Page 27 of The Way We Swing Back

I shook my head, trying to steady my breathing. I hated that I loved alcohol this much, the way it let me forget my shoulder, my mom, my dad.

Just don’t puke. Don’t make a scene. Be normal. Be fine.

Someone brushed past me, laughing, sloshing beer onto my arm; the stickiness mingled with the hairs, twisting them together. I straightened, pretending it didn’t smell like a frat house had died in here.

“Easton!”

I knew that voice before I turned. No. Not here.

Gavin.

I turned too fast, nearly falling, and there they were: Gavin, bright-eyed, wearing a stupid snapback backwards, ready to audition to be on some low-budget reality show, and Jake beside him, hands jammed in his jeans pocket, trying so hard to look unfazed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, pushing away from the counter.

“We got invited,” Gavin said, grinning, clearly lying. “Well, someone on the baseball team said we could stop.”

“Who?” I asked.

He opened his mouth, panic flickering behind his eyes.

“That’s what I thought,” I muttered. “You can’t be here.”

“Relax,” Jake said, trying to deepen his voice. “We just want to hang out. A couple of minutes. Please?”

And then Gavin hit me with it: the stupid, hopeful look he always had when he wanted something from me, like I was supposed to make the world bend for him.

I scrubbed a hand across my face, closing my eyes, wishing I was drinking alone in my bed. God, my head was spinning.

“You get one drink,” I said, holding up a finger. “One. Then we’re leaving. Immediately.”

Both boys lit up as if I’d given them the key to adulthood.

Gavin bounced and turned toward a bottle of vodka. “Yes! Hell yes! Jake, we’re getting a drink.”

“Whoa, no,” I said, grabbing Gavin’s hoodie and pulling him back toward me. “Liquor is too much for you. You get—” I scanned the counter. The least deadly thing was a can of Bud Light abandoned in a puddle of condensation. I shoved it toward them. “This. Split it.”

Gavin made a face. “But I wanted to try a shot."

“Cool,” I said. “Guess we’re leaving.”

He scrambled. “No! Fine. That’s fine.”

Jake cracked it open dramatically, and both boys took the tiniest sips imaginable. Gavin tried not to cough. It was pathetic. It should’ve been funny, but all my focus was on the dread, just waiting for the shoe to fall.

I herded them toward a quieter corner of the living room, away from the beer pong tables and the cloud of vape fog hovering in the air. All I needed was ten minutes. Then I could get them out.

“How’d you get here?” I asked.

“We walked,” Jake said. “Zach dropped us off at the mall earlier.”

“You walked here?” I snapped. “This neighborhood is thirty minutes away.”

“That’s not far,” Gavin said.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “Okay. We’re leaving soon. Finish your—”

“Easton.”