just... maybe they’d be open to letting me be involved somehow. Even just pictures or updates, or—“

Barbara held up a gentle hand. “I understand this must be very difficult for you, Ms. Gardner.”

“Connie, please.”

“Connie,” Barbara removed her glasses, letting them hang from their chain. “I’ve been doing this work for over thirty years, and I’ve sat with many birth mothers who feel exactly as you do. That pull never really goes away, does it?”

Connie shook her head.

“The thing is,” Barbara continued, “Closed adoptions are structured the way they are for a reason. The adoptive parents entered into an agreement with certain expectations and boundaries. Opening those doors now, even with the best intentions, can be deeply disruptive.”

“But what if they want to know me?” Connie leaned forward. “What if my daughter grows up with questions I could answer?”

Barbara sighed, her eyes reflecting a practiced compassion.

“If that day comes, and if your daughter initiates contact when she’s of age, that would be different. But right now, the agreement in place protects everyone involved, including you, Connie.”

“I don’t feel very protected right now, ma’am."

“From the pain that can come with half-measures,” Barbara offered gently. “From the complexity of trying to define a relationship that doesn’t have clear boundaries. From the heartache when expectations don’t align.”

Connie stared at her hands, vision blurring. “So that’s it?”

“I wish I had a different answer for you,” Barbara pushed a box of tissues across the desk. “But the most loving thing you did was give your daughter to parents who could provide what you couldn’t at the time. The second most loving thing might be respecting the boundaries of that gift.”

…

Brice slumped deeper into his couch, the empty tequila glass mocking him from the coffee table. A knock at the door broke the silence.

Brice didn’t move. Probably another reporter looking for a quote or a neighbor with a casserole and prying eyes. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging himself to his feet.

He grabbed his phone and pulled up the Ring app, squinting at the grainy image. Whoever it was had their back to the camera, a woman, based on the slight frame and long hair. Probably one of those protesters who’d been hanging around campus.

He yanked the door open.

A young woman stood on his doorstep, swaying slightly. Her clothes hung loose on her thin frame, her hair limp and unwashed. In her arms was a bundle wrapped in what looked like a jacket. She looked vaguely familiar.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she said, her voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t.”

Brice’s gaze dropped to the bundle. A small face, flushed and dirty but unmistakable, peeked out from the makeshift blanket.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, his legs nearly giving out beneath him.

The woman, a girl, really, swayed again. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. She looked like she might collapse at any moment, still clutching James to her chest.

“Why don’t you come inside,” Brice said, forcing his voice to stay calm while his heart thundered in his chest. He stepped back, holding the door wider. “Thanks for looking after him."

She hesitated, then stumbled past him into the living room. Brice closed the door behind her, his mind racing.

“You can sit down,” he said, gesturing to the couch. “You look tired.”

She sank onto the cushions, still holding James close.

“I didn’t mean to, I promise,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It just happened. I thought he needed my help."

“I know,” Brice said, though he didn’t know at all. He pulled his phone from his pocket, angling his body away. “You did what you thought was best.”

James stirred in her arms.

“Can I—“ his voice caught. “Can I hold him?”

She tensed, then slowly extended her arms, passing James over with trembling hands. Brice cradled his son against his chest, fighting back tears as he felt the small weight settle against him. James was lighter than he remembered, his cheeks less full.

“You’re Jimmy’s brother,” she said, her eyes clearing slightly.

“Yeah,” Brice nodded, sitting in the armchair across from her. “You must be the girl he had a crush on. He talked a lot about you.”

A smile broke through her tears. “He did?”

“All the time,” Brice lied, watching her carefully. “Nina, right?”

"Nia,” she nodded eagerly. "Your brother was so, so special. Like, I’ve never met anyone like him. I don’t think I will again."

Brice smiled. “That sounds like Jimmy.”

“I don’t know,” Nia said, her eyes distant now. “The way he made everyone feel good just by being nice. Just by being himself. I felt so safe around him. I didn't realize it until he wasn't here anymore. I haven't felt that way since.”

“Yeah,” Brice agreed, and this time he didn’t have to lie. “Just one of those pure souls, you know."

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He slipped it out just enough to see the notification.

“Hey,” he said, standing carefully with James. “I’m going to put him down for a bit."

Nia nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

Brice carried James into his bedroom, laying him gently on the bed. He quickly checked him over. No visible injuries, but he was definitely thinner, his clothes stained and reeked. James blinked up at him, his tiny fingers curling around Brice’s thumb.

He pulled the comforter around James, creating a barrier so he wouldn’t roll off the bed. His phone buzzed again.

Walking back to the living room, the reality of the situation hit him. James was back. His son was alive, in his house, and now Brice would be responsible for him. Alone. The thought terrified him, but seeing Nia on his couch, this girl who was clearly unstable, clearly unwell, and knowing she’d somehow kept James alive for two weeks gave him a strange sense of resolve.

“The police are here,” he said, stopping a few feet from the couch.

Nia’s head snapped up.

“It’s okay,” he added quickly. "They’re not going to hurt you. I promise. I'll tell them what you told me, that it was an accident, that you didn't mean to."

She stared at him, searching his face like there might be something there she could hold onto. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. Her shoulders gave a small, quiet drop.

"I’m so tired,” she whispered.

Brice nodded, relief washing through him. “They’ll help you.”

She stood shakily, then suddenly moved forward, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face against his chest. Her body shook with sobs.

“I just miss him so fucking much,” she cried, her voice muffled against his shirt.

Brice stood frozen, then awkwardly patted her back as a knock sounded at the door.

[Caesar]

Hopefully Connie goes procure herself a 2A tool and puts Brice in the dirt after that conversation.

Sucks we didn't get that Jimmy 2.0 pack but that Skylar pack still gas.

[Captain Canada]

Brice stock so low I'm lowkey surprised that he did the right thing and called the police

[redsox907]

Brice stock so low I'm lowkey surprised that he did the right thing and called the police

I half thought he was going to cover it up in honor of Jimmy