Page 48 of The Way We Swing Back

I lay back, letting the silence fill the space again.

Tanner’s bed. Tanner’s room.

Mine, for now. It almost felt like I wasn’t borrowing someone else’s life.

In the morning, I bolted up, rubbing my eyes, remembering where I was. It felt like waking up in the middle of a dream and waiting to see if it had turned on me. I reminded myself this was real, as I squinted at the streaks of light slanting across Tanner’s ceiling. This was still Tanner’s room, down to the worn-out Cardinals poster by the window and the faint scuff on the closet door.

I knew Tanner wasn’t here, but still, I caught myself glancing around for him, hoping he’d shown up overnight ready to ask if I wanted to hit today.

I pulled on a hoodie, opting for one of his instead of mine, and stepped into the hallway. The rest of the house was the kind of quiet I used to imagine existed in other people’s homes: no creaking pipes, no raised voices from a bedroom down the hall, and no lingering tension from a night that’d gone sideways.

The smell of bacon and brewed coffee pulled me toward the kitchen. It was the same smell I’d followed once before, on my first morning here. Back then, I’d been a guest in a world I didn’t belong to. Now... I wasn’t sure what I was—firmly invited but sort of a guest still, too.

Mrs. Quinn stood in her robe at the stove, flipping bacon with the same calm confidence she brought to everything. She looked up and smiled when I entered, her hair stretching past her shoulders. “Morning, Easton.”

“Morning,” I said, my voice groggy.

“You didn’t have to wake up this early. It’s summer, you know.”

I shrugged and stepped toward the counter. “Figured I could help. You know I enjoy cooking.”

“I do,” she said, handing me a bowl of pancake batter and a spatula. “And I appreciate it. Not many boys around here offer to cook voluntarily.”

“Consider it payment,” I said, managing a half-smile. “For letting me live here.”

Her smile faltered a little, softening into a more careful look. “We wanted you here, Easton. You’re not a favor.”

I nodded and turned back to the griddle instead of answering. I didn’t know how to say that wanting something didn’t make it real, that I still half-expected someone to knock on the door and say, He has to go.

Still, I moved like I belonged. I grabbed the cinnamon from the spice rack. I mixed a dash of vanilla into the batter. I let my hands take over so my thoughts didn’t have to. Cooking was safe. Cooking had rules.

Mrs. Quinn worked next to me, sliding eggs into a pan and humming a song faintly off-key. It was nice. Familiar. That might’ve been the scariest part. It was a morning routine I could get used to.

Zach stumbled in first, his pajamas still on and his eyes half-closed. He tossed a banana in the air and caught it without looking. “You’re too awake for this hour,” he mumbled.

“Do you want breakfast or not?”

“Fair point,” he said, grabbing a plate as I slid a pancake onto it. “You know we still have a week of summer vacation left, right?”

“You’re just mad I beat you downstairs.”

He grunted and dropped into a seat at the table, eating as if he’d never seen food before. I tried to act normal—like I’d always been part of this rhythm, like I wasn’t measuring every word and waiting for someone to say I was still technically temporary.

I watched Zach slam half a pancake into his mouth at once. Hopefully, a full stomach would be a good peace offering to him for letting me stay.

Gavin showed up five minutes later, bright-eyed and messy-haired, immediately reaching for the pancakes. “Oh my,” he said. “Did you put cinnamon in these again?”

“Guilty.”

“You’re a god,” he said, making a throne of condiments around his plate.

Mrs. Quinn raised an eyebrow. “A god, huh?”

“He’s keeping me alive,” Gavin said around a mouthful of pancakes. “His cooking is divine intervention.”

I laughed—actually laughed—and Mrs. Quinn smiled at me from the sink. I ducked my head. It was easier than holding her gaze.

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” she asked.