I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 51 — Broth
The sun had dipped into the horizon by the time Jon pulled into the driveway of the Pritchett house. The adrenaline of the basketball game had faded, replaced by a lingering soreness in his arms and a crust of sweat clinging to his skin. He felt calm, though—a rare, grounded kind of calm. The kind you only earned through movement, sweat, and silence.
But as soon as he stepped into the house, something was off.
It was too quiet. Too still. Like the air itself was bracing for something.
"Jon!" Gloria's voice sliced through the silence like a shot of espresso in the veins. And before he could even blink, she was across the room, wrapping him in a hug so tight it could've qualified as medical compression therapy.
"Mi pobre niño," she murmured, holding him as if he'd just come back from war.
Jon's eyes darted over Gloria's shoulder to Jay, who was lounging on the couch with the remote in his hand, looking far too interested in a golf tournament for it to be believable.
Jay didn't look at Jon. Didn't even flinch. Just turned the volume up a single notch.
Great, Jon thought. They know.
Before he could so much as open his mouth, Gloria was already dragging him toward the kitchen.
"I made you some caldo de costilla," she declared with a fire in her eyes that brooked no argument. "You're going to sit down and eat something warm. You look like you've been punched in the heart."
Technically, Jon thought, he had. Just emotionally.
He sat, because fighting Gloria in full "mama bear mode" was like arguing with a hurricane. A well-meaning, soup-wielding hurricane.
She bustled around the kitchen, muttering in Spanish about love and heartbreak and—he caught one phrase clearly—"esa niña tiene que tener la cabeza rota para dejar a alguien como tú."
Jon blinked. "We didn't break up," he said. "We're just... taking a break."
Gloria spun around, ladle in hand. "And what is the difference? A break is just a breakup with more steps."
He opened his mouth to argue, but realized it would be like trying to explain quantum physics to a bull mid-charge. So instead, he picked up the spoon and took a sip.
His eyes widened. "Wow."
"Told you," Gloria said with a triumphant smile. "Now eat. I'll yell at Sam later."
Jon chuckled under his breath and took another spoonful. The soup was phenomenal—rich, meaty, with just the right amount of heat. It didn't fix anything, but it felt like someone had poured kindness into a bowl and served it hot.
Gloria hovered like a hawk the entire time, occasionally patting his shoulder or muttering little Spanish curses at the situation. Jon let her. It wasn't what he needed, maybe, but it was what he had. And it helped.
When the bowl was empty and his stomach was full, he stood. "Thanks, Gloria. I'm okay, really."
Gloria eyed him, skeptical but soft. "You're too strong for your own good sometimes. Go rest."
Jon nodded and made his way toward his room. As his hand touched the doorknob, he paused for a moment. Everything felt quieter now—not heavy, just quiet. Still.
Jon pushed the door open and stepped into his room—only to stop dead in his tracks.
There, sitting in the middle of his bed like some Bond villain in training, was Manny Delgado.
Legs crossed, eyes narrowed in mock gravitas, and perched in his lap… a plushie cat. The soft toy was being stroked slowly, deliberately, as if Manny were plotting world domination—or, at the very least, a black-and-white French film about heartbreak.
Jon blinked.
"Really?" he asked.
Manny didn't look up. "I've been expecting you," he said in a deep, theatrical tone, still petting the stuffed feline like he'd rehearsed this for a week.
Jon burst out laughing. "Why the plushie and not Ghost?" he asked, gesturing behind Manny.
Manny sighed, glancing over his shoulder at the actual orange menace bouncing around the bed. "I tried. The little beast lacks stage presence. And temperament. He scratched me. Chemistry is vital to the integrity of the scene."
Jon rubbed his eyes, grinning now. "Of course it is."
He walked over and dropped onto the bed beside him with a soft bounce. "Alright, hit me with it. Do your thing."
Manny cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and launched into what could only be described as an Oscar-hopeful monologue.
"Heartbreak," he began, "is the molten forge where the soul is tempered. You may think you're being burned alive, but really—you're being reforged."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "You Googled that, didn't you?"
Manny ignored him. "This... break, as you call it, is but the painful prelude to your greatest love story yet. Perhaps it will be Sam. Perhaps it won't. But the poetry, Jon—the poetry of this moment—must not be ignored."
Jon leaned back on his palms, letting the words wash over him like a very dramatic breeze. "Alright, Socrates. Any other wisdom?"
Manny nodded solemnly. "As Shakespeare said: 'The course of true love never did run smooth.'"
Jon smirked. "Solid quote."
"But," Manny added, squinting at Jon's hoodie and workout shorts, "if we're being honest, maybe your wardrobe isn't helping. A well-fitted blazer has salvaged many a romance."
Jon let out a long, patient breath. "So this is heartbreak and a fashion critique."
"Two sides of the same coin, my friend."
Jon nodded slowly, patting Manny on the shoulder. "You've done enough, Manny. The theater appreciates your service."
He stood and gestured toward the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to lie in bed and rest in peace. Preferably without Shakespeare and plush animals."
Manny rose with exaggerated dignity. "Very well. But remember, Jon—love is war. And in war, one must dress accordingly."
Jon nudged him gently toward the door. "Out."
Manny exited like a man taking a bow.
Jon closed the door behind him and finally let out a genuine laugh. His heart still ached a little, but somehow... it was easier with this strange, loving chaos around him.