Page 3 of The Way We Swing Back

I grab the wrong one and hand it over. He doesn’t correct me, just grabs the one he really wants.

“This isn’t complicated,” he mutters.

The silence settles again.

He wipes his hands on a rag, then walks to the mini-fridge in the corner. Pops it open, grabs a bottle—brown glass, label peeling. He doesn’t just take one. He grabs two. Before I can ask what the second is for, he tosses it underhand.

I catch it. Clumsy. The cold stings my fingers. I look down at it. Then up at him.

“Go ahead,” he says, already twisting the cap off his own. “You’re thirteen. About time.”

I hesitate.

He watches me with that hard stare he gets when he’s evaluating me—not angry, just waiting to see if I’ll measure up. “Unless you’re scared.” The words hit like a slap even though he says them quietly.

I shake my head too fast. Twist the cap with both hands. It takes me a few tries. My palms are sweating, the cap digging into my palm.

The first sip burns extra because I know how wrong this is. My tongue doesn’t know what to do with it. I try not to make a face.

He watches me drink. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say “good job.” Just nods once. “Man’s got to know how to handle things.”

I nod back. I don’t know what “things” means. But I want him to think I do. I take another sip. It’s worse. My stomach turns, but I swallow anyway.

He turns back to the car. Says nothing else. The conversation’s over.

I stay there, fingers tight around the bottle, trying to ignore the taste, the burn in my throat, and the voice in my head screaming this isn’t right.

He didn’t hand me a drink. He handed me a rule:

Don’t cry. Don’t talk. Don’t feel. Drink. Swallow it. Be a man.

And I do. I think I have to.

Chapter 2

The night before Tanner left for college, the Quinn house felt wrong. It had been almost a month since the state finals—long enough that school had let out, long enough that on the good days, with the sun beating down, I could go a few hours without replaying that last out. Never enough to forget it, though. But the game wasn’t what was wrong with tonight.

The entire building had been Gavinified—way too bright and energetic, as if the house itself needed to overcompensate for Tanner leaving. Mrs. Quinn cooked Tanner’s favorite dinner; I saw Mr. Quinn slip him cash, and even Zach didn’t shut up, which was so out of character I asked him if he was feeling okay.

It was only late June, but summer classes started on Monday, and Tanner, being who he was, made sure he started school as soon as he could. The Quinns, being who they were, rented Tanner an apartment on campus even though they only lived twenty minutes away. Apparently, they wanted him to have “a life outside where he’d grown up.”

Must have been lovely to have money.

Tanner’s suitcase sat half-zipped near the front door, lazily leaning against the wall. I’d lost count of how many times my eyes snagged on that suitcase. Same drop in my gut every time.

I knew people left. Mom had died. Dad had been arrested for domestic abuse. But Tanner leaving felt different, even though I’d only known him for a year.

Today reminded me of the end of a movie after you got to know the characters for ninety minutes, and then—poof—they were gone. And I wasn’t sure I was supposed to be here when the title credits rolled.

I stood near the entryway, my Nikes next to my feet. I could slip out without anyone noticing. They had this whole “night-before-school” family tradition with movies, popcorn, and blankets piled everywhere that I had been a part of last year. But last year, Tanner had been staying, and I’d been—

I had no clue who I’d been then. Or who I was now. A guest? A charity case?

“Why are you by the door?”

Gavin’s words snapped me back into the living room, with the humming TV and fridge in the background. He stood near the kitchen door, holding a bowl of popcorn bigger than his face. He was shirtless and wearing bright pink pajama pants, his skinny chest finally starting to get that summer tan, his blond hair covered by a Cardinals hat. He squinted at me suspiciously, like a detective clocking a lie.

“I was just—” I started.