Swing for the Fences
by Little Buddha
Chapter 15
The moment I stepped through the door, I was tackled.
Or, more accurately, leapt upon by forty pounds of warm, wiggling, barking chaos.
"Mr. Bojangles!" I dropped to my knees as he launched himself into my chest, paws scrabbling, tail whipping like a metronome on steroids.
He licked my face like I'd been gone a hundred years, whining and circling and pressing his head into my neck like he was trying to merge us into one being.
I held him tight and buried my face in his fur.
This was the kind of love you didn't have to question.
My mom tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and gave me a quick, crooked smile as she reached for her travel mug. She already had her scrubs on, and that distracted, preoccupied energy she always carried before a long shift.
"Lasagna's in the fridge, along with extra parmesan cheese and a salad," she said, zipping up her coat. "And there's a new canister of cocoa in the pantry if you want something warm. I've got a double shift, so I won't be home until tomorrow night."
I nodded, still sitting on the floor as Mr. Bojangles crawled into my lap.
She leaned down, kissed the top of my head, and whispered, "I missed you."
"I missed you, too," I said.
She gave me one last smile and headed out the door.
And just like that, the house was mine.
I sat there for a long minute in the quiet, scratching behind Mr. Bojangles' ears as he leaned into my side with all the weight of someone who had waited far too long for his human to come back.
I loved this house. My bedroom. My mom's mismatched coffee mugs. The creaky step on the stairs. The scratch in the kitchen table from when I was six and thought I could whittle.
But it wasn't quite home anymore.
Harrison West, somehow, impossibly, had started to feel like my real home. Messy and overwhelming and weirdly magical. My dorm room. Jack's voice. Noah's kisses. Mark's snark. Jonah's chaos. All of it. I felt more me there than I ever had here.
Which made coming back… strange. It was like living in two different worlds.
After wolfing down two bologna sandwiches and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, I wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
As the water heated, I stood naked in front of the mirror and studied myself.
I didn't get it.
I wasn't bad looking. I knew that. My hair had a nice wave, kind of dirty blond that always looked sunlit even in winter. My eyes were wide-set and hazel. I got compliments on them all the time. And I had a decent face – maybe even a good one.
But the rest? Average. I was average height, definitely on the scrawny side, even after a full semester of tennis. My arms were thin, my stomach flat but soft. No abs, no definition, no movie-star anything.
I looked like a boy. Just a regular boy.
So, how had I ended up here? With Jack and Noah both somehow drawn to me – one with his wild heart, the other with his perfect smiles and relentless heat. And even Jonah apparently had a crush on me, or so he said … repeatedly.
I stepped into the shower and let the water run until my thoughts dissolved.
Afterward, I flopped face-down on my bed, still damp, still naked, not caring.
I loved the freedom of being able to just be in my own space. No one knocking. No one barging in. No one asking questions or making jokes. No more sick and twisted pranks on the underclassmen or teachers. Just me and the silence.
And, of course, my thoughts.
Which always found their way back .
Jack's laugh. Noah's mouth. Jack's messy hair and sharp sarcasm. Noah's voice when he whispered things I wasn't ready to hear. The way they both looked at me. The way I felt when they touched me. The way my heart skipped two beats when Jack said he loved me.
My hand drifted down. I didn't stop it. I couldn't stop it.
And when I finished, gasping softly into the pillow, I saw both of them behind my eyes. Blended. Blurred. Beautiful.
Then I curled into the blankets and fell asleep, limbs tangled, heart confused.
When I woke up, the sun was already gone.
The house was cold, and Mr. Bojangles was curled up at the foot of the bed, dozing like he'd never moved. His ears flicked when I sat up, and he let out a sleepy grunt.
I pulled on an old sweatshirt and padded downstairs, phone in one hand, stomach growling. After scrolling through takeout apps for way too long, I finally ordered Chinese – egg rolls, General Tso's chicken (extra spicy, of course!), shrimp toast, extra rice, the works. There should be plenty left over for Mom.
An hour later, I was in the basement, curled up on the pull-out sofa with a plate in my lap, chopsticks in one hand, and Mr. Bojangles curled up against my hip like a space heater.
