Chapter 26
Charlie doesn’t know what to do.
He’s not okay. And Nick—Nick isn’t okay either. That much is obvious.
The worst part is, Charlie feels like he can’t do anything about it.
He’s barely holding himself together as it is, floating on a sinking ship, and the last thing he wants to do is reach for the only lifeboat within reach—Nick Nelson—when he doesn’t even know if Nick is steady enough to hold the weight of him.
So he’s just... drifting. He’s become closed off. He hasn’t texted Elle or Tao in days. Tori seems worried, but she knows better than to push—knows that if she forces him to talk, he’ll feel trapped and shut down even more. And Remy—God, Remy—his sweet boy keeps talking about Ben this, Mustache Man that, Ben Ben Ben.
It’s been three days now.
Three days of Ben waltzing into Nick’s classroom, pretending he has every right to be there.
Three days of Ben talking to students, but mostly—mostly—to Remy.
Three days of Nick dragging Remy away before anything too serious can be said, before Ben can start planting whatever twisted seeds he’s trying to grow.
And yet, it seems to be working.
Charlie isn’t sure. He’s afraid to ask. He’s afraid to know.
He trusts Nick—trusts him more than he’s ever trusted anyone—but trust can’t stop Ben from playing his games, from worming his way into places he doesn’t belong.
Charlie knows he has to do something. He knows this. He should have done something a long time ago. Taken legal action. Filed for something more official. Taken the proof, the physical evidence—the scars on his own skin, the medical reports, the bruises that lasted longer than they should have—and built a case. Showed that this divorce wasn’t just a breakup. That it wasn’t just a falling out of love. That it was survival.
But doing that?
It means bringing it all back. It means dragging old wounds into the light, reopening them, exposing the deepest, ugliest parts of his past for people in suits to dissect. It means showing his own scars, proving with paper and photos that what happened wasn’t a one-time thing, that Ben’s hands were never gentle, that his words cut just as deep.
And Charlie?
He doesn’t know if he can survive that.
Because Ben is already here. Already lurking. Already weaving his way into the corners of Charlie’s life again, slowly, carefully, like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce. And if Charlie does this, if he fights back, if he takes legal action now—what happens then?
Ben will fight back. Harder. Angrier.
Charlie will make himself a target again.
And worst of all—Remy will be in the crossfire.
And that’s what Charlie can’t stomach. It’s why he didn’t fight harder in the first place. Why he let the court believe whatever version of Ben’s story he spun. Why he stayed quiet instead of digging up the truth. Because Charlie can take the pain. He’s used to it. But Remy? Remy is only four. He’s too young to be caught in the storm of Ben Hope.
So Charlie does what he’s always done.
He stays still.
He waits.
And he prays to God that this doesn’t get worse.
Charlie had spent years keeping his walls up, carefully curating the narrative he needed to win custody of Remy. He showed what was necessary—no more, no less. He proved that Ben was unfit, that he was the one who had been there, the one who had fed, clothed, and loved his son. And it worked. He won.
That should have been the end of it.
But now... now, he realizes he got too soft. He let his guard down. He let himself believe that Ben would stay gone, that he had finally rid himself of that nightmare. He let himself hope for a happy ending.
And because of that, Nick is suffering. Remy is suffering. His past is bleeding into his present, tainting the fragile happiness he had just begun to build. He’s spiraling, slipping, losing control, and worst of all—he’s pushing people away. His friends, his family, the people who love him.
Nick.
God, Nick.
Charlie knows what he’s doing, but he can’t stop it. He’s too trapped in his own mind, in the fear that Ben will take everything from him again. It’s like history is repeating itself, like no matter how far he runs, no matter how hard he fights, Ben is always lurking in the shadows, ready to strike.
Damn him.
Damn Ben for coming back. Damn him for still having this hold over Charlie, even after all these years.
He clenches his fists, staring at the floor, forcing himself to take slow, even breaths. He can’t let this continue. He can’t let Ben win—not this time.
He won’t lose everything again.
Not Nick.
Not Remy.
Not himself.
He flinches as his phone rings.
His fingers tightening around his phone as he stares at the screen. Nick. It should bring him relief. But it doesn’t.
Not entirely.
Nick doesn’t miss work. Not unless something is seriously wrong. And after Friday, after everything—they’re both carrying more than they should. More than they can handle.
The song keeps ringing, vibrating against his palm. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.
Charlie swallows hard, casting one last glance toward Remy, who is still completely lost in his own little world—crayons scattered around him, his baby blanket draped over his shoulders, the soft hum of a cartoon playing in the background. He looks happy. Safe. Untouched by all of this.
For now.
Charlie exhales shakily, pressing accept and bringing the phone to his ear. “Hey,” he says, voice lower than he means for it to be. Maybe a little unsteady.
For a second, there’s only silence on the other end. And then— a breath. A shaky inhale. A pause. “Char,” Nick says, and the way his name sounds—rough, like it’s been clawed out of his throat, like he’s been debating whether to call at all—makes Charlie’s stomach twist.
Something’s wrong.
Charlie grips the counter, fingers pressing hard against the cold surface. He doesn’t want to ask. But he does anyway. “What happened?”
Charlie hears it the second he picks up the phone—the tight, ragged breathing, like Nick is trying to force air into his lungs but failing. A panic attack. Or something close to it. His mind sharpens instantly, all traces of drowsiness or depression grogginess vanishing.
"Nick?" he says, voice steady but urgent. "Nick, what's wrong?"
