Swing for the Fences
by Little Buddha
Chapter 30
A relaxing Wednesday was exactly what we needed after an exhausting Tuesday.
After everything – Tommy, the theme park, photo album-induced humiliation – we were grateful for a full day of doing absolutely nothing. Mom was working a shift at the ER, so Jack and I took full advantage of the empty house. We lounged around in just our underwear, watched hours of terrible daytime TV, and let Mr. Bojangles climb all over us like we were his personal jungle gym.
I kept glancing over at him – my dog, my first real best friend – and wishing I could somehow sneak him into Harrison West. I knew it was against every rule in the handbook, but still. I missed him so much when I was away. People didn't get it – not really. Mr. Bojangles wasn't just a pet. He was my best friend, my most loyal companion. He'd been there for me when I was alone, when I was at my darkest point, when kids at my local school were cruel, when my dad died, and the house felt like a hollow shell. He was the only one who never made me feel like I had to pretend to be okay. He was also the last significant gift my dad ever gave me when I was nine years old.
We'd played fetch in the yard almost every day after school. He'd crawl into my bed at night and press his back against mine, like he was making sure I knew I wasn't completely alone. When I cried, he didn't ask questions. He just laid his head on my lap and stayed until the shaking stopped.
Leaving him to go to Harrison West was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. It was also my most significant reason for almost not going.
Jack must've noticed me getting quiet, because he nudged my foot and said, "Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah," I said, stroking Mr. Bojangles' ears. "Just… thinking."
He gave a little nod, like he got it.
Although, to be fair, Jack wasn't entirely himself either that day. He kept asking me questions. Like, a lot of questions. Seemingly innocent, but mainly about Tommy.
"So… like, what kind of stuff did you and Tommy do together?"
I looked up from the couch. "Uh, we went to school. Played tennis sometimes. Ate lunch together. Talked about stupid middle-schooler stuff. We never really hung out much outside of school, even though we live really close, never did sleepovers or stuff like that."
He nodded like that wasn't enough. "Were you guys close?"
"Not really. More like, 'we sit at the same lunch table' close."
A pause. "Do you think he's cute?"
There it was.
"Jack," I said, sitting up and turning toward him. "Are you jealous?"
"No," he said, entirely too fast. "I'm just… curious."
My baby boy was so cute when he was jealous!
"Okay. Fine. Maybe he's kind of cute. But he's not my type."
Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little. "And what is your type?"
I crawled over, straddled his lap, and kissed the tip of his nose. "Average height. Curly-wavy hair that someone thought was a good idea to dye blond. A mustache so faint it should come with a magnifying glass. Neurotic, slightly chaotic, paints his nails, and gets jealous of guys I haven't even texted since Christmas. Oh, and – most important – he looks at me like I'm the only person in the universe."
Jack's blush spread clear to his ears, and I felt ridiculously triumphant – like I'd just scored ten points in a game he didn't even know we were playing. "So yeah," I added with a smirk, "Tommy who?"
"So, you're really sure I don't have to worry?" Jack asked quietly, the crack in his voice betraying how badly he wanted to believe it.
"I already have the world's most beautiful, perfect boyfriend," I assured him, ruffling his hair.
He grinned, muttering, "Dork."
But I could see how much he needed it. Living with his awful parents had left Jack with a shaky sense of self-worth, and sometimes I felt like I had to keep reminding him just how amazing he really was. Honestly, I didn't mind – if constant reinforcement were what it took, then I'd spend forever telling him.
"I love you, Jack," I whispered, holding his face in my hands.
"I love you more, Nicky," he shot back, grinning.
And then we made a beeline to my bedroom – to drink tea and read the Bible, obviously .
Later that afternoon, my phone buzzed. Finally, a message from Emery. It was a photo of him at Victoria Peak in Hong Kong, windswept and beautiful, Victoria Harbor glittering behind him like a postcard. My chest tightened a little – God, I'd missed him. We hadn't talked much since he'd left, and seeing him there, grinning into the sun like he belonged halfway across the world, made me both happy and achingly jealous. I showed Jack, who smiled a little wistfully, and we fired back a picture of us crammed together on a rollercoaster… followed by one of Jack mooning the camera.