I watched three movies in a row without even looking at my phone. Halfway through the second one, I realized how quiet everything was. No roommates. No footsteps. No yelling down the hall. No late-night debates about which brand of instant noodles was superior.
Just the soft hum of the TV, the occasional snoring from Mr. Bojangles, and the rustle of a takeout bag. And I kind of missed the chaos. A lot .
By 11:30, I was full, tired, and vaguely sad.
I got up, stretched, and turned off the hallway light.
I stood there for a second, staring at the pull-out.
I'd shared this exact bed with Jack once. With Noah, too. Not on the same night, obviously, but still. The memories were there, lingering in the creases of the sheets, like ghosts.
I slid back onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over me.
Mr. Bojangles climbed back up and settled against my chest, snorting once in contentment before going limp.
I stared at the ceiling.
Two amazing boys. Two hearts. One very confused, very tired me.
I didn't know how to fix anything.
But I knew I had to try … somehow.
Eventually.
Just not tonight.
Just as I turned over to get some sleep, my phone pinged. I picked it up and saw a message from Jack:
goodnight, Nicky. I miss u so much right now. I love u. <3
Maybe I would sleep alright tonight after all.
The first few days of Christmas break were excruciating.
Not in a tragic way. Just in the slow, syrupy, nothing-ever-happens kind of way. Even with the excitement of Christmas coming and the promise of gifts, the days dragged.
My mom had tried to cut back on shifts, but "cutting back" still meant I barely saw her before or after her ER double-headers. The house felt empty. And quiet. And stupid.
To pass the time, I put up the fake tree and strung the lights myself. Dug out the old box of ornaments. Sorted our vinyl Christmas records by artist and decade. Played fetch with Mr. Bojangles in the icy backyard until my fingers went numb. Started re-reading The Chronicles of Narnia . Rewatched the entire Harry Potter movie series. Masturbated way too often.
I knew I should be enjoying the break – no tests, no papers, no drama – but the silence felt heavier than usual.
One morning, as I was half-watching a bad horror movie, my phone balanced on my stomach, it pinged.
Jonah.
Morningggg! how's the frozen wasteland? did you die yet??
I rolled my eyes, smirking.
no. but i think time might be. every day is like 1000 years.
ugh i bet. come and play with meeeee :p
i will NOT be seduced by a goblin!
i'm a charming goblin. a flirty goblin. a dangerously festive goblin.
do u even know what you're saying
not really. i had two bowls of captain crunch and a red bull
oh god
also: do u think jack's butt misses me. It looked like it missed me
this conversation is over.
is it?? is it really???
yes.
love u mean it <3
And just like that, he was probably off to torment some poor bystander at a Starbucks.
That afternoon, desperate for a change of scenery, I texted Tommy Reese – one of the only people I still ever talked to from my old school, even if it was barely once or twice a month, at most. We'd never been best friends or anything, but we got along. Played tennis sometimes. He wasn't like the guys at Harrison West, but I liked him well enough.
We met at the public courts near the high school. Fortunately, the city had shoveled the courts, so they were usable, other than having no nets, but we worked around it. Tommy showed up in a puffer jacket and tennis shorts, grinning through chattering teeth.
"Dude," I said, "you look like a confused weatherman."
He shrugged. "It's called style."
He was tall and gangly, with curly blond hair and freckles – so pale I was afraid he might spontaneously combust if the sun ever came out, which was probably one of the reasons he almost always wore a ball cap. And yeah… he was sort of cute. In a kind of goofy, gangly way.
But I didn't let myself go there.
We played for about an hour. I could tell right away how much I'd improved since September. Tommy noticed too.
"Damn, Nick," he said, panting. "What do they feed you at that bougie school?"
"Regret and pressure," I replied.
"Too bad it's an all-boys' boarding school," he sighed.
Not for me, I thought.
We laughed, talked about the Lions' playoff chances, and parted with a fist bump.
It was… nice. But it felt like visiting a version of myself I'd already outgrown.
