Swing for the Fences

by Little Buddha

Chapter 9

The next few weeks went by in a blur.

The kind of blur that wasn't dreamy or romantic – but more like being hit by a wave of schoolwork and barely having time to come up for air. There was so much . Constant reading. Essays. Mandarin vocab quizzes. Labs. Tennis drills. Club meetings. I didn't even remember signing up for half of it, but somehow, I was now a full-fledged member of the Chinese Club, thanks to Emery convincing me it would be "low-key and fun." (It kind of was, to be honest), and it would look good on my college admissions applications.

Prep blocks weren't enough, either. Two hours vanished in what felt like twenty minutes. I found myself working through lunch, skipping the occasional hangout, even reading textbooks while brushing my teeth. The weekends didn't offer much relief, either. Pretty much the only solution I could come up with was not sleeping, and with my fragile constitution that wasn't going to be a realistic possibility.

And I hadn't been home again since that weekend with Noah.

Not that I didn't want to go back – I did. But the thought of missing a single assignment made my stomach twist. I could feel myself falling behind, even when I wasn't.

Things with Noah were still… good. Really good. But it wasn't the same as that weekend. There was never enough time.

We kissed in shadows. Held hands under tables. Ate every meal together, even if we barely had a minute to breathe between classes. Usually, after prep, we'd find each other – either in his room when his roommate ventured out or walking to our usual spot beneath the trees. Sometimes we just sat close in silence. Sometimes we talked until lights out.

One thing I was growing to learn about Noah was that he had very suggestive thoughts and spoke with a fair amount of sexual innuendo and double entendre. The difference, though, was that Noah was often more subtle in his delivery, more deadpan. As a result, he was much funnier than your average teenage moron's lewd and overtly sexual commentary and wise-cracks. Needless to say, I preferred Noah's style much more.

One night, under the trees, wrapped in jackets against the autumn air, Noah turned to me and asked, totally casually, "So what do you do about jerking off?"

I nearly choked on my own tongue.

"What?" I blurted.

"You know," he said, grinning. "Jack's always around. How do you… deal?"

I turned bright red. "I mean – I don't really. Not a lot. Sometimes in the shower, I guess, or very rarely if he's not in the room and I know he won't be back for a while. But he's almost always in the room."

He raised an eyebrow. "You've been here, what, well over a month?"

"More or less," I muttered. "Why?"

"You're overdue."

"Noah!"

He laughed. "I'm just saying. You could always do it under the covers."

"That would be so weird. Jack's like right there ."

He smirked and leaned closer. "We could always find somewhere and do it … together ."

I buried my face in my hands. "You're going to kill me."

"What? You don't think it would be hot ?" he pouted. "I bet I could make you feel so good."

The truth was – I didn't know how to navigate this new part of myself. Wanting someone. Being wanted. Feeling things I'd never let myself feel before. Balancing that with the pressures of school. And feeling guilty about how happy I was, when Jack was clearly not okay. And I just wasn't ready yet. Kissing was fantastic, and so was cuddling, but I wasn't sure I was ready for a guy to stick his hand down my pants or to put someone's penis in my mouth. It seemed like a lot, especially when I was dealing with so much other stuff. I was sure having sex – especially with Noah – would be amazing, but with my tendency to spiral after particularly overwhelming events, I wasn't sure I could handle the aftermath. And I wasn't so sure that Noah would want to deal with that either. But eventually, he was going to really want it, and I'd have to figure out how to deal with it.

And then there was the other thing – Jack.

Since I'd come back from that weekend, it was like someone had hit a switch. One day we were slowly, awkwardly becoming friends – eating together, tossing weird comments back and forth during prep, curling up in my bed at night – and the next, it was gone. If I had a dime for every time his mood changed, I'd be able to pay my own tuition for Harrison West. It was just so hard to keep up with him or how to handle him when he got like this.

No more conversations. No more warmth. No more late-night visits. Just silence. It left a dark, empty hole in my teenage heart.

