Page 98 of Tagging Bases

And me? I’m sitting here with my mouth hanging open, trying to reconcile this version of Roy with the superhero I’ve built up in my head. The guy who taught me how to throw a curveball. Who stayed up all night helping me with algebra homework. Who never, ever showed weakness.

“I know I need help,” Roy says, his voice muffled against Mom’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m telling you all this. I can’t do it alone anymore.”

The ceiling fan clicks overhead, marking time in this newreality where my big brother isn’t invincible. Where heroes can stumble and fall and need someone to catch them.

“We’re going to get through this together,” Mom says firmly, pulling back to cup Roy’s face in her hands. “As a family.”

Dad nods slowly. “There’s a program in Harrisburg. Good people. Discreet.”

“I’ll go,” Roy says without hesitation. “Whatever it takes.”

I should say something. Anything. But my throat feels like someone poured concrete down it. All I can do is stare at my brother—really look at him for the first time in months. The shadows under his eyes. The way his hands shake slightly when he reaches for his water glass. Even the slump in his shoulders speaks of carrying too much weight for too long.

How did I miss this? How did I get so wrapped up in my life with Daniel and Harrison that I didn’t notice my brother drowning right in front of me?

“Charlie.” Roy’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Say something.”

I clear my throat five times. “I’m sorry.”

His brow furrows. “For what?”

“For not seeing it. For being so self-absorbed that I didn’t notice you were struggling.”

Roy shakes his head. “That’s not your job, little brother. It never was.”

“But—”

“No buts.” His voice is firm now, more like the Roy I know. “This is my responsibility. My problem to fix.”

Mom returns to her seat but keeps one hand stretched across the table, gripping Roy’s fingers. “When did it start getting bad?”

Roy considers this, his jaw working again. “A few months ago, maybe? I was pulling twelve-hour days, coming home to help with the farm work, then going back to sleep, just to do it all over again the next morning.”

“You should have asked for help,” Dad says quietly.

A bitter laugh escapes Roy. “From who? You and Mom haveenough on your plates, and Charlie’s got his whole life in New York.”

“We could have figured something out,” Mom insists.

“I know.” Roy’s voice cracks slightly. “But IthoughtI could handle it. I’m supposed to be the responsible one, remember? The one who stayed. The one who keeps everything running.”

The weight of those words settles over the table like a shroud. Because he’s right—that’s exactly who Roy has always been. The responsible one. The reliable one. The one who gave up his dreams so the rest of us could chase ours.

“You’re still all those things,” I say, finding my voice at last. “Having a problem doesn’t change that. It just makes you human.”

Roy meets my eyes, and for the first time in years, I see vulnerability there. Fear. Hope. All the things he’s kept locked away behind that stoic exterior.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says softly.

Dad clears his throat. “I’ll make some calls tomorrow. See about getting you into that program. In the meantime, we need to figure out coverage for the store.”

“I can help,” I offer immediately. “I can come back after the season is done.”

“And I’ll talk to some of my girlfriends,” Mom adds. “See if they know anyone looking for work.”

Roy glances around the table at all of us. His eyes get suspiciously shiny. “I don’t deserve?—“

“Stop right there,” Mom interrupts. “You deserve every bit of support we can give you. You’ve been carrying this family for years, Roy Donald McManus. It’s time you let us carry you for a change.”

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