Swing for the Fences

by Little Buddha

Chapter 32

Jack had promised to call his grandmother nearly a week ago. Yet here we were, Thursday afternoon, and still nothing. Not even a text. It wasn't like him to drag his feet on something this important – unless he was scared. And knowing Jack… yeah, that was probably it.

Still, Jonah's fourteenth birthday party was the next day, and I didn't want this hanging over us like a thundercloud. We needed to rip the Band-Aid off now, so we could actually enjoy ourselves instead of spending the whole weekend circling around it.

When I got back from tennis practice – sweat plastered to my shirt, sunscreen stinging my eyes, and a sunburn already blooming across my nose – Jack was exactly where I expected him: sprawled on his bed in nothing but those tight white briefs I'd bought him over spring break, sketchbook perched on his thighs. His hair was damp from a recent shower, and he was sketching like a man possessed, tongue poking out in concentration.

"Jeez," he said without looking up. "Somebody needs a shower."

"I'll take one," I said, grabbing my towel. "But afterward, we need to talk."

That got a flicker of a reaction – just the tiniest freeze, like I'd tripped an alarm.

"Have I been a naughty boy?" he asked, aiming for playful, but his voice had a nervous edge.

"Maybe," I smirked, and headed off to the bathroom.

When I came back, towel slung around my waist, Jack still hadn't moved. He looked up from his sketchbook just long enough to give me a full once-over – eyes lingering on my chest before darting away like he'd been caught shoplifting.

I rubbed the towel through my hair, pretending not to notice him sneaking a glance at my package. "So," I said casually, "why haven't you called your grandmother yet?"

That got him. His sketchbook snapped shut, and suddenly, he looked about ten years old.

"I don't know," he muttered. Then, lower: "I mean… I do know. I'm nervous. Anxious. I don't even really remember her. What if she's like them?"

"You mean your parents?"

He nodded. "Yeah. What if she's just another version of that? I mean, she's the one who raised one of them. Or worse – what if she doesn't want anything to do with me after hearing how screwed up I am?"

I sat beside him, hand on his knee. "Jack, I get it. I do. But you've got to try. You don't get the life you want unless you actually reach for it, like I did, coming here. And for the record, you're not screwed up. Not to me."

He stared at his knees, shoulders curling in. "I just don't want to lose you."

"You won't," I said firmly. "But if we don't deal with this now, if your parents pull the rug out and cut you off, that's how we lose each other. You owe it to yourself to give it a try. And don't forget our promise—forever."

Silence. His jaw worked, but nothing came out.

So, I sweetened the deal.

"If you call her today," I whispered, leaning in so close my lips brushed his ear, "we can try something new and exciting tonight."

That did it. His head whipped toward me, eyes wide, like I'd just handed him the keys to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory and a lifetime supply of Oreos.

"Okay," he said, suddenly all spark and energy. "I'll do it."

Yes, I could be very manipulative.

We had about an hour before dinner, so Jack pulled out the number my mom had given him and, with trembling fingers, dialed.

"Umm… hi, Nana," he said. "It's Jack. Your grandson."

Even from across the room, I could hear the explosion of joy on the other end – her voice practically shrieking through the receiver.

I slipped out and headed to the common room. Danny and a few others were mid-game in Operation, and I slid in beside them, pretending I wasn't glancing toward the hallway every five seconds like some lovesick cartoon character. Danny clocked me immediately, scooted closer, and draped his arm over my shoulder. Then he laid his head against me with a sigh. The kid was basically a human teddy bear, and – annoyingly – it did help.

It was nearly dinnertime when Jack finally came downstairs. He looked… different. Lighter. Like a shadow had been peeled away. He didn't say much, just gave me a smile that stretched wider than the dining hall doors.

"I'll tell you everything after dinner," he whispered.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

We tore through our food, trying to ignore Jonah's running commentary.

"You guys are eating like you're in a contest," he said. "Bet you're trying to cram in a quickie before prep, aren't you?"

"Jonah, you're like the Boy Who Cried F—"

"Finish that sentence and I'll bite you," Jonah warned, waving his fork.

Back in our room, Jack finally spilled.

"She was amazing, Nick," he said, still dazed. "She was so happy I called. She said she's wanted to talk to me for years, but my parents cut her out. She never stopped thinking about me."

My chest tightened.

