Page 74 of The Way We Swing Back

“Dude,” I said, “always. We’re absolutely friends. I’m leaving high school, not your life.”

Gavin decided it was the perfect time to join us and forced Zach to sit up so he could take a seat. Jake turned to him and started asking what his plans were for Friday night.

I pulled my phone back out, resigned to think over how yet another person in my little cohort was dating, and I was alone. It was my fault, sure. But did I care anymore? A month from now, the start of my life would end, and a new life would begin. When I went to college, maybe I would change.

It was a big reason I wasn’t going to prom, either. Three different girls had hinted at wanting me to ask them, but why bother? I’d be forced to dance with someone I didn’t like and then expected to go to the after-party, where I’d be asked to drink alcohol, which I didn’t want to do. Not with the season still going on and with my promise to Coach to bring him the state title I’d failed to get him two years ago.

Anyway, I’d rather spend the night watching baseball with Gavin, who was too young to go to prom. Maybe we could invite Jake over, too. Yeah, I’d like that.

My mind drifted as we drove back to school. The season had settled into something I could almost call routine—bus rides, box scores, and the same drive back to the Quinns' I could've made with my eyes shut. I let myself enjoy it. But under all of it I was counting days, and not toward graduation. Three weeks until Tanner came home for summer.

Chapter 32

The skillet smoked too hot. I pulled it off the burner, let the hiss fade, and wiped my palms on my shorts. Mom always said the pan should sing, not scream. Butter was not supposed to burn—it was supposed to melt like a secret.

She had a lot of weird sayings like that when we cooked together. I could still hear her voice even now. Especially now.

The house sat dead quiet, just the occasional low roar of the dishwasher and the distant click of the hallway thermostat kicking on. I liked it this way. No noise. No questions. No pretending.

I cracked a dozen eggs into a mixing bowl and whisked, one hand holding the bowl, the other doing the work. She’d taught me that. She’d taught me everything, really. Except how to live without her.

I didn’t think about her every day anymore. That used to make me feel guilty. But today, on Mother’s Day, she was everywhere. In the eggs. In the toast that had to be golden, not brown. In the pan. In the space between the burner and my chest.

She started to teach me to cook on my eighth birthday. I’d stood on a stool so I could see the counter. Her hands had been over mine, guiding, patient. She hadn’t yelled like Dad did. She’d just let me try.

I’d never asked her if she was okay. I hadn’t even known what it would’ve meant if she’d told me she wasn’t.

I didn’t talk about her at the Quinns’. They knew, obviously. The history. That whole wreck of a story. But I didn’t say it out loud, at least not often. Suicide still seemed like a word you had to whisper. Like if you said it too loud, it might happen again.

The bacon popped in the pan behind me. I shook the handle and cracked one more egg, just in case.

I didn’t cry and break down. She wouldn’t have wanted any of that. What she would’ve wanted was a real meal on a Sunday morning, hot coffee in her chipped orange mug, and someone taking care of her for once.

So, that was what I did. For someone else now. Mrs. Quinn had never tried to be my mom, and maybe that was why I liked her. She never tiptoed around me. She didn’t pity me. She handed me a list of chores, complimented my seasoning, and reminded me to get my ass in bed when I unraveled. So, this morning? I could at least give her breakfast.

By the time Gavin wandered in, I had plates lined up and the table halfway set.

He froze in the doorway. “Uh... you’re up early?”

“It happens,” I said.

He yawned and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “You good?”

I didn’t answer that one. Instead, I motioned toward the plates. “Can you finish setting the table?”

He stared for a beat longer than necessary then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

Zach emerged fifteen minutes later, and Mrs. Quinn came in last, right as the coffee finished. She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at the table. Looked at the food. Looked at me. Her eyes didn’t do the misty-mom thing. But they softened.

“I didn’t expect this,” she said, sliding into a chair.

“Didn’t want to wait for someone else to burn the toast,” I said.

“You realize you’ve outdone anything the boys can do for future Mother’s Days, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “They’ll live.”

She took a bite of the eggs and paused mid-chew. “You used the smoked paprika?”