Not long after, a Snapchat from Mark lit up my screen: he was on a yacht, of course, dressed in the sparkliest pirate costume I had ever seen, one leg propped on the bow, sword raised high like some glam Peter Pan. The caption read: "It's the pirate's life for me, bitches!"
I almost sprayed lemonade all over my phone.
Jack just shook his head. "If that guy doesn't start his own TikTok series, he's committing a crime against humanity."
I was up early on Thursday, practically vibrating out of my skin.
Baseball day. And the weather was perfect.
Jack rolled over, bleary-eyed, groaning about inhumane wake-up times while I was already dressed in my Tigers cap and Skubal jersey, stuffing extra snacks into my bag like a seasoned pro.
Mom actually slept in for once, and by the time Jack dragged himself upstairs, he was clutching his coffee like it was morphine. He made a dramatic noise when I reminded him that the drive would take a couple of hours.
"You know I'd rather watch competitive pickleball than baseball, right?"
"You're such a liar," I shot back. "You loved Christian's game."
"I liked Christian ," Jack corrected. "The sport? Not so much. Too many guys in tight pants running in circles and spitting. It was… kinda gross."
"Blasphemy," I declared. "You're going to be converted. Baseball is America's number one pastime. Nothing is more American than baseball, apple pie, and the Fourth of July."
We pulled into the Comerica Park lot just before game time, and despite all his anti-baseball propaganda, Jack's jaw practically hit the pavement.
"Holy crap," he muttered as he stepped out of the car. "This place is huge."
The stadium was alive. Music blasted, people laughed and shouted, kids zoomed by with foam fingers, and the air was thick with the scent of grilled onions, bratwurst, and fresh popcorn. The field glowed unnaturally green, almost fake-looking, until the smell of freshly cut Kentucky bluegrass hit me and I knew it was real. The organ boomed through the air as vendors bellowed, "PEANUTS! GET YOUR PEANUTS! RED HOTS! GET YOUR RED HOTS HERE!"
We merged into the crowd, and I couldn't stop grinning. This – this was everything I loved: the noise, the smells, the buzz of people all here for the same thing. Baseball wasn't just a game to me – it was tradition, summer, belonging. It was my dad explaining box scores to me when I was little, and late nights listening to the radio when I was supposed to be asleep. And now here was Jack, standing next to me, taking it all in. For all his sarcasm and eye-rolls, I wanted him to feel what I felt – that warm rush of being part of something bigger. I wanted him to love it too, not because I needed him to, but because this was me, and I wanted to share all of me with him.
"I feel like I'm in a movie," Jack whispered.
"You are," I said. "It's just a baseball movie, and I'm the star."
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
The matchup was the Tigers vs. the Twins – our Midwestern archrivals. Or, as Jack insisted on calling them, the "Minnesota Twinks." Tarik Skubal was our starting pitcher, and he was my favorite player.
"So, do these 'twinks' from Minnesota come with glitter and backup dancers?" he asked.
"Shut up," I laughed, punching him in the shoulder.
By the third inning, Jack had his feet propped on the empty seat in front of him, munching sunflower seeds like he'd been doing this his whole life. Every time the crowd roared, he jumped a little, then grinned at me like he was in on the secret now. I found myself sneaking glances at him more than I watched the field – the way his hair stuck up under my cap he'd stolen, the way he actually looked impressed when a double play happened. He caught me staring once, smirked, and tossed a sunflower seed at me.
And just like that, I knew he was getting hooked, one inning at a time.
Of course, Jack couldn't resist adding his own "color commentary."
When one of the batters adjusted his cup for the third time, Jack leaned over and whispered, "Does he get paid extra for a live demonstration of manspreading 101?"
I nearly snorted my Coke through my nose.
Later, when a foul ball rocketed into the stands and half a dozen people dove for it, Jack said, "Congratulations, sir, you just risked a concussion for a free souvenir that smells like saliva and spitting tobacco. Hope it was worth it."
By the sixth inning, he was holding a hot dog in both hands like it was the Holy Grail.
"This," he announced solemnly, "is the peak of American culture. Forget apple pie, forget fireworks – processed meat of unknown origin in a soggy bun is where it's at."
Then came the seventh-inning stretch. The crowd started belting out "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," and Jack joined in, loud and off-key, but deliberately changing the lyrics:
"Buy me some peanuts and crack cocaine…" I elbowed him so hard he almost dropped his soda, but he just cackled and sang louder.