"She called them spiteful, cruel penny-pinching fuddy-duddies. Direct quote."

I laughed. "Fuddy-duddies? That's how you know she's legit."

Jack grinned. "And get this – she's rich. Not just comfortable. Loaded. Apparently, the money my parents have is all from my dad's side. She's got her own and said my mom won't see a penny of it after she dies. I never knew that both my parents came from wealthy families. They never told me much of anything about our family's history; they only cared about themselves."

I blinked. "Okay. Wow."

"She said she'd help with tuition if I want to stay at Harrison West. Or…" He hesitated.

"There are schools near her in Seattle she wants me to consider."

Panic sliced through me like ice water.

"Oh," I managed.

Jack immediately caught it. He grabbed my hand, squeezing hard. "Don't. I told her no way. It's Harrison West or nothing. You're my home."

Relief hit so fast it almost made me dizzy. I kissed him, long and slow, like an anchor.

"She wants to come visit," he added breathlessly. "See the school, meet the staff, especially your mom."

I blinked again. "Oh. Wow. She wants to meet the Kincaids."

He nodded. "She said she owes you both a lot for looking out for me and for tracking her down."

That night, prep was a blur. Jack and I worked side by side until the guys poured in, flopping around our room like puppies. We played a few rounds of Fuck, Marry, or Murder – Christian was "marry" every single time, while Jonah was the undisputed king of "murder."

"Honestly," Jonah sighed, sprawled across my desk chair like a scorned Victorian widow, "I think you're all just scared to admit you want to fuck me. Don't be shy. I've got range."

"Yeah, but three inches isn't a selling point, bro," Christian deadpanned.

Jonah gasped. "Excuse you, it's at least four on a humid day."

"Pathetic," Christian muttered. "Maybe you're adopted then, because all Donahue men have big schlongs. And if you were adopted, then that would explain so much …"

"Cruel," Jonah whined, pouting dramatically. Then he brightened. "But I forgive you. My love language is forgiveness. Also, fellatio and enthusiastic penis appreciation."

"I want to murder you with a waffle iron," Mark said flatly.

Jonah beamed. "See? Now that's better."

Right on cue, Miss Charice appeared in the doorway, arms folded, giving us the look.

" Mm-hmm . Ten-thirty, babies. You need to be in them beds. And don't forget to floss neither." She wagged a finger at Jonah. "And that means real floss, not just swooshin' Listerine like you do."

Jonah clutched his chest like she'd shot him. "How dare you expose me in front of my peers."

"And listen here," she added, eyes narrowing, "no spoonin' with intent to sin. God don't like ugly, and y'all way too young to be nasty."

Jonah raised his hand like a kid in class. "Okay, but what if it's educational spooning ? You know, purely scientific?"

Miss Charice cut him off with one arched eyebrow. "Boy, if you don't hush…"

We howled with laughter as she left, muttering something about "these damn boys gon' put me in an early grave."

Later, Jack and I showered – separately, unfortunately – and climbed into bed, skin against skin, the whole day still buzzing around us.

"I'm so proud of you," I whispered, tracing a finger down his chest and giving his nipple a little tweak.

"I'm proud of me too," he murmured, sounding almost surprised. "I feel like… we might actually win for once, you know?"

I nodded against his shoulder. "Yeah. I feel that too."

Then he tilted his head, that mischievous spark back in his eyes. "Hey, weren't you going to show me something new and exciting tonight?"

Indeed. Jack was about to be a very happy boy.

We were already naked, so I maneuvered Jack into a quasi-sixty-nine position, with his cute little butt right in front of my face, and his face just above my saluting soldier. After a very brief explanation, I began to go to town on Jack's butt hole with my tongue, while I massaged and kneaded his fleshy, smooth cheeks. I was literally obsessed with his ass. It drove me completely out of my mind. I could bury my face in there for days …

While I plundered his puckering pink ring with my tongue, he gobbled down my stiff boyhood, bobbing up and down relentlessly while we both writhed and moaned in mindless ecstasy. We usually finished pretty quickly, but this time, we tried to make it last, taking a short rest every couple of minutes before we passed the point of no return.

Knowing that I was the one causing Jack to moan and squirm like this was what really drove me crazy, the way he reacted to my body, to my every movement. It was as if I had complete control over him. I was starting to get the feeling that Jack would be the more passive one in our relationship, which was just fine with me, although I did want to try being the passive one sometimes, too.