That night, my mom and I actually had dinner together. She grilled steaks and corn in the snow like a true Midwesterner and made mashed potatoes loaded with garlic and parmesan cheese, and my favorite vegetable of all time – asparagus. Mr. Bojangles sat under the table like a noble king waiting for scraps.
After she went to bed, I dragged myself to the basement, opened Netflix, and let it auto-play whatever it wanted. For some reason, I was avoiding my own room like the plague and staying only in the basement. I'm not sure it would take a first-year psychology major long to figure that one out.
I was bored. And I missed them. Everyone.
By midnight, I was still half-awake, curled onto the pull-out sofa with Mr. Bojangles snoring on my hip when my phone rang.
Jack.
I bolted upright, heart hammering.
"Hello?"
All I could hear was breathing.
"Jack?"
And then – barely a whisper – "Nicky?"
His voice cracked. I sat up straighter.
"Jack, what's wrong?"
Silence again.
Then a choked sob.
"Hey – hey, breathe, okay? I've got you. I'm here. Can you tell me what happened?"
His voice was barely there. "They hate me."
My stomach clenched. "Your parents?"
He sniffed. "They won't stop. Not once. Since I got home. It's like – they're just waiting to break me."
"What are they saying?"
He paused. "That I'm worthless. A freak. A… faggot."
My throat went dry.
"I'm sorry," he added, like he was the one who did something wrong. "I – I know I said it wasn't a big deal. But it is. They've been drinking all day, every day. My dad – he hit me. Not that hard. But… hard enough."
I closed my eyes.
"I tried to just stay in my room," he continued. "But they always find a reason to drag me out. To show me off to their "friends." And then humiliate me in front of them. I could tell that some of them felt embarrassed for me, but no one did anything. My mom said she wished she'd aborted me. Said she'd rather have no son than me. "
I pressed my hand to my chest.
"Jack…"
"And my dad told me – he said I should just… kill myself . That it'd be easier. For everyone. "
I couldn't breathe.
He let out another broken sob.
"I don't know what to do. I want to run away. Just leave. Walk into traffic. Something."
"No," I said, sharper than I meant to. "No, you don't. That's not the answer."
"Then what is the answer, Nick? What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't know." My voice cracked. "I don't know. I'm just – I'm fourteen, Jack. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to make them stop. Do you want me to call the police? Or Child Protective Services? What's your address?"
"They won't help. Neither will social services. They see a rich family's house and just assume it's some spoiled brat kid who's angry at their parents for getting them a BMW instead of a Porsche. They don't think rich kids get beaten on and psychologically abused," he sniffled.
I felt tears gathering behind my eyes. I wanted to hug him so bad.
"But I do know that I love you," I whispered. "And you're not alone. Not anymore. You have me. And Mr. G. And Idela. And Christian, probably. And – hell – even Jonah, who thinks you're the hottest rebel-emo-twink in North America."
A wet laugh.
I smiled through the tears.
"You're going to get through this," I said softly. "We're going to get through this. Together. Just a few more days, and we'll be back – in our room, in our real home. I want you to picture it like you're Harry Potter stuck with the Dursleys. You know, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and that fat fuck, Dudley. Harry had to put up with so much crap. But he got through it because he never forgot where he really belonged. He kept his mind focused on Hogwarts, on his real friends, his real life. On magic.
And that's you. Right now, you're stuck in your own version of Privet Drive. But it's not forever. Just hang on a little longer. You'll be back with your real family soon. Back where you're safe. Back where you're loved . I promise."
He went quiet again.
"Promise me you won't do anything stupid, okay? Promise me you'll stay safe tonight."
The silence was deafening, and I was starting to get really worried. I just wanted to be with him right now, to hug him while he cried until he got out all of that negative energy.
"…I promise, Nicky."
"You know I can't make it without you, Jack. You can't leave me here all alone? I need you. Do you understand me?"
"But you're stronger than me, Nicky, and you haven't had to go through this for all these years, and it just keeps getting worse. I have to get out of here. I never want to come back!"