By the time the Tigers finally clinched the win, Jack was on his feet, pumping his fist like he'd been a diehard fan all along.
"Admit it," I said. "You're converted."
He grinned, eyes sparkling. "Fine. Baseball's not terrible. But only if I get to provide live snark for the entire stadium. They should hire me as one of their radio broadcasters. It would be a ratings boon for them!"
I just looked at my boyfriend and rolled my eyes. What am I going to do with you?! I thought.
With the game ending in a roar, the crowd began to pour out of Comerica Park like a river of jerseys and foam fingers. Jack strutted beside me, waving a giant souvenir cup like he was leading a parade. Somewhere along the way, he'd also acquired one of those foam claws that said GO TIGERS! and was swiping it at random passersby like a deranged mascot.
"Careful," I warned. "You're one swing away from a lawsuit."
"Worth it," he said, chomping on what was left of his fifth hot dog. "Also, I am now legally eighty percent nitrates."
We wove through the parking lot, laughing at his running commentary about everyone's merch choices – apparently, cargo shorts and retro jerseys were "a crime against fashion and basic human decency." But before we reached the car, I grabbed his arm and pulled him aside, the chaos of the crowd fading a little.
"Hey," I said, suddenly serious. "I know you joked your way through half the game, but… it really meant a lot to me, sharing this with you. Baseball's been a huge part of my life, and some of my best memories involve my dad and baseball. So having you there – getting to see you actually enjoy it – it just made me… happy. Like really happy ."
Jack's smirk softened, and for once, he didn't have a witty remark ready. He just leaned in, his forehead brushing mine, and whispered, "Then I'm glad I came."
It would've been perfect. The kind of ideal moment you save up in your memory bank like a favorite song. Except that's when Mom hit the unlock button on the car and shouted across the lot: "Hey lovebirds! Don't get too cozy out here – remember, those foam fingers are not rated for what you're thinking."
Jack burst out laughing, and my face went nuclear. So much for cinematic romance.
On the way home, I passed out on Jack's shoulder. The last thing I remember was his hand brushing through my hair and the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
By the time we got home, I could barely keep my eyes open. Jack helped me out of the car and into the house. We both stripped off our sweat-drenched clothes, took the world's fastest shower together, and fell into bed.
Mr. Bojangles leapt up between us and flopped his head on Jack's thigh like you're not the only one who loves him, you know.
I smiled and kissed Jack's shoulder before pulling the blanket over us.
"You had fun," I murmured, unable to resist.
He didn't even try to deny it, though he rolled his eyes in the dark. "Shut up and go to sleep, Hall of Famer."
I laughed softly. "Admit it – you're basically a Tigers fan now."
Jack snorted. "Don't push it. I still think half the sport is just guys standing around adjusting their junk."
"Fine," I said, grinning against his skin. "But you cheered louder than anyone when Báez hit that double. Don't think I didn't notice."
His arm tightened around me, pulling me closer. "Maybe I was cheering for you," he said quietly, and for once, there was no snark, just the weight of something that made my chest ache in the best way.
I pressed another kiss to his shoulder, letting the warmth of him and the hum of the day settle over me. Baseball, Jack, everything – it all felt like home.
"Goodnight, Twink fan," I teased.
He groaned into the pillow. "I'm never living that down, am I?"
"Not a chance."
Friday moved like molasses.
Jack and I barely spoke for the first half of the day, not because anything was wrong – just because everything felt… still. We drifted from couch to kitchen and back again, watching a documentary about the history of potatoes we didn't care about and silently demolishing an entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and way too many Slim Jims. Even Mr. Bojangles was lazy, sprawled across the rug like the week had worn him out, too.
Spring break was almost over. Yeah, sure, it would've been epic to play cowboy with Danny at his grandfather's ranch in Montana, or to eat stroopwafels and get lost in the canals of Amsterdam with Christian and Jonah. But honestly? None of that would have beaten what we had. Because the truth was, the best part wasn't the trip – it was being with Jack. He was the whole adventure. (And honestly, I was relieved not to spend a week posing for Jonah's forty-seven daily Instagram stories.)