Jack didn't sit with us at meals anymore. Didn't say goodnight. During prep, he stared at his books like they were enemies he had to defeat. I tried a few times to talk to him – gentle nudges, soft questions – but he always brushed me off.

And I was too busy to apply more than the minimal effort. Too swamped with assignments and desperately squeezing in time with Noah to do what I should have done: sit down with Jack, really talk, really listen.

I'd promised Mr. G I'd look out for him. And I wasn't doing that. Not even close.

I saw Jack in Mr. G's office more than once – always sitting low in the chair, eyes tired, answering in short, quiet sentences. I thought about asking Mr. G what was going on, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It felt like crossing a line. Like betraying Jack's trust, even if I wasn't sure he trusted me anymore.

The whole thing left me tied in knots.

And every night, after Noah kissed me goodnight and I returned to my room, I half-hoped to find Jack curled in my bed again.

He never was.

And I missed him.

I missed my best friend.

It was mid-October, and the trees across campus had turned into something out of a painting – golden and red, orange and rust, and the ground was littered with leaves that crunched satisfyingly underfoot. The wind was crisp but not biting, and the smell of wood smoke and decaying leaves drifted faintly through the air like a memory.

I was sitting under one of the big maple trees near the quad during a rare free period, trying to cram for my world history test. Enlightenment thinkers, revolutionary documents, the influence of Rousseau and Montesquieu – none of it was sticking. I stared at the page as if I could will its information out of the paper and directly into my brain.

I didn't hear anyone approach until a shadow fell across my book.

Mark plopped down beside me on the grass without asking. He crossed his long legs at the ankles and leaned back on his palms, his tie slightly loosened, his blazer unbuttoned like he was trying to make the stiff uniform look as casual as possible. Whether it was an added scarf, a little more makeup, or some other accessory, Mark was always pushing the bounds of the dress code so he could feel a little more like a non-conformist. But growing up as a sheltered kid, he probably had no idea that the thrift shops he frequented were more meant for people who couldn't afford decent clothes otherwise. Mark just thought they looked cool. It was hard to rag on him, though, since there was not a malicious bone in his body (unless we were talking about the other kind of "bone.") With Mark, anything was possible.

He still looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, for his sense of style alone.

"Studying?" he asked, peering over at my book.

"History," I said, not looking up.

"Anything else?" he prodded.

I exhaled through my nose. My brain hadn't really been on history for the last fifteen minutes anyway. It had been on Jack. Again. Still.

I closed the book and let it fall gently across my knee.

"He's not okay," I said.

Mark didn't ask who. He just nodded, eyes scanning the wind-tousled quad.

"Yeah. I know."

"He's totally shut me out. I don't even know if he likes me anymore. Or ever did."

Mark pulled a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers. "I've seen him at the tutoring center. He's barely hanging on."

"I hate seeing him like this," I muttered. "I promised Mr. G I'd keep an eye on him. But I haven't. Not really."

"You've been busy," Mark said gently. "Life. Noah. Homework. Stuff."

"Still." I leaned my head back against the trunk. "I feel like I abandoned him."

There was a pause.

Then Mark said, "He likes you, you know."

I blinked. "Jack?"

Mark tilted his head toward me. "Yeah."

"Is he even…?" I hesitated. "Is he gay?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Duh."

I stared at him. "Seriously?"

"He's not exactly waving flags, but yeah. We talk. I mean, we actually talk . He's definitely gay."

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Or do you just think everyone's gay?"

Mark gave me a withering look. "Do I seem like the type to just assume people are gay?"

I gave him a look right back.

"Okay, bad example," he admitted. "But I am sure. Trust me."

OK, this was probably something I should have recognized a lot earlier, considering all the late-night cuddling and literally saying "I love you" to each other on multiple occasions. Yes, I was officially an idiot. Of course, Jack was gay. But the "liking" me part? I was still dubious.

I stared at my closed book, my mind spinning in circles. "Why doesn't he talk to me anymore?"