I swallowed hard. "Do you want me to call Mr. G? Or someone else? I can. You don't have to be alone in this. Tell me what to do, please ."
"No," Jack said quickly. "No one at school. Please. I'm not – I can't talk about it. Not like that. Not yet."
"Okay," I said. "Okay. I get it."
Another pause.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I shouldn't have dumped all this on you."
"Stop. That's what I'm here for."
"I miss you."
"I miss you, too."
"I love you, Nicky."
"I love you, too, Jack. You're my very best friend. The bestest friend I've ever had."
He sniffled again. "I'm gonna try to sleep now."
"Call me if you can't."
"I will."
"Goodnight, my Little Prince."
"Goodnight."
After we hung up, I sat in the dark, clutching my phone, my heart still racing. Mr. Bojangles shifted beside me and let out a sleepy huff as I pulled the blanket tighter around us both.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to cry again.
But the truth was, I felt powerless.
Completely, hopelessly powerless.
And I hated it.
Finally, Christmas was upon us.
I sat cross-legged next to the tree, sorting through the presents for Mom, my grandparents, and me. I think because of my dad, my mom always went a bit overboard with the presents for me. Then there were a handful of neatly wrapped boxes, some from my grandparents, and a few from distant aunts and uncles I'd met maybe once in my life. And I was still enough of a kid to get a couple of presents from "Santa." The soft crinkle of wrapping paper and the warm glow of the tree lights started to stir a bit of the old Christmas magic.
I wondered what Christmas morning was like at Jack's house, and I cringed. I imagined it was nothing like my family. Probably no presents. No Christmas music. No cheer or joy. It was probably just like any other day to them, and Jack deserved so much better.
It was also the first time we'd had little kids in the house for the holidays since my dad died. My aunt and uncle had ditched tradition entirely and gone to Cancún to celebrate Christmas on the beach, leaving their kids – Milo, my nine-year-old troublemaker of a nephew, and his seven-year-old sister, Bella – with their grandparents, who then brought them to our house for Christmas morning.
Milo had basically become my shadow, trailing me everywhere I went. Since Mr. Bojangles already followed me like a furry security detail, I now had a full parade everywhere I went. I felt like the Pied Piper – with more drool. Bella, on the other hand, spent most of her time perched in the corner with her dolls, shooting daggers at anyone who dared enter her airspace. If you got too close – or even looked in her direction – she hissed. Like, actually hissed. Like a feral cat in a sparkly holiday dress.
Mom gave me a few nice button-downs, a new hoodie, and – finally – a Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra smartphone to replace the embarrassingly cracked phone I'd been using since eighth grade. From my grandparents came the real prize: a heavy winter coat and a brand-new Yonex tennis racket, one of the pro models I'd been drooling over for months. I couldn't stop turning it over in my hands. I was so stoked that I probably thanked them a dozen times. I also got some much-needed cash (although not enough for a plane ticket to California), a really nice new pair of sneakers, and, of course, some Detroit Lions and Tigers merchandise. I pretty much made out like a bandit.
Once the chaos had settled and the last bits of wrapping paper had been swept aside, there was still one small gift left under the tree. My mom picked it up, read the tag, and handed it to me with a warm smile. "This," she said, "is from Jack. He brought it at Thanksgiving and asked me to give it to you today." My heart immediately kicked into overdrive as I slowly, carefully peeled back the wrapping. Inside was a framed portrait.
Of me .
Not a casual sketch, not something torn from the pages of his notebook. This was deliberate. Detailed. Beautiful. The kind of thing that took time, care, and intention. The shadows, the highlights, the softness in the expression – it all looked like me, but somehow better. Like the version of myself I wished I could be. Confident. Bright-eyed. Truly happy.
My mom leaned in and whispered, just loud enough so no one else could hear,"It looks like someone put an awful lot of love into that painting."
I felt my face flush so fast I couldn't even hide it, and I just hoped my eyes wouldn't betray me before I could get out of the room.
I cradled a mug of hot apple cider while Christmas music played softly from the record player in the corner. Mom had dug out an old University of Michigan Marching Band LP – the same one she used to play when Dad was still around. Brass-heavy versions of "Joy to the World" and "Deck the Halls" echoed through the small house like ghosts of past Decembers.