It was one of the best weeks of my life. Not because of anything flashy – though the amusement park and the Tigers game were definite highlights—but because I got to just exist with Jack. No schedule. No interruptions. No dorm monitors or roommates breathing down our necks. We could touch each other without second-guessing. Curl up together on the couch. Steal kisses without checking over our shoulders. For once, it felt like the world had permitted us just to be , and we made the most of it. These were our memories, ours alone, and at least we had the photos to prove it wasn't just a dream.
And now it was almost over. Tomorrow, we'd be packing, and on Sunday, we'd head back to Harrison West.
I didn't want to admit it, but I was already mourning this – this version of us that only seemed to exist here, in this fragile bubble. But Harrison West was waiting, and bubbles don't survive dorm bathrooms.
Jack must've felt it too, because he was quiet in a different way. Not tired-quiet. More like thinking-too-much quiet. I caught him staring into space a few times, chewing on his thumbnail, pulling at the strings of his hoodie.
I wanted to ask if he was okay. But I didn't. Not yet.
That night, just before seven, Mom came home with Taco Bell bags hanging from one arm and her work badge still clipped to her collar. Her hair was messy, and her voice was raw like she'd spent the last twelve hours yelling instructions and comforting scared patients – but she still smiled when she saw us, like we were the one thing that could make any day better.
"Dinner is served, gentlemen," she said, dropping the bags onto the table with exaggerated flair. "Don't ever say I don't spoil you."
We helped unpack the food – soft tacos, burritos, cheesy fiesta potatoes, Crunchwrap Supremes, and those weird chicken nuggets they keep trying to make happen. It was a glorious mess of grease, hot sauce, and fake cheese. Mr. Bojangles sat at attention under the table, tail wagging slowly like he was waiting for his begging prayers to be answered. Because I couldn't resist that face, I occasionally tossed him a chicken nugget or a fiesta potato.
As we sat down, Mom rubbed her temples and groaned. "If I fall asleep face-first into a quesadilla, just roll me over so I don't choke."
We laughed, but she didn't start eating. Instead, she glanced between us and said, "Before we dive into this feast, I need to talk to you guys about something."
Jack and I froze, our burritos halfway unwrapped. If it were another one of those talks , I swore I would lose it. I'd already told her way too many details that she did not need to know about my love life and swore to her that we weren't having "butt sex" ... yet. What more did she want from us?
"I've just been thinking a lot," she continued, "about this week. About how grateful I am to have had this time with you both."
She paused, her voice softening.
"There's so much love in this house again. Real, beautiful love. And after what we went through a few years ago… it's healing. Watching you two – how you care for each other, how you show up for each other – it makes me proud in a way I can't even describe."
Jack ducked his head, staring at his food.
"I want you to know, Jack," Mom said, her voice deepening with a gravity that pulled the whole room quieter, "that I see you. That I love you. And I will do whatever I can to make your path forward easier. You've made my son happier and more grown-up than I've ever seen him. He's almost like a different young man. Calmer. Stronger. Better. Because of you."
Jack nodded, but his face went still – too still. Not unreadable, exactly, just… empty. Like he'd learned to flick a switch and disappear behind his own walls whenever someone praised him, waiting for the inevitable but .
And then Mom drew in a breath.
"So, as part of that promise," she said carefully, "I did something. I made a few calls. Sent a few emails. And… I found your grandmother."
Jack blinked, caught mid-breath. "My… Nana?"
"She's in Seattle," Mom said. "She's been wanting to be a part of your life for a long time, but your parents wouldn't allow it."
His whole body jerked as if the words had physically hit him. "She's alive ?" he whispered.
"Yes," Mom said gently, eyes steady on his. "And she's thrilled at the idea of hearing from you."
I watched Jack freeze, every muscle wound tight like he didn't know whether to run or collapse. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For a second, he looked so young – like the boy he must have been when all those lies were planted inside him.
"I thought… I thought she didn't want me," he said finally, his voice breaking on the words. "That's what they always said. That she didn't want anything to do with me."
Mom reached across the table, her hand firm and steady over his trembling one. "She did, Jack. She always did. They just wouldn't let her."
Jack didn't speak. His lips pressed into a hard, quivering line, and his eyes brimmed, glistening with the kind of tears he'd clearly trained himself not to let fall. Watching him, I felt something split inside me – rage at his parents for breaking him like this, and an aching need to put him back together. For once, I didn't reach for a joke or a distraction. I just sat there, silently willing him to believe it. To believe that he'd been wanted all along.
