Swing for the Fences

by Little Buddha

Chapter 12

Wednesday Afternoon

My phone buzzed just as I was zipping up my duffel.

hey sweetheart — i won't be able to pick you and jack up on wednesday afternoon. they scheduled me for a double overnight so i can have thanksgiving day off. i'm sorry. you'll have to take the bus. i'll leave some snacks and clean towels out. love you. <3

I stared at it for a moment, not sure what I was feeling. Disappointed? No – more like... deflated. I'd been picturing it – my mom waiting in the car, window rolled down, coffee in the cupholder, Mr. Bojangles doing backflips in the backseat. But I knew what those shifts were like for her. If she had to work overnight now to be off for the actual day, that meant turkey in the afternoon, not a pre-shift reheat at 9 p.m. with a lukewarm can of cranberry sauce.

I texted back:

no worries. love you too. can't wait to be home.

Across the room, Jack was wrestling his oversized duffel like it was trying to eat him.

"Need help?"

"I packed too much," he grunted, half-laughing. "Sweaters. Sketchpad. Four books I won't read. Snacks. Enough socks to survive a civil war."

He yanked the strap free from under the bed and staggered upright. And then – there it was. Not a smirk, not a scoff – an actual, honest-to-god smile . It only lasted a second, but I saw it.

Was he… excited?

I didn't say anything. I just watched, feeling weirdly warm inside.

I hadn't realized how much I wanted this weekend. Not just to get off campus – but to be home. To see my mom. To be in a space that didn't come with rules about where I was allowed to exist, or how loud I could laugh after 10. And to have Jack there – without homework, without hallway drama, without the tension of everyone always watching everyone else. Just him. And me. And time.

With all the pressure off, maybe we could achieve some kind of breakthrough in our friendship.

Time to find out what had been simmering under the surface since that first week – the insane, rage-fueled breakdown in our room, the shouting of profanities on the phone to his mom, the tears, the anger. The way he'd brushed it off like it didn't matter. Like he didn't matter. But it obviously did matter, because each time he'd had a major freakout, it was my bed that he crawled into, my body that he clung to.

Maybe now he'd talk.

Maybe now we could finally be honest, both he and I.

I loved Jack. Probably not the way he wanted me to love him. But it was still love . I hoped that could be enough for him. But any kind of love could get confusing. I'd been learning that.

Before we left, I made the rounds. I slipped Mark a paper cup full of stolen dining hall Goldfish and told him to behave. He offered me an LGBTQ rainbow patch to sew on my backpack. "When you're ready," added.

Emery hugged me – two-armed, tight, and lasted more than just a few seconds. "Text if you get bored. Or we could Facetime to go over our Mandarin flashcards."

"I won't."

"Text anyway."

Christian offered a fist bump and a bro hug and said, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Then immediately followed with, "Which gives you a lot of freedom, actually."

Even Jonah caught me as we passed the quad.

"You leaving?" he asked, popping an atomic fireball into his mouth.

"For a few days."

"Well, don't get hit by a deer or something. Suburbia is dangerous."

"Thanks?"

"And text me if 'broody' says anything interesting."

"Broody?"

He jerked his chin toward Jack, who was standing a few feet away, wearing his usual expression of mild irritation and disdain for the pint-sized interloper.

"Tell him I said goodbye," Jonah added, "and that he looked really good this morning."

"Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"I don't want him to get ideas. "

Telling Noah was the hardest part.

I found him near the old science building, under our tree. The one that had become our space without either of us naming it.

"My mom's working a double," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "So, we're taking the bus."

He nodded.

"And... Jack's coming with me."

There was a pause. A shift in the air.

I rushed ahead. "I asked. She's fine with it. It's just for the weekend. Just – Thanksgiving. It's not a thing . I just wanted him to feel at home since he's not visiting his family."

He didn't say anything.

"You're my boyfriend," I added, more quietly. "Jack's just… Jack."

"Okay."

"I mean it. There's no reason to feel jealous. Either of you. You're my boyfriend and he's my … best friend."

"Don't get all worked up, Nick. I'm not jealous," he said in what was probably meant to be a reassuring way, but I noticed that his smile didn't meet his eyes. "You do spend an awful lot of time with him, and you talk about him virtually non-stop."

I wasn't sure what to make of that. He didn't sound mad … but he did sound slightly frustrated. And now he tells me, when we're just getting ready to leave for Thanksgiving break?

The hug he gave me when we said goodbye, though, wasn't cold. But it wasn't warm either. It felt like the kind of hug you give someone when you're trying really hard to be understanding, but it's costing you something.

The bus ride was long and loud and somehow too quiet at the same time. We sat at the back, duffels shoved under our legs, jackets rolled into pillows.