It wasn't the same, of course. Nothing ever would be. There was no mad dash to wake up early and catch Santa in the act, no second parent to share the cooking or the clean-up. Just me and Mom and Mr. Bojangles, who barked at every squirrel he saw through the frosted window. But it was still pretty nice. Quiet. Familiar. And that gift from Jack really made my day, and I suddenly felt terrible for not getting him anything. He deserved at least one present for Christmas.
Later that afternoon, after lunch and clearing up the piles of paper and boxes, my phone started buzzing with "Merry Christmas" texts.
Mark sent a glittering selfie of himself and Emery in matching elf pajamas. Christian's message was just a quick "Merry Christmas, bro. Hope it's a good one," followed by a blurry shot of his little brother passed out in a beanbag chair covered in wrapping paper. Jack's came just a bit after: "Merry Christmas, Nicky. I miss you and I love you with all my heart. If only you could feel a tenth of what I feel for you, for me, maybe you would understand." I felt a rush of something – comfort, confusion, guilt, love. I still hadn't sorted all of that out in my head yet. But it was Jack, not Noah, who had gone to that kind of trouble to give me the nicest Christmas gift ever . In fact, I didn't even get a Christmas text from Noah. Not a peep since I left school.
And then came Jonah's message:
"Merry Thiccmas, butt boy. Hope you got stuffed, stayed warm, and didn't choke on anything too big!!!"
I blinked. Blushed. Rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt. Of course. Jonah. The horndog. I could practically hear his high-pitched giggle as he typed it. I sent back an emoji of a candy cane and a middle finger. He heart-reacted it almost immediately.
The days after Christmas melted into each other – slow, gray, and uneventful. I walked Mr. Bojangles. I reread the Percy Jackson & The Olympians series under a blanket. I texted back and forth with my friends. Jack, surprisingly, seemed a little better. Since the night he called me crying, his messages had been… steadier. Still Jack-ish – snarky and dark-humored – but less jagged. Less like he was about to fall apart. Unless it was all just an act, and he didn't want me pitying him.
I didn't respond to all my messages right away. I didn't know what to say. And then, the memory of that night with Noah still gnawed at me – the lubricant, the pressure. I knew he didn't mean to make me feel unsafe. But he had. And I couldn't shake it. More and more lately, I was questioning if that was the type of boyfriend I really wanted, but in the end, I couldn't dismiss the way his kisses and hugs made me feel, and that he was still maturing and would hopefully get there soon, realizing how much of a dick he had been, and then finally things would start to go smoothly between us. We just needed to get on the same page. I was willing to try. I just hoped he was, too. All in all, I didn't think Noah was a "bad boy," I just thought he was a "good boy" who sometimes did bad things. Or maybe I just really was that naïve.
There was one last thing I had to do before Christmas break ended.
I needed to come out to my mom.
I'd made the decision – New Year's Eve. It felt strategic. If it went badly, I'd be on a bus back to school first thing in the morning, safely tucked behind dorm walls and distractions. I wouldn't have to sit there in the fallout, picking through the wreckage with her in the living room. But even as I planned my escape route, I couldn't fully picture it going badly . My mom was a woman of science. Rational. Level-headed. I'd never once heard her say anything remotely homophobic. She donated to progressive causes, listened to NPR, rolled her eyes at Tucker Carlson and Jesse Watters. Statistically, she should've been safe.
And yet… this wasn't politics or theory. This was me . Her son. The kid she probably once imagined walking down the aisle with a woman, handing her a swaddled grandbaby, fulfilling every invisible expectation she'd never said out loud but had still managed to embed in the wallpaper of my childhood. I wasn't sure how deep those dreams ran. I wasn't sure what I'd be undoing.
I kept telling myself I hadn't changed. That being gay didn't make me someone new or unrecognizable. But part of me knew that the image she'd built in her head – the one she'd lovingly carried for fifteen years – was about to fracture. And even if she smiled and said all the right things, I'd still see it in her eyes. That flicker of recalibration. That moment of loss. That tightening breath as she realized the future she'd quietly hoped for… wasn't going to happen. And if it wasn't, then what would my new future be?
