Page 46 of The Way We Swing Back

I looked at Gavin. He bounced around, not holding back anymore, with that smile on his face that always forced a yes from me.

“You’re all okay with this?” I asked, looking at Zach.

He nodded then turned away, his face back to unreadable. His jaw chewed on words he refused to say. But the nod was unmistakably a yes, even with how much it’d cost him to say it. Even though he’d wanted to say no.

He hadn’t ratted me out; instead, he’d protected me.

I tried to speak again. Failed. Then I nodded. The tears came quietly. Not sobs—more like a dam cracking open after too many months sealed shut. I swiped at my face and tried to hold it together. “I’d like that,” I said. “I really would.”

Mrs. Quinn got up and made her way to me, crouching beside me just long enough to pull me into a hug. Not tight, not overwhelming—just enough. “You’re already part of this family,” she whispered. “Now you’ll have a room to match.”

“I started putting Tanner’s stuff in boxes,” Gavin said, trying to get in on the hug. I shoved him away, knowing he’d make me hug him again later.

Zach slipped out of the room, his eyes on the carpet; I had a lot to make up to him. I owed him more than I could say. I wouldn’t be the guest on the futon anymore or the kid who only needed protection half the time.

If I lived here now, I’d have the time to make it right.

Chapter 21

When Gavin asks me to come over and swim for the first time, I am not sure what to expect.

He says they have a batting cage, so maybe we’ll get to hit before Tanner drives me home. Maybe I’ll even get to ask how they manage to have a cage in their backyard.

I don’t expect to be fed before practice.

I don’t expect Tanner’s mom to look me in the eyes like I’m someone worth having in her home.

I don’t expect his dad to talk baseball with me like I’m part of the team.

And I really don’t expect to feel... safe.

It’s been a long time since a house felt like that.

When Zach invites me to swim again after practice, it’s easier to say yes than to head home. The water is warm; the backyard smells of sunscreen and tea, and Tanner looks like he belongs in a different world—one I can’t stop staring at.

After the pool, they lead me into the basement like it’s a rite of passage. And for a second, just one, I forget to be guarded. I forget I don’t belong here.

We play pool. We laugh. I tell myself I’m not going to stay up late. That I’ll go to bed after one more game. One more lap of Mario Kart. One more joke. But I don’t. I can’t.

I ask for a blanket.

Tanner says, “Come sleep in my room.” He covers it up fast—futon, it’s more comfortable, something like that—but I hear the words first. And part of me—the part I always try to kill off—wants what I heard to be what he meant.

Stepping into his room is like stepping into someone else’s life. His glow-in-the-dark stars. His worn carpet. His second blanket, clean and folded, as if it has always been waiting for me.

And when I drop my shorts, I know he looks. The same as when I looked at him as he stepped on the deck in his bathing suit earlier in the day. I don’t say anything. He doesn’t either. But a vibe passes between us, even though neither of us knows how to put it into words.

We lay there—me on the futon, him in his bed—and I say goodnight. He says he had fun today like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything. It’s the first time in a long time someone invited me into their space and made me feel like I’m not temporary. It’s the first time I feel wanted without having to earn it.

I stare at the ceiling, blinking against the soft glow of stars that aren’t mine. I haven’t cried in months. But I almost do, not because I’m sad but because I know—I know—I’ll never let myself forget this.

I flicked the memory away, like smoke in the cold night air. I sat at the edge of Tanner’s bed—in Tanner’s room but without Tanner. The futon had vanished, replaced by a desk stacked with college textbooks and unopened mail. The stars on the ceiling still hung, though—faint, chipped, barely glowing, but there.

I reached for the closest one and brushed my fingers over the plastic. It was the same one with the broken edge I’d stared at that night when everything had been impossible and new. Back when a couch in a stranger’s basement had been the most I’d allowed myself to hope for. Now? I had a dresser drawer full of my own clothes in this house. A toothbrush in the bathroom. A real bed. And yet—still—it didn’t seem real.

The room still smelled of Tanner. In all the ways that made it so I couldn’t forget him—a hint of worn-in flannel, acorns, clean laundry, and the woodsy cologne he wore when Calvin came to visit.