Once Jack was fully lubricated and dilated, I first pushed one, then two fingers gently inside him and started searching for his prostate, which I had read was like a guy's G-spot. After fiddling around in there for a while, with Jack never letting up on my cock, I finally found it and felt him tremble like a jolt of electricity had just shot through his entire body, and he screamed … loudly. "Do that again!" he begged. "Please, Nicky!" First, though, I had to hand him a pillow to bite down on so no one would hear him, if they hadn't already. After I tweaked the "special spot" a few more times, sending Jack to another plane of existence, he begged me again for something else. "Nicky, I want you to put it inside me, please, just do it," he moaned. "Not yet, baby," I whispered in his ear. "Let's take our time." Jack almost couldn't take it anymore of my administrations to his prostate, so we shifted around to a regular sixty-nine position to finish each other off in mere seconds, both swallowing every drop of each other's magic potion. The whole experience was intense !

Afterward, we lay sprawled across the bed, breathless and sweaty, our fingers laced like glue.

"I think we're getting better at this, Nicky," Jack yawned, stretching out like a satisfied cat. "You make it feel sooo good."

"Oh, you liked that, huh?" I teased.

"Liked it? That was incredible. You're incredible. I love you so much. Just… please don't ever leave me," he said earnestly, like the words had been waiting on his tongue for years.

His voice cracked on leave, and it hit me right in the chest. I kissed his cheek, partly to hide how shaky I suddenly felt.

Because the truth was, I knew what he wanted. It was evident in what he begged me for while I was playing with his butt. Jack was ready to take things much further, at least sexually – to cross that last line. Going all the way. Intercourse. And maybe some part of me wanted to, too. Of course, I was curious. Just putting my fingers in there, it felt so warm, tight, and wet. But I wasn't ready for that. Not yet. I was only fifteen years old, and that final leap was the most precious thing I had left to give, and I wasn't going to hand it over until I was absolutely one-hundred-percent sure that Jack was truly my soulmate. If that made me a prude, like Noah had accused me of? Fine. Slap it on my forehead. Better a prude with standards than a cautionary tale in health class.

"I wasn't planning on leaving you," I murmured, brushing my thumb along his jaw. Then, to stop myself from getting teary-eyed, I added, "Unless you start snoring, in which case I'm trading you in for Christian."

Jack laughed and shoved me, then immediately yanked me back into his arms. "Idiot. You're stuck with me."

And honestly? I couldn't imagine wanting it any other way.

By six o'clock, we headed into the dining hall for dinner. No Christian. No Danny. Just the rest of us.

Jonah stepped through the door and froze. The dining hall looked completely normal.

"So, this is my birthday party?" he asked flatly. "Meatloaf and milk cartons?"

"It's the thought that counts," Mark said, patting him on the back.

"There was zero thought put into this," Jonah muttered darkly, but he marched in anyway.

And then the speakers crackled, and the opening notes of "Believe It or Not" from Greatest American Hero blared like the gates of heaven had opened. Jonah's head whipped around, eyes going wide. He didn't just walk inside – he strutted down the aisle between tables, arms spread wide, pretending to high-five invisible fans. He twirled his napkin like a lasso, then flung himself into a chair with the grace of a diva collapsing onto a fainting couch.

"Thank you, thank you," he said to literally no one clapping. "You're all too kind. Happy birthday to me."

"Jonah," Jack muttered, "you need professional help."

"I've been saying that for a while," Mark replied.

Dinner was smothered pork chops, loaded mashed potatoes, fried okra, and sweet corn, with blueberry and strawberry juice options. Basically? Heaven.

Jonah, however, eyed his plate like it had personally offended him. "Excuse me, where are the birthday candles? On my pork chop. I specifically requested meat aflame."

"You did not," I said.

"Well, I meant to."

He stabbed his pork chop like it was an enemy soldier. "Fine. For today, this is symbolic meat. Meat of victory. Meat of triumph."

We tried to eat like normal human beings, but Jonah wasn't having it. He demanded his juice be poured into a wine glass because, and I quote, "royalty does not drink from cartons." When Mark refused, Jonah grabbed an abandoned glass, swished it around with his napkin for "sterilization," and poured blueberry juice with the pomp of a sommelier.

He swirled. He sniffed. He sipped. He smacked his lips. "Notes of despair, with a hint of cafeteria dish soap. Perfect."