That afternoon, while she was folding laundry and sipping peppermint tea, I stood at the edge of the living room, just... watching her. My heart was pounding. I felt like I might actually throw up.
"Hey, uh… can we talk?" I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
She looked up from a pair of folded socks, eyebrows lifting. "Sure," she said, smiling gently. "This sounds serious."
I motioned awkwardly toward the couch. "Yeah. Kind of."
She set the laundry basket down and joined me, the steam from her tea curling upward like a warning flare. I sat beside her, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them like I was bracing for impact. My throat felt dry, my palms damp. This was it. No going back.
"So… you know how I've always said I want to be honest with you about everything, right?" I began, my voice cracking a little. "And how you always say I can tell you anything?"
She nodded slowly, already reading something in my face.
"Well, there's something kinda big," I said. "Something I've been holding in for a while. And I didn't want to disappoint you, or mess up how you see me, and I know it's stupid because you've never given me a reason to be scared, but... I am."
She leaned forward, her brow creased, concern growing. "Nick, sweetheart. Just tell me. Nothing you could say would make me love you any less. You know that, sweetie."
I swallowed. My heart was trying to claw its way out of my chest. I didn't want to see her expression when I said it. I didn't want to see the disappointment or the hesitation or the flicker of grief that I'd always imagined – like the future she pictured for me had just collapsed.
"I'm gay," I said quickly, breathlessly. "Mom, I'm gay. I like boys."
Silence. One second. Two. I looked down at my knees, already bracing.
But then she let out a slow breath and said softly, "Okay."
I blinked. I looked up.
She smiled – quietly, kindly – and reached out, brushing my hair back from my forehead.
"Nick… I've wondered, once or twice. It's not exactly a shock. Even your father wondered before he passed, we both decided we'd love you and support you no matter what. Your dad and I both."
My face crumpled. All that fear, all that tension, it broke open inside me like a dam.
"You're not… upset?"
" God, no ," she said, pulling me into a hug that crushed all the breath from my lungs. "I love you so much. There's nothing about you that could ever change that."
I let her hold me, burying my face on her shoulder, tears I hadn't expected slipping down my cheeks.
"I just…" I choked. "I didn't want you to be sad. Like, that I'm not gonna have a wife or kids, or... give you grandbabies or whatever."
She gave a wet little laugh, holding me tighter. "You don't owe me grandchildren, Nick. All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy – and safe. And to find someone who loves you for exactly who you are."
I nodded against her, breath hitching.
When we pulled apart, I couldn't stop the words from tumbling out. I told her about Harrison West, how it was more progressive than I expected. That we even had a Rainbow Straight Alliance, though I hadn't worked up the nerve to go. That some of my friends were gay too. And then—
"Well… there's this boy. Maybe two. I don't know. It's complicated."
She tilted her head, smirking. "Let me guess. Noah? Or Jack?"
I gaped at her. "Seriously?"
She just laughed, ruffling my hair like I was still five. "I may not be a mind reader, but I have eyes, Nick."
I groaned and buried my face in the couch cushion.
"Okay, okay, I'll stop," she said, still laughing. "But thank you. For telling me."
I felt something in me unwind, like I could finally breathe again. Like maybe – for the first time – I wasn't pretending anymore.
"And because I'm a mom, and it's part of my job description to meddle," she began, "if you're trying to choose between Noah or Jack … pick the one that makes you feel treasured . You can't go wrong."
It was good advice. And I think I was almost ready to admit the answer to myself.
That night, I packed my things – hoodie, racket, books, and snacks for the bus. It had been good to be home. But I was ready. So, so ready to go back.
Before bed, I texted everyone:
"Heading back tomorrow—can't wait to see you guys. Happy New Year! And I've got a super-duper hug waiting for Jonah!!!"
And then, before turning out the light, I closed my eyes and said a quiet prayer.
For my friends. For the new year.
And for Jack. Always for Jack.
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