"Because he likes you. A lot. And you're with someone else. Plus, it doesn't help that he already has issues regulating his moods, dealing with depression, and this is really the first time he's ever liked someone like that. He just doesn't know how to handle it."

That hit me right in the chest.

"Why don't you date him then?" I asked, and the words came out more bitter than I intended.

Mark just rolled his eyes again. "We've gotten close – art stuff, you know? He's actually really sweet when he's not self-destructing. And really cute, in that 'emo-twink-rebel' kind of way. But he's not really my type, plus he's totally stuck on you."

I didn't know what to say. Of course he liked me. It made perfect sense to everyone but me.

The wind rattled the branches overhead, sending a few leaves twirling down onto my book, my blazer, the grass between us.

I felt like I couldn't breathe right.

I'd known something was there – between Jack and me. We didn't interact the way straight "buddies" would normally interact. We were much, much closer – emotionally and physically.

Now I didn't know what I should do. I couldn't stand to see him like this, in so much pain that I had caused him.

"I really care about him," I said quietly. "But I'm with Noah. I'm falling for Noah."

Mark gave me a soft smile. "It doesn't have to be one or the other, Nick. But you owe it to both of them not to leave this messy forever."

I swallowed hard and looked down.

"How is it that almost everyone I hang out with is turning out to be gay?" I said, trying to make a joke and failing.

Mark grinned. "We emit a special frequency. Only other gays can hear it. You're stuck now."

"Noah said the percentage's probably a little higher here than average. He also said a lot of the guys are… 'flexible.'"

"Oh, there's flexibility , all right," Mark laughed. "You should see what happens at some of the secret parties on the weekends. Big, strong, muscular jock guys literally begging to take it up the ass if you get enough alcohol and weed into them, and they scream like girls."

I shook my head and tried to laugh, but the knot in my stomach wouldn't go away.

Jack liked me.

Really liked me.

And I had no idea what to do with that.

Was I really as clueless as I felt?

By Thursday, I couldn't take it anymore.

The silence. The cold glances. The awkward tension that filled every square inch of our dorm room like a fog that never lifted. It had been weeks of this – of Jack barely acknowledging me, of the quiet that used to feel companionable turning into something sharp and cold. I kept telling myself to give it time, to wait for things to thaw, but they weren't thawing. They were freezing solid.

It was getting to me. In class. On the tennis courts. Even with Noah. It felt like I was living a double life – floating through the highs of a sweet, private, breathless romance, only to return to my dorm each night and feel like a ghost in my own room. Jack never said goodnight. Never looked at me for more than a second. We shared air and space and that was it.

I was cracking.

So, after tennis practice, my muscles sore and my heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with sprints, I marched straight back to Linden Hall, hands balled into fists at my sides. I didn't even stop to change. I didn't care how sweaty I was or if my hair looked stupid. I didn't care if my voice trembled or cracked.

This was happening. We were going to put an end to this once and for all.

When I pushed open the door to our room, the familiar scent of our shared space hit me – sweat, body spray, and whatever incense Jack had burned last week that still clung to the curtains.

He was there, of course.

Lying flat on his bed, shirtless, as usual, in his usual position – one arm behind his head, earbuds in, sketchbook untouched at his side. He didn't even glance at me. Just stared blankly at the ceiling like he was trying to will himself out of existence.

I shut the door behind me. My fingers tightened around the handle.

"Jack," I said, my voice tighter than I meant it to be. "We need to talk."

He didn't look at me. "Not in the mood."

"I don't care," I said. "I need to talk."

He sighed. Loud. Dramatic. Like I was ruining his nap or something.

"I'm serious," I said, stepping farther into the room. "I can't keep doing this."

Jack finally turned his head. One earbud still in. "Doing what?"

" This . Whatever this is," I said, gesturing between us. "We haven't had a real conversation in weeks. You won't talk to me. You won't even look at me half the time."

"Maybe I don't have anything to say," he muttered, looking back at the ceiling.

"That's bullshit."

He sat up slowly, like moving was a huge inconvenience. "Well, sorry for being such a disappointment."