Jack leaned against the window, hoodie up, headphones in, and still managed to look like he was judging the entire universe. I just wanted to fall asleep on his shoulder.

I glanced down and saw the bag of Sour Patch Kids wedged between us.

"Where'd you get those?"

He didn't look over. "The flirty goblin gave them to me before we left."

"Jonah?"

"Yeah. Said something about blood sugar and long journeys."

I laughed. "Did he flirt with you again?"

Jack paused. "He hugged me. Longer than what is normal. Squeezed my ass too."

"Seriously?"

"He's very small. It was more like being hit by a warm coat with opinions."

"So, you liked it."

Jack shrugged. "He's cool. He's funny. Annoyingly cute."

"Do you have a crush on him?" I asked nervously.

Jack made a face. "He's only thirteen. And he's not my type."

"Which is?"

His eyes didn't move from the window. "I've only ever liked one guy."

My heart did something strange and small in that moment.

I didn't press. He didn't clarify. I think we both knew who that one guy was, which made things a little awkward. The silence between us stayed soft but electric all the way home.

When the bus pulled up, I couldn't stop smiling. Everything was just how I remembered it. The well-manicured lawn. The faded shutters. The crooked wind chimes my mom still hadn't taken down. And a large, gaudy Thanksgiving wreath on the front door. I inhaled the air like it was something I'd been missing and didn't realize.

"Cool house," Jack commented, sounding like he meant it.

I unlocked the front door.

And then – an almost desperate howl.

"Mr. Bojangles!"

The second the door opened, Mr. Bojangles barreled through, barking, tail wagging, forty pounds of ecstatic muscle. He launched himself not at me, but at Jack , who barely caught him.

"What the—?!"

"He likes you!"

"This is assault!"

"He loves you."

"He's licking my ear, Nick. This is non-consensual. "

With my mom still at work, I gave Jack the tour.

Vernors from the fridge – his reaction ("This tastes like root beer and pine needles had an identity crisis") – was priceless.

We wandered through the kitchen, the living room, my tiny bathroom, and finally the basement, where the pull-out sofa waited like a test we hadn't studied for.

"So," I said, trying to sound casual. "My bed's a twin. You can have it, and I'll take the floor. Or…"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Or?"

"We could share the pull-out."

I watched him take that in.

"Would Noah be cool with that?"

I shrugged. "We're best friends."

He looked at me. "Are we?"

There was a pause.

"Yeah," I said, a little confused, and suddenly starting to spiral into self-doubt. "I mean, I thought so, but if we're not, that's cool too …"

Suddenly, he smacked me on the back of the head. "Doofus," he grinned.

"It's not like it's sexual," I added quickly, rubbing the sore spot on the back of my head. "We've shared a room for months, and it's not like we haven't shared a bed before. This is just… a bed. It's fine."

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his gaze fixed steadily at the floor. "Yeah. No, totally. Fine. Totally fine."

He looked genuinely unsure for a second. Maybe even nervous.

It was so not Jack that I just stood there watching him.

His voice came quieter: "Could be fun."

I tilted my head.

"As long as you don't try to molest me in the night," he added, half-smirking.

"You wish."

He laughed. But it was a weird laugh – uneven. Like something else was sitting underneath it.

And I felt that too – that little hum of tension in the air between us. Like something neither of us was saying but both of us were thinking.

We spent the rest of the evening in my room. I put on Billy Joel's An Innocent Man , then Meat Loaf's Bat Out of Hell , full of over-the-top, bombastic, and operatic rock songs, soaked through with teenage angst and sexuality.

He made fun of me relentlessly.

"This sounds like the inside of a karaoke bar on fire."

"And you're culturally bankrupt," I accused him. "This is the music I grew up listening to with my parents!"

"I'm making it my mission in life to teach you about real music."

And still, even as we laughed and teased each other relentlessly, my brain kept circling back to that same question.

Can we really still call this just a friendship?

And more terrifyingly:

Do I want to?

Then we heard the front door open.

Keys in the bowl.

Footsteps. Familiar.

My mom was home.

The front door opened from the garage with a familiar creak and the soft jingle of my mom's overloaded keyring. I heard the thud of her purse hitting the kitchen counter, followed by the shuffle of her feet.

She appeared a moment later – still in scrubs, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, face pale and drawn in that unmistakable way I'd come to recognize too many times.

She'd lost a patient.

It wasn't every day, but when it happened, it hung on her like a shadow. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just... quiet weight. The kind that settled behind her eyes and in the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

"Hey," I said softly.

She looked up – and despite it all, she smiled. A tired, lopsided smile that still managed to warm the room.

"You made it," she said. Then her gaze shifted to the figure standing shyly a little behind me. "And this must be Jack."