Jack groaned. "Why do we put up with him?"

"Stockholm syndrome," I whispered.

Jonah leapt to his feet mid-meal and raised his glass. "A toast! To me, the brightest star in your dim, sad little galaxy! Without me, your lives would be empty voids of mediocrity and straightness!"

The entire table clinked glasses half-heartedly while trying not to laugh. Jonah solemnly clinked with Danny's absent chair as well. "Absent friends count too. Don't question my methods."

Halfway through dessert (strawberry shortcake), Jonah decided the cafeteria staff hadn't done enough. He marched to the serving line, demanded a spoon, and returned with an entire tub of whipped cream balanced on his tray. He plopped it down in the middle of the table like he was unveiling a treasure.

"For the people!" he cried. Then he grabbed a fistful with his bare hands and smeared it across his own face like war paint. "Now sing to me, peasants."

"No one's singing," Mark said.

"Fine. I'll sing to myself." And he launched into the Happy Birthday song solo, way off-key, while making direct eye contact with every person in the dining hall, one by one, like a warlord asserting dominance.

Jonah wasn't finished. He produced a roll of toilet paper from God-knows-where, wrapped it around his shoulders like a toga, and declared himself "Jonah the Magnificent, Patron Saint of Birthdays." Then he tried to knight Jack with a fork, only to nearly poke him in the eye.

Jack slapped the fork away. "Do that again, and I'm defecting to another table."

"Mutiny!" Jonah cried, clutching his chest. "My own people betray me on my birthday!"

He collapsed onto the floor, tongue lolling dramatically, until Mark nudged him with his foot.

"You're blocking the aisle," Mark said.

Jonah immediately resurrected, leaping back onto his chair like a man reborn. "Fine. If I can't have loyalty, I will have infamy."

And then he dumped the rest of the whipped cream over his own head.

We sat in stunned silence as a glob slid down his nose. Jonah licked it off with the smugness of a man who thought he'd just made history.

"I'm unforgettable," he said.

And that's when Noah happened.

He appeared at our table like a bad case of crabs that wouldn't go away no matter how much you shaved, waxed, or prayed. He'd been beaten up, shoved into lockers, and roasted more times than the dining hall's rotisserie chicken, but still, he was relentless. You'd think he could find literally any other boy to obsess over, but nope – lucky me .

"Nick," he said, way too loud. "Why have you been avoiding me? Why can't we just talk and work this out?"

I froze. Of course, he'd pick today. Of course, he'd try to hijack Jonah's birthday with his melodrama.

Jack saw it before I could react. He stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor, eyes blazing. "Stay the fuck away from Nick or I'll kick your ass so hard you'll need Google Maps to find it again."

The dining hall collectively gasped.

Then Kit stood up, cracking his knuckles like he was in a bad '80s action movie. "Yeah, beat it, twerp, or you'll get two ass-kickings tonight."

Noah turned red, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he backed away and scuttled to the far end of the room, leaving a trail of awkward silence behind him.

I was trembling – not from fear, but from something hotter, sharper. My boyfriend had just gone full Liam Neeson for me. I was so turned on I could barely stand up. Oh yeah, and Kit helped too. Good for him.

Back at the dorm, when we walked into the common room, Jonah froze.

Streamers. Balloons. A massive, glitter-splattered banner stretched across the wall, reading:

"JONAH'S BIRTHDAY ROAST!"

Jonah's mouth dropped open. "Oh my God," he squeaked. "This is the best birthday party ever."

And then, as predicted, he ran straight at Christian, wrapping him in the kind of hug usually reserved for soldiers returning from war. Both boys had tears in their eyes.

"I love you so much, little guy," Christian whispered.

"Right back at ya!" Jonah giggled, already wiping his nose on Christian's shirt.

Miss Charice was at the front of the room, rocking a glittery gold headband and holding her clipboard like it was a mic.

"Welcome, everybody," she announced, "to the first annual Roast of Jonah 'Tiny Butt' Donahue!"

The room erupted in cheers, and Jonah beamed like a pageant queen who'd just discovered there was a swimsuit round.

Miss Charice raised a hand for quiet. "Now Jonah, baby, you know I love you. But child, I've seen more meat on a chicken nugget. If Jonah's butt gets any smaller, NASA gon' classify it as a black hole."