"Don't do that," I said. "Don't make this about you being broken or whatever. I just want to understand. "

"Maybe you should stop trying so hard," he said, his voice sharper now. "Not everything can be fixed, Nick. And not everything is about you ."

I stared at him. "I just want my friend back."

Jack scoffed. "You've got a boyfriend now. What do you need me for?"

His words hit me like a slap.

I took a step closer, suddenly unsure of my footing. "It's not like that."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, no? You guys kiss under trees and hold hands in the hallways just for fun?"

My stomach twisted. "We're not… we haven't labeled it."

Jack rolled his eyes so hard I thought he might sprain something. "'Going with the flow,' right?"

I blinked. "How did you—"

"Because that's what guys like Noah say," he snapped. "They act all casual so they don't have to take responsibility when things go to shit."

I clenched my fists. "You don't know him."

"I know his type."

"And what – you're better? You've been ignoring me for a while, Jack. You're mean to everyone. You bite . And then when I try to talk to you, you shut down like I don't even matter."

"Maybe you don't ."

The words sliced clean through me.

I took a shaky step back. "That's not true, and you know it."

He flinched, just barely. But I saw it.

And that's when it all spilled out.

"You used to crawl into bed with me," I said, voice cracking. "You used to laugh during prep. You used to talk to me. You made me feel like I wasn't alone here. And then it's like I stopped being enough for you. And I don't even know why. "

Jack's face twisted, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of his mattress. "Because it got complicated ."

"It didn't have to!" I cried. "I would've been okay just being your friend. I still want that. I miss that. I miss you. "

He looked away.

"Jack…" My voice broke completely. "I know. Okay? I know you like me."

His head snapped back around.

I saw it on his face – the embarrassment, the panic, the silent scream behind his eyes.

"Who told you?"

"It doesn't matter," I whispered. "Is it true?"

He didn't answer right away. Then, quietly, "Doesn't make a difference now."

"It does to me. "

"Why?" he snapped. "So you can pity me? So you can keep me around like some pathetic puppy while you run off and make out with Noah every night?"

My chest heaved.

"That's not fair."

"No, what's not fair is falling for someone who only ever saw you as a warm body until someone better came along."

"That's not what happened!"

"Isn't it?"

"I care about you, Jack. I like being with Noah, but what we had – what we have – that still matters. You matter."

He was shaking his head before I even finished. "Don't say that."

"Why? Because you don't believe it, or because you do and it hurts?"

"I can't do this."

" I can't keep pretending nothing's wrong! " I yelled.

And then, I broke.

Right there, in the middle of our goddamn room, surrounded by my textbooks and laundry and the stupid half-finished drawing Jack had left on the desk, I started to cry.

I didn't want to. I didn't mean to. But the pressure had been building for weeks – everything I'd been holding back – and now it all came pouring out. Hot tears. Choked sobs. The kind of crying that shakes your whole body and leaves you breathless.

"Please don't," Jack said, sounding panicked. "Nick, stop. Don't do this. Don't be a drama queen."

But I couldn't. I just stood there, completely cracked open, gasping like I was drowning.

After a second, I felt hands on my shoulders.

Then arms.

Jack pulled me in. Tight.

He pressed his forehead against mine and whispered, "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry."

I clung to him like I was going to fall apart if I let go.

We stood like that for what felt like hours.

Eventually, when I'd calmed down enough to breathe again, he pulled back just a little, his hands still on my arms.

"I'll try," he said softly. " For you . I'll try to be your friend again, because I love you. I'll probably make you want to kill me, but I'll try."

I nodded, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

"But I'm not going to like Noah," he added. "I can't."

I looked at him. "Why not?"

He hesitated. Then shrugged.

"Because some things are just too hard to watch."

He didn't say more.

And I didn't ask.

That night, we got ready for bed in silence. Not angry silence. Just… quiet. Careful. Like we'd taken a step forward but were afraid to take two steps back and mess it up.

He didn't come to my bed.

But I lay awake for a long time staring at the ceiling, wondering what tomorrow would look like.