"I don't know what her situation is," Mom continued gently. "I don't know if she can help with tuition, or if she could take you in if things with your parents fall apart completely. But what I do know is – she wants to know you."
"I don't care about the money," Jack whispered, his voice so raw it cracked something in me. "I just… I just want to feel like I have a family."
"You do have a family, Jack," I whispered back, slipping my hand into his. "And you'll always be part of ours."
That was it – the dam broke. He began to cry, not loudly but fully, tears spilling down his cheeks as his shoulders shook. He swiped at them with the back of his hand, almost angrily, like he hated being caught vulnerable.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I don't know why I'm crying. It's just… it's a lot."
"You don't have to apologize," I said quickly, pushing up from my chair to sit beside him.
Mom moved too, and together we wrapped our arms around him. Jack leaned into us with a weight that nearly crushed me, like he hadn't had anyone to lean on in years. And maybe he hadn't – not really – not since Mr. G, who was gone now too.
After a long silence, he managed to whisper, "I'll call her this weekend. I want to talk to her. I want to try."
"You're not alone, Jack," Mom said firmly, her hand rubbing circles on his back. "Like Nick said, you already have a family here. Don't you forget that. And we'll be here for as long as you'll let us. You're stuck with us."
He nodded, his voice breaking. "I know. You're the only family I've ever really had. I told Nick I hope it's forever."
We stayed there, holding him, the three of us bound together in a kind of quiet, fierce knot until the food on the table sat forgotten and cold.
Eventually, Jack pulled back, wiping at his eyes with quick, embarrassed movements, as if trying to erase the evidence. But the redness around them told the truth: the pain he carried was still raw, still heavy, even if he'd let us glimpse it before. Watching him, I realized it never got easier for him to cry – it always looked like it cost him something. And yet he trusted us with it anyway. Trusted me. That trust hit me harder than anything else, and it left me with a fierce certainty: whatever came next, whatever storms were waiting, I was going to stand by him.
I reached for his hand under the table, lacing my fingers through his, and leaned close enough that our foreheads touched. No words – just that quiet promise, pressed into the space between us.
"Okay, I'm gonna eat now, but if anyone mentions the fact that I cried into a taco, I will end you."
I laughed. "I love you."
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, but the smile that followed was genuine.
Mom leaned back, finally picking up her own food. "Now eat before Mr. Bojangles files a formal complaint."
And just like that, the air in the room shifted. A little lighter. A little warmer.
She stood, brushing crumbs from her hands. "And I'm sure you boys will want to celebrate… alone… tonight. Just try to keep it down!"
" MOM!!! EWWWWWW!!! " I groaned, burying my face in my hands as she sauntered out, cackling to herself. Jack was bright red but laughing too, which only made it worse.
The future was still one giant question mark – messy, uncertain, impossible to predict. But for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel terrifying. We had each other, and now we had people in our corner. For Jack, that circle was finally starting to grow. But the scars from my mom's commentary would haunt me forever.
The sun was shining brighter than usual, like even the universe knew it was our last day of freedom.
The air was warm, the sky a perfect pastel-blue hue of Michigan springtime, and the birds outside were basically screaming their lungs out. One more day. That's all we had before heading back to Harrison West and diving straight into the madness – final projects, exams, prep blocks, and all the stress and craziness of dorm life. But for now, it was just Saturday. Ours to waste.
Jack and I were in our boxers on the living room sofa, munching on Cocoa Krispies straight from the box and watching old Saturday morning cartoons like we were eight years old again. Technically, it was our third bowl and second cup of coffee, and neither of us had moved enough to be considered legally alive.
My mom was at work, Mr. Bojangles was curled up at our feet, and the idea of showering – or even putting on pants – just seemed aggressively ambitious.
"So," I said, halfway through a mouthful of cereal, "what should we do with our last day of freedom?"
Jack yawned. "Cling to each other and scream?"
"Tempting."
We tossed around a few ideas – hiking in the woods, another round of miniature golf so I could get my revenge, maybe catch a movie and grab White Castle on the way back, sex – but we didn't get far. Mostly, we just kept lounging.
At 10:03 a.m., the doorbell rang. Mr. Bojangles leapt off the rug like a rocket, barking like he was auditioning for Home Security: The Musical.