The room exploded with laughter. Jonah threw his head back and cackled, absolutely thriving.

"One more, one more," she insisted, fanning herself. "That boy's behind is so small, I had to squint to make sure it wasn't just a wrinkle in his pants. I've seen more junk in a vending machine."

The crowd howled. Jonah was glowing like this was the greatest moment of his entire existence.

Miss Charice pointed dramatically at the stool in the middle of the room. "Birthday boy, front and center!"

Jonah strutted up like he was accepting a Grammy, spun around twice for effect, and flopped down onto the stool. "Give it to me," he said, grinning. "I can take it."

One by one, the boys lined up to roast him.

Me: "Jonah's butt is so small, if he twerks, you need a microscope to measure the Richter scale."

Mark: "I've seen pancakes with more curve. Jonah's ass is like geometry homework – flat, pointless, and nobody wants to deal with it."

Jack: "That thing's dual-purpose: flotation device in a plane crash or blunt-force weapon in a street fight. Either way, it saves lives."

Emery: "Technically speaking, Jonah's gluteal surface area is roughly equivalent to a CD-ROM. I charted it out on Excel."

Kit: "Baby, that ass is so flat, I could project a PowerPoint on it. Let me know when you're ready for the quarterly report."

Jack (again): "Jonah once tried to flirt with me by licking my neck and whispering, 'Call me Daddy.' He doesn't even have facial hair. That's not Daddy – that's Babysitter."

Danny: "If we played musical chairs, Jonah would lose because the chair's weight sensor wouldn't even know he sat down."

Me (again): "Jonah's butt is so small, hitting it doggy-style is basically a chiropractic adjustment. Like, bro, am I supposed to grab your pelvis bone and file for workers' comp?"

Christian: "Jonah's cheeks are so nonexistent I thought his jeans came with a Photoshop filter. I got down low to check and nearly filed a missing persons report – two missing cheeks, last seen in 2010."

Jonah howled, slapping his knee. "Y'all are trash," he shrieked. "Absolute, certified trash. And now… it's my turn."

He stood, stretched like a cat about to maul someone, and let loose:

Jonah: "Mark, your idea of a healthy relationship is texting your ex at 2 a.m. and then blaming Mercury for being in retrograde like it personally slid into your DMs."

"Emery, you are exactly one Kit-breakup away from moving to Berlin and becoming a DJ named Moist. And yes, I'd still follow you on Spotify."

"Danny, I love you, but if you were any more awkward, you'd have title cards and background piano music. You're basically a silent film with good hair. Still wanna hug you, though. Call me."

"Christian – look, you think you're the hot one in the family, but the only reason people pick 'marry' in 'Fuck, Marry, or Murder' is because 'murder' feels too mean and 'fuck' would give them self-esteem issues."

"And Jack? Sweet Jack. You're basically if Timothée Chalamet and a panic attack had a lovechild. Pretty, jittery, and somehow always damp."

Finally, he turned to me. "Nick, dear Nick. You've got the emotional resilience of wet toilet paper. I adore you. Never change – except maybe invest in waterproof mascara."

The room absolutely lost it. Boys were doubled over, wheezing, and Miss Charice was fanning herself with her clipboard like she was about to pass out.

At the end, Jonah raised his arms like a gladiator. "Behold! You are the weirdest, dumbest family I've never asked for. And I love you, freaks."

Miss Charice wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "Lord help me, but I love it too. And now – cake!"

From the kitchen, Danny and Christian wheeled out a massive chocolate monstrosity.

Tall. Glistening. Veiny.

It was unmistakably a penis. A large, dark, triumphant, yet vengeful penis. Complete with stringy candy threads for the purple-colored pubic hair.

In perfect white frosting, scrawled across the chocolate base, it read: "Creampie."

Jonah shrieked like a hyena. "You guys DO love me! And you know exactly how I like it!"

The whole room erupted. Mark nearly fell off his chair. Jack spat water out of his nose. Emery was on the floor.

Miss Charice was crying with laughter. "Y'all are hellbound," she gasped, clutching her sides. "But I'll save you a seat next to me!"

She even canceled prep. "You can make it up on Sunday. Go be teenage menaces tonight."

Naturally, everyone ended up in our room again.