And hoping we wouldn't lose whatever we'd maybe just started to find again.

Halloween was creeping up fast.

The mornings were colder now, the grass slick with dew, and the trees across campus had gone full Michigan autumn brochure – red, gold, and flaming orange. The sky seemed to hang lower in the afternoons, that pale autumn gray that made the buildings look older, heavier, like they were settling in for winter.

Things with Jack had started to… stabilize.

Sort of.

He still wasn't the same as before, but the silence had cracked. He made occasional sarcastic comments during prep again – something morbid or completely bizarre, always muttered just loud enough for me to hear. Sometimes I'd laugh. Sometimes I'd just shake my head. It was familiar. It was him .

He'd even joined me for a couple meals, though only when we ate alone. Never with the group. Definitely not with Noah. When I'd explained to Noah that I was trying to rebuild something with Jack – just friendship – he'd hesitated for a long moment and then nodded slowly.

"If it helps, I guess it's worth it," he said. "Just… don't let him mess with your head."

I appreciated that. Even if I wasn't sure how un -messed my head already was.

Sometimes Jack sat with Mark instead – off to the side of the dining hall, sketchbooks open between them, talking about music, art, obscure films I'd never heard of. I tried not to watch them too closely, but I always noticed when Jack laughed. It was a little too rare these days.

The truth was it was kind of working, for now, but hanging by a thread. It was awkward and a tense, but we were taking baby steps. And for once, I let myself enjoy that, for however long it would last.

Every Sunday, I still joined the other guys to watch the Lions. Our little crew in the common room had grown bigger lately – more shouting, more pizza, more wild celebrations as Detroit's winning streak kept going. That past Sunday, a few of the guys invited me to toss a football around out on the quad afterward.

It felt good to move, to throw, to laugh. I hadn't played catch in years, but muscle memory kicked in from all those hours in the backyard with my dad. I wasn't the fastest, but I could throw straight and catch decently, which apparently was enough.

Christian – yes, that Christian, the tall junior with the perfect spiral and the confident grin – was out there, too. He called for a few passes from me, tossed a few lasers I actually managed to snag. His "Nice grab, Kincaid" nearly made me fumble the next one.

He was cool. Athletic, smooth, and impossibly good-looking, in that this-should-be-illegal kind of way. And yet, he'd been kind to me. Encouraging. He'd even helped me out with algebra a couple of times – not in a formal tutoring way, just casually, like he actually wanted to help. No ego, no smirks. Just… decent.

I was getting to know him better. And I liked him.

But my mind was still firmly with Noah.

A few nights before Halloween, as we walked back from the dining hall together, Noah leaned in and said quietly, "So… there's a thing. Saturday night. Want to sneak out with me?"

I blinked. "Sneak out where?"

He gave me a sly smile. "Secret Halloween party. It's on campus, but… not exactly sanctioned ."

That flipped a switch in my brain. "You mean it's, like… hidden?"

"Technically," he said. "Off the radar. No teachers. No lights-out rules. Costumes encouraged. You in?"

I hesitated. "I've never really… broken the rules before."

"You don't say."

"Even my mom calls me a goody two-shoes."

He laughed. "That's adorable but come on. You've been killing it this month. Grades solid, roommate truce holding, whatever this thing is between us still intact…"

He didn't say it.

He didn't call me his boyfriend.

We still weren't using that word. Not yet.

And that was okay.

Sort of.

"You deserve a little mischief," he said, nudging me.

I paused, chewing my lip. "It's safe, right? Like – we won't get expelled or anything?"

"It's safer than Biology class," he said with a wink. "Just… don't be obvious. And trust me."

And I did trust him. I wanted to be good. But I also wanted to be brave. I wanted to stop feeling like the kid always clinging to the edge of the pool while everyone else swam laps.

"Okay," I said. "I'm in."

He grinned. "There's my favorite rule-follower."

My stomach flipped in about six directions at once. But this time, it wasn't fear.

It was something closer to thrill.

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