"Jesus," I muttered, pulling on a T-shirt but not bothering with pants. "Who even rings doorbells anymore?"
As I cracked open the front door, shushing Mr. Bojangles (who was basically in full exorcism mode), I saw them.
"Surprise!" yelled Christian and Jonah in unison.
Before I could react, Mr. Bojangles lunged at Jonah like he'd just found his long-lost twin. He took Jonah down in a single pounce – limbs flying, tail wagging, slobber everywhere.
" I LOVE HIM, HE IS MINE ," Jonah declared from the floor, not remotely bothered that he was being licked to death.
Christian just laughed. "So, this is the famous Mr. Bojangles."
"What are you guys doing here?" I asked, still stunned. "I thought you were still in Amsterdam with your parents?"
"We got back from our trip early," Christian explained, as they set down their bags. "Or rather, we were asked to leave a day early because of Jonah's shenanigans. He finally figured out how the Red Light District works."
"Anyway, we figured we'd come visit and ride back to school with you guys tomorrow."
Jack and I looked at each other and grinned, and gave both Christian and Jonah huge hugs.
"Yes," I said. "Absolutely yes."
I called Mom to let her know and ask if they could stay the night. Of course, she said yes – she was excited to meet more of our friends. If she still felt that way after meeting Jonah, I decided, she deserved automatic canonization.
Christian dropped his bag in the guest room, and I brought Jonah to mine.
"You'll be in here," I told him. "Jack and I sleep in the basement – pull-out couch."
Jonah raised an eyebrow. "Not enough room for two healthy, growing boys in a twin bed?"
"Exactly."
As they settled in, Jack and I slipped upstairs for a quick shower. Together, obviously.
When we came back down, Christian was sprawled on the couch watching ESPN, while Jonah was in the middle of the floor, full-on wrestling Mr. Bojangles like he was auditioning for the WWE.
"You guys totally took a shower together," Jonah accused, pointing at us like he'd just solved a murder case.
"We always take showers together," I said, brushing my hair out of my eyes. "But we'll probably have to break the habit once we're back at school."
Jonah tilted his head. "So… are you guys doing it now?" he asked, in the exact same tone someone might use to order a pepperoni pizza.
Jack froze, then blinked. "Uh… kind of?"
Jonah squinted. "How do you kind of have sex?"
I sighed, trying for my most diplomatic tone. "Look, Jonah, there are lots of different ways of being intimate and expressing love between two people—"
Jonah brightened, cutting me off. "So, you're just not butt-fucking yet."
Both Jack and I turned scarlet.
"Basically, yeah," Jack muttered, face in his hands. "No butt-fucking."
Jonah shrugged. "So, what do you do then?"
Before either of us could melt into the carpet, Christian smacked him on the back of the head. "Jonah, lay off. Whatever they do in private is private, " he said firmly.
Jonah rubbed his head, but instead of looking chastened, he grinned. "I'm just saying, if you ever need tips, I read somewhere that—"
"Jonah," Christian warned, eyes narrowing.
Jonah held up his hands innocently. "What? I'm just trying to educate! Somebody's gotta."
And that was the part that killed me. Jonah, a total virgin, was acting like the resident sex guru because he'd read somewhere about it. The same guy who probably thought lube and hand sanitizer were interchangeable. If anyone on Earth was the last person qualified to teach Sex Ed 101, it was Jonah.
The funniest part? He carried it all with total confidence. Still, give him a couple of years and half a smile, and he'd have people lining up. Like I've said before – Jonah was way attractive. Eventually, he'd probably be Christian's clone.
We moved on, thankfully. Talked about spring break – Michigan's Adventure, the Tigers game. Christian said the baseball game sounded "totally cool" and tried (poorly) to hide how much he wanted to go next time. He casually dropped that his dad could probably score tickets for one of the Comerica VIP boxes. Now that would be insane – our own private room up on the mezzanine, with catered food and the game spread out below like a giant TV screen come to life. I couldn't even begin to imagine Jonah's unfiltered chaos mixed with Jack's sarcastic play-by-play echoing off those glass walls. In my head, I could already hear it: Jonah pointing at the mascot and yelling, "That tiger's seen things. Dark things." while Jack, completely straight-faced, replied, "So have I, Jonah. So have I."