There was wrestling, tickling, Jonah climbing on people like a caffeinated ferret, and a farting contest so vile it should've been classified as chemical warfare. To everyone's shock, Danny – sweet, shy Danny – was the undisputed champion. That kid could clear a room. Mr. Johnston would have given him a standing ovation and offered him one of his "special" pickled eggs as a prize.

Jonah came in second, weaponizing a beef burrito he'd hoarded from dinner. The air was so toxic I considered filing a complaint with the Geneva Convention. Half the room actually bolted into the hallway, coughing and swearing revenge.

Eventually, Miss Charice poked her head in, fanning the air with one hand. "Lord have mercy. Lights out, boys. And please, I beg of you, stop tryin' to burn this place down with your behinds. EPA gon' come shut us down."

She caught sight of Jack and me, tangled up together in bed, bare skin against bare skin, pretending to look innocent.

She smiled, all sweet. " Mm-hmm . Y'all the cutest little lovebirds. Just try to keep it down tonight, boys." Then she winked like she'd just handed us permission to sin.

Jack groaned, covering his face with a pillow. "I'm gonna die."

I buried my head under his shoulder. "We are cursed."

Later, when the chaos had finally faded and the room was dark, Jack absentmindedly toyed with my – well – my toy. I sighed.

"Hey," I whispered. "Is it okay if we don't tonight? I'm exhausted. You're insatiable."

That wasn't the real reason. The truth was, underneath all the laughter and noise, I felt that old heaviness creeping in again – the kind that came out of nowhere and dragged me down like quicksand. Everyone else seemed so full of energy, so alive, while I felt like my wires had shorted out. It made no sense. I hated that I couldn't just switch it off. I hated how it made me feel broken. And I hated the thought of Jack seeing it.

Jack giggled softly and kissed the side of my neck. "No problem, Nicky. I love you."

I held him tighter, hoping he couldn't feel the tension in my chest.

And we fell asleep like that—messy, mortified, and overflowing with cake, chaos, love… and the quiet, unwelcome shadow I couldn't shake.

The fire alarm went off at 2:00 a.m.

Not a chirp. Not a test. Full-on, brain-melting, panic-mode sirens. It felt like the ceiling had cracked open and dumped a swarm of demon cicadas directly into my ear canal.

I was out of bed in two seconds – heart racing, half-naked, hoodie half-zipped, sneakers barely tied – bolting down the hall with the rest of the dazed, pajama-clad herd.

Jack?

Still asleep.

Blissfully unconscious. The boy could've snoozed through a nuclear strike. I stood at the door watching kids shuffle out clutching blankets and slippers, and there he was, flat on his back, breathing like nothing in the world could bother him.

I could've left him. I should've. Instead, I stormed over, ripped the blanket off, and yelled, "Wake up! Fire alarm, genius!"

He groaned. "Five more minutes…"

Eventually, we made it outside – shivering, bleary-eyed, waiting forty minutes while campus security confirmed that, yes, someone thought pulling the alarm at 2 a.m. was hilarious.

I got maybe three hours of sleep after that. Maybe. And I need six. Minimum. Otherwise, I get… let's call it moody.

Okay, grumpy gremlin levels of moody. Since I'd already been spiraling into a random bout of depression the day before, Noah wanting to talk to me again in the cafeteria, and I was majorly stressed about finals, I woke up in a foul place.

So, when Monday morning rolled around and Jack came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, smiling like a toothpaste commercial, and asked, "How'd you sleep, Nicky?"

I snapped.

"Not good at all," I said flatly. "Some idiot set off the fire alarm at 2 a.m., and I couldn't get enough sleep. You prep school rich kids only care about yourselves and never about anyone else."

The words landed like bricks. Heavy. Ugly.

Jack froze.

He didn't argue. Didn't defend himself. Just blinked at me like I'd slapped him across the face. And instantly, guilt clawed up my throat. Because I knew he wasn't like that. I knew what his parents were like – monsters in tailored suits – and how he'd clawed his way into Harrison West with more scars than anyone should have to carry. Jack wasn't anything like the other "prep school rich kids," nor did he have anything to do with why I had already been in a crappy mood even before the 2 a.m. surprise.

But I was exhausted, pissed off, stressed out, depressed, anxious, and lashing out, which I sometimes did when I felt pushed to the limit. It didn't happen often, but when it did, I could get really nasty and irrational.

And the worst part? I let it hang there. I didn't even try to take it back.

The whole day was off after that.