Over the phone, Nick gasps for air, his voice shaking, stumbling over itself like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "I don't—I don't know, I don't—it's—it's—" He cuts off, a shaky inhale crackling through the receiver. "I should be okay. I'm used to this. I should be okay, I'm used to being alone—especially on this day—but it's really, really hard, Charlie. It's really hard."
Charlie grips the phone tighter. He already has one foot in the hallway, heading toward his bedroom to grab his keys. "Okay, okay, but what is it? What day? I know you missed work today, so at least tell me what's wrong."
A sharp, broken breath. Then, barely above a whisper, "It's always this anniversary. Or— I... I can't it's.... Of his death." A pause, and then Nick's voice cracks. "It's all my fault that he's gone to begin with. I just—I'm not doing well, I'm not doing well, Charlie. I'm scared I'm gonna fail. I'm scared I'm gonna fail you, and me, and my job, and everyone, just like I did back then, just like I always do. And I—I don't know what to do, Charlie. I don’t know what to do."
Charlie doesn't hesitate. "Okay, okay, hold on. Let me grab my keys. I’ll be over there, okay? Can you send me the address of your house? Yeah? I’ll be there soon. You don’t have to be alone."
But Nick panics. "No, no—I don’t want you to be put in this mess. I don’t—I’m a mess right now, Charlie. It’s a mess, Char, I don’t—I just don’t—I feel sick, I feel gross, I feel like everything I touch turns bad, and I touched Otis and he’s dead and I’m afraid now that since I touched you, you’re gonna be dead too."
And that—that hits Charlie straight in the chest, like a knife twisted deep between his ribs.
"Nick," he breathes, gentler now, softer. "That’s not—Nick, that’s not gonna happen, okay? I promise. Just—just send me the address, yeah? You’re home, right? I can come over."
He’s already slipping on his shoes, checking to make sure he has his wallet, his keys.
A pause. Then Nick, still shaky, still small, says, "Charlie, I don’t want you to have to do that."
"I want to," Charlie says simply. "Remy and I will come over, okay? I don’t have time to find a babysitter, but I can bring some of his toys. He’ll probably just watch cartoons or something on your TV while we talk. We can talk about it together. You don’t have to be alone in this."
Nick exhales, and it’s still broken, still heavy, but a little steadier this time. "Charlie… thank you."
"Always," Charlie murmurs. "Now send me the address.
A beat. Then his phone buzzes with a new message. Charlie doesn’t even look at it before he’s grabbing Remy’s backpack, stuffing in a few toys, and heading for the door.
Charlie watches as Remy’s little hands clutch his favorite stuffed animal, his brow furrowed in concern. His son, for all his stubbornness and mischief, has such a big heart. A heart that, somehow, now includes Nick.
And God, that makes something in Charlie’s chest ache.
“Okay, bud,” Charlie says, crouching down to zip up Remy’s backpack, making sure everything he might need is inside. “We gotta go.”
“But—” Remy’s little lips pout. “But what? Why?”
Charlie sighs, trying to keep his voice steady. “We’re… we’re gonna go see Nick.”
That gets Remy’s full attention. His head tilts, confusion flickering across his face. “Papa?”
Charlie swallows, nodding. “Yeah, Papa’s a little upset.”
Remy frowns. “Why? Why is he upset? He wasn’t at work today. So why, what’s wrong?”
Charlie runs a hand through his hair, not knowing how to answer that. How do you explain pain like that to a four-year-old? How do you explain that Nick is hurting in a way Charlie can barely wrap his own head around?
“I… I don’t know, baby,” Charlie admits, voice soft. “But it’s not really safe to say right now, okay?” He forces a smile, trying to keep things light. “But we’re gonna go, we’re gonna go to Nick’s house, and we’re gonna try and cheer him up. Or, you know, I’m gonna try and cheer him up, and you can be there, and you can give him support, or you can just play.”
Remy shakes his head, gripping his stuffed animal tighter. “No,” he says, firm and certain. “I don’t like Nick being sad. I wanna go and see Papa.”
Charlie exhales, nodding. “Okay. Then let’s go.”
And as they walk out the door, Charlie can only hope—hope that whatever he’s walking into, whatever darkness Nick is drowning in, he can be the one to pull him out.
Charlie grips the steering wheel a little tighter, glancing in the rearview mirror where Remy is staring out the window, his little hands gripping his stuffed dino tightly against his chest.
“What’s wrong with Papa?” Remy asks again, his voice small, worried, like he can sense the weight pressing down on Charlie, even if he doesn’t fully understand why.
Charlie exhales through his nose, trying to keep his hands steady. He doesn’t know what to say. Because, really, how do you explain grief to a four-year-old? How do you explain the way ghosts can haunt the living without ever saying a word?
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Charlie finally says, his voice careful, measured. “But when we get there, I need you to be quiet, okay? Just for a little bit. You can sit on the couch while I find him, make sure he’s okay with company first.”
Remy frowns, clearly confused. “Why wouldn’t he want my company?”
Charlie sighs, switching lanes as they near Nick’s apartment. “Well… he’s not just your Papa, right? He’s also your teacher. And sometimes, when grown-ups are sad, they feel embarrassed about it. He might not want his student to see him like that.”
“Oh.” Remy blinks, processing. “Okay… I guess I can be quiet. I can be quiet for you and Papa.”
Charlie glances back at him again, offering a soft smile even though his chest feels tight. “Yeah, I know you can.”
Remy nods solemnly. “Then when he’s ready, I can talk to him, yeah?”
“Yeah, baby. When he’s ready.”
And Charlie just prays that Nick will let himself be ready.