Surviving the Harrison Boys (Re-write)

thirty-seven // realization (jack's pov)

"Mom?" It was almost 12:30 in the morning and I knew she'd kill me for being awake but I didn't care. I opened her office door. "Mom?"

She looked away from her work, her eyebrows knitted together and her glasses resting on basically the top of her nose. "Jack, honey, what are you doing up?"

I walked in fully and closed the door behind me. "I'm not staying long, I'm gonna go to bed because my head's killing me."

She nodded. "Come sit down, honey. What's going on?"

I sat down across from her and bounced my leg up and down rapidly. The itching sensation was growing and I wanted to scratch but I didn't. Instead, I made eye contact with my mother and tried to forget about it.

"I heard you, Dad, and Brant talking to Hunter about drugs or something." I said.

She sighed and took off her glasses. "You heard that?"

I nodded. "Y'all weren't the quietest."

She shook her head. "How much did you hear?"

"Everything," I said, "including you accusing Hunter of possessing the drugs. And you flat out called her sick. That was messed up, Mom."

"It wasn't even like that, Jack." She frowned. "I didn't mean it in that way. My words came out wrong and I could see that I basically broke her when I said them. I feel terrible."

"Maybe you should go apologize." I curled my toes into the carpet as the strong urge to itch resurfaced.

"I will in the morning." Mom pinched the bridge of her nose. "Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Kind of," I said, "I know who those drugs belong to."

Mom's head snapped in my direction. "What? You do?"

I nodded.

"Who is it?" She asked. "Is it one of your brothers?"

I nodded again.

Mom sighed. "Oh my God. Jack, who is it?"

I stood up and tried to scratch my arm like a normal person. "Hunter will tell you tomorrow at six o'clock in the evening."

She gave me a strange look. "Jack...?"

"Goodnight, Mom." I kissed her forehead and left her office, despite her calling my name. I walked to Hunter's room and knocked on the door, afraid of the outcome of our upcoming conversation.