That evening, after prep, we all piled into the common room like usual. Only it wasn't usual. Not for me and Jack. Normally, we'd be tangled up together on the couch, a quiet knot of warmth and routine. Instead, we sat on opposite sides of the room – like strangers who just happened to share a history.

Jack looked miserable. Shoulders hunched, eyes down, flinching every time he glanced my way, like he was waiting for me to snap again.

And I couldn't even explain why. Hell, I didn't know why.

Then it got worse.

The windows slammed open, and a barrage of water balloons arced inside. Except they weren't water balloons. The stench hit first – ammonia and bile – and then the wet slap against skin. Boys screamed, scrambled, and ducked.

One nailed me square between the shoulders, bursting all down my hoodie, a rancid stream crawling down my spine.

Laughter exploded. Some kids gagged. Others cheered.

Another one of those infamous prep school pranks: a sudden barrage of pee-filled balloons. Hilarious, apparently, to everyone but me. I didn't laugh—but I had to give the culprits some credit. That kind of operation takes planning. And a frankly disturbing amount of teamwork…and pee.

Jack shot up and rushed to me. He had remained dry. "Nick, oh my god, are you okay?"

I shoved him back. "Don't."

And I left. Soaked. Burning with shame. Straight to the showers. Alone.

That night, when the lights went out, Jack climbed into bed. But not mine.

His.

The wrong one.

And for the first time since… well, since forever, we didn't sleep together.

I lay on my back staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. That's when I heard it.

Jack. Crying.

Soft, muffled sobs from the other side of the room. The kind he tried to bury in his pillow, like he didn't want me to notice.

I froze. My chest tightened. Every part of me wanted to move – to roll over, whisper something, cross the room, and climb in beside him. To hold him the way I always did.

But I didn't.

I just lay there. Silent. Cowardly. Letting the shame eat me alive while he cried himself to sleep a few feet away.

On Tuesday, I tried to apologize. Sort of.

I went looking for him during free period and found him out on the quad. He was sitting on a bench, phone in hand, FaceTiming. With Christian.

Of course. My crush. My beautiful, charming, too-perfect-for-his-own-good crush.

They were laughing. Jack's whole face lit up – smiling, flushed, alive in a way he hadn't been around me in days.

And I was irrationally furious.

I turned on my heel and went back to class, my mood poisoned for the rest of the day.

The next couple of days blurred into silence.

No hand-holding. No stolen kisses between classes. No whispered "I love you" in the dark. No sex. Not even the lazy comfort of a cuddle. Just distance. And honestly? I couldn't even tell who I was mad at anymore – Jack, or myself. Probably mostly myself.

But when the person you're falling apart with is your best friend, who do you go to for help?

On Thursday evening, my phone buzzed.

Mom.

The moment I heard her voice, I felt like I could finally breathe again. At least someone still sounded happy to hear me.

She asked how I was doing, and I told her – more than I meant to. I told her Jack and I weren't talking. That I didn't even remember how the fight started. That I missed him. That I missed myself.

"You boys have something really special, Nicky," she said gently. "You can't throw that away over one bad week. You're best friends. You love each other."

I didn't answer.

"And you kind of need to bring Jack home this weekend," she added. "I planned something for him. A surprise."

"Can't I just come home alone?" I muttered. "I kind of just want to bury my face in Mr. Bojangles and cry into his fur."

"Nicky," she said, her voice firm but kind. "I don't ask you for much. Just make sure you and Jack show up after school tomorrow. Please?"

That night, after showers – alone, of course – Jack climbed into his bed. I got into mine.

The silence was so loud it hurt.

"My mom really wants you to come home with us this weekend," I mumbled into the dark. "She's been bugging me about it. So even if you can't stand me right now, I'd appreciate it if you'd just… go along with it."

Jack didn't look at me.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Sure."

We turned out the lights.

I wanted to tell him I still loved him, more than anything. That he was still my angel, my Little Prince, my everything. I wanted to beg him to climb into bed and hold me until morning.

But I didn't.

I lay there in silence, choking on words I couldn't say, clinging to my pride like it could protect me from heartbreak. I got my stubbornness from my mom, apparently – and mine could stretch for days.

Even when it was killing me.

Across the room, I could hear Jack's slow, uneven breathing in the dark. So close I could count the seconds between each rise and fall, and yet somehow, it felt like he was a thousand miles away.

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