Then Jack brought up the biggest news of all.
"I just found out I have a Nana in Seattle," he said, his eyes lighting up. "She wants to get to know me and maybe even help keep me at Harrison West."
Jonah immediately broke into a ridiculous little jig, while Christian pulled Jack into a long, solid hug. "That's amazing, man! We'd hate to ever lose you."
"We really missed you guys," Jack said, pulling both of them in at once and kissing their cheeks without hesitation. "Like, a lot."
"You've definitely grown this week," Christian said softly.
"Emotionally or just more biceps?" Jack teased, flexing with a smirk.
Christian chuckled. "Both."
At noon, we walked to White Castle. It was exactly as disgusting and wonderful as we remembered. We ate way too much and trudged home like deep-fried zombies.
Mr. Bojangles was ecstatic to have more humans to charm, and Jonah kept kissing him on the mouth like they were star-crossed lovers finally reunited.
By the time Mom got home around seven, the house smelled like a cocktail of teenage boy sweat, wet dog, and old fries. She pushed through the door with two massive bags of Indian takeout.
"Dinner is here!" she called. "And I can't wait to meet my sons' best friends!"
Christian immediately stood, polite and composed. "Dr. Kincaid, it's an honor. I'm Christian Donahue." He shook her hand like he was running for office.
Jonah… did not follow suit.
" DID YOU KNOW ," he began at full volume, "that there's a black market in North Korea where you can trade counterfeit Pop-Tarts for goat semen? Because I didn't until last week. Also, your house smells like cinnamon and boy trauma, which I find deeply comforting."
Mom blinked. "You must be Jonah."
"I am. Also, your son's dog is my emotional support soulmate. Can I have him?"
Mom shot me a look that said: This is going to be a long night.
Yes, it will, Mom. Yes, it will.
Over dinner – tikka masala, beef vindaloo (extra spicy), saag paneer, naan, and rice – Jonah launched into no fewer than five bizarre monologues, including:
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A passionate tirade about why squirrels are obviously the reincarnated souls of unpaid interns.
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A serious question about whether the Taco Bell chihuahua ever got retirement benefits.
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A theory that Christian is secretly a time traveler because "no one that hot is seventeen on purpose."
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A disturbingly detailed ranking of Harrison West's most kissable faculty members (Mr. Johnston, horrifyingly, was number four).
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A heartfelt poem for Mr. Bojangles titled I Licked Your Soul and Found My Own.
Mom just laughed and shook her head. "He's got a freakishly small butt and a very big mouth."
Jonah raised his water glass. "To balance."
Later, the boys asked if they could sleep in the basement with us. Mom suggested the guest rooms again, but she knew it was pointless.
"We want to sleep like middle schoolers on a camping trip," Christian explained.
"Yeah, but with more abs and unresolved emotional tension," Jonah added.
We took turns showering, then set up our pallets and sleeping bags across the basement floor. Jack and I collapsed onto the pull-out couch. Christian stripped to his boxers and casually revealed that, yes, he was sculpted like a marble statue, had an "outie" belly button, and a treasure trail Zeus himself must've designed. Oh, and the kind of ass that deserved its own zip code.
I may have blacked out for a second.
I may also have secretly wished that Christian was sitting on my face.
"Okay, well, now we have proof that Jonah's ass is too small to sit down on," Jack said, poking both cheeks with two fingers. Jonah, never one to lose a challenge, mooned him on the spot. I tried to swat his bare butt, missed, and cursed myself for not having my phone ready. Jonah didn't whip out the ass very often. It did live up to expectations, though. Very tiny and very cute.
We laughed so hard the movie we'd put on faded into meaningless background noise.
The room softened, quieter, warmer.
And then Jack said, almost shyly, "I really do love you guys. Thank you for being part of my life."
Jonah reached across the floor and grabbed his hand. "We love you too, freak."
Christian nodded. "Always. You're stuck with us forever."
For a moment, the world stilled. Just the four of us and Mr. Bojangles, snoring gently at Jonah's feet, his tail twitching with dreams. It was one of those rare moments that felt solid, unshakable – like family, like forever.
And just like that, Jonah broke the silence: "I call dibs on naming rights for your first kid. I pick… Pickle ."
We all groaned, and the spell broke into laughter – but maybe that was the point.
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