Jack stepped forward and, to his credit, didn't try to be anyone other than himself. No slick charm. No over-practiced prep school poise like Noah would've offered. Just a nod, a small smile, and his hand extended.

"Hi. I'm Jack. Jack Thompson."

My mom shook his hand with both of hers. "It's so good to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"All lies," Jack said evenly.

"The good ones, I hope," she replied, and let out a small laugh. "You two hungry?"

We nodded in unison.

"Good," she said, already turning back toward the door. "Because I'm absolutely not cooking tonight. I'm picking up White Castle. Sliders, fries, onion rings, the works."

"I think I'm in love," Jack muttered.

She pointed at him. "You're gonna fit right in, mister."

We ate dinner standing around the kitchen island, sliders unwrapped and stacked between greasy cardboard sleeves. Mr. Bojangles posted himself squarely between us, ready to catch any dropped fries with military precision.

"This is my first time having White Castle," Jack admitted, picking up a slider like it might explode.

"What?" I stared at him. "You're kidding."

He shook his head. "They don't exist in California. We have In-N-Out."

I made a mock-horrified face. "I don't know how to process that."

"I'm processing this," he said, taking a bite. "Holy – this is so wrong. But also... weirdly perfect."

"That's how it works."

My mom nibbled at a few fries, mostly quiet, though she chuckled a few times at Jack's impressions of dorm food and his dramatic reading of a fake Yelp review he once wrote for a vending machine.

"You have a very specific sense of humor," she said after wiping her eyes.

Jack smiled, a little shy. "Thanks. I think."

After we'd finished, she gave us both a long look.

"I've got to get some sleep," she said. "But I'm really glad you're here, Jack."

"Thanks for letting me crash your Thanksgiving," he said.

"You're not crashing anything. You're my son's roommate and best friend. You're like family now. Hopefully, this can become our new Thanksgiving tradition!"

My mom didn't seem to notice, but I sure saw the few stray tears leaking out of Jack's eyes. I absolutely made the right choice inviting him here instead of Noah … and I hated myself for even thinking that.

She gave Jack and me big, warm hugs, and vanished into her bedroom with a tired wave.

Down in the basement, the air was cool and still. The string lights gave everything a soft glow. Mr. Bojangles immediately claimed a spot at the foot of the pull-out couch, circling twice before collapsing with a dramatic huff.

Jack stretched across the mattress, looking entirely at home. "This place is dangerously cozy."

I flicked on the TV. The Tiger King was still queued from months ago, and I didn't even pretend to justify it.

Jack's commentary was merciless. "He looks like Guy Fieri's evil twin," he said during episode one. "If meth was a person, it would be that guy ."

I laughed so hard I spilled my soda. "You're horrible."

"I'm honest."

By 11 p.m., our jokes were more mumbled than spoken. We both knew it was time to crash.

We brushed our teeth in the little hallway bathroom – side by side, trading sleepy glances in the mirror. Then we took turns in the shower, with me desperately trying not to overthink things. Knowing Jack, he was probably thinking about an epic battle between a honey badger and a snake in the Serengeti.

When I got back downstairs, Jack was already in bed.

Well – on the bed. Shirtless. The blanket pulled up to his chest. Boxers visible. His dyed blond hair was still damp from the shower.

He glanced at me when I entered, but didn't say anything.

I pulled off my shirt slowly, then my jeans, trying not to make it weird – though everything was weird. The air felt too cold. The room too quiet.

I stood there in just my boxers, unsure for a second. Nervous. Anxious.

Jack looked over again. Then quickly back at the ceiling.

"I didn't take your side," he mumbled.

"It's fine," I said, climbing in. "It's just sleeping."

But we both knew it wasn't just sleeping. Not really. Not tonight.

We lay side by side, shoulders and arms pressed together. Close. Too close. But neither of us moved.

I glanced at him – just a flick of my eyes – and caught it: the way his breath hitched, the faint rise under the blanket.

Oh shit.

He was hard.

I looked down at myself. So was I.

We both knew.

But still, nothing was said.

No jokes. No flirty retorts. Just... awareness . And a silence that buzzed with too many unsaid things as my ferociously hard boyhood trembled beneath my boxers.

I tried not to think about how this used to feel – back in the dorms, when we curled into each other out of exhaustion and fear. This was different. This was chosen . I wondered if Jack, too, had been anticipating this moment, imagining how it might unfold.

And somehow, that made it scarier.

Jack shifted slightly, his arm brushing mine. A shiver ran through me, even though I wasn't cold anymore.

My mind was spiraling – half hoping he'd say something, half terrified he might.

What are we doing?

Is he feeling the same things as me?

How can I feel this way about Jack when I already love Noah?

But nothing came of it, until he said, "I really missed sleeping with you and cuddling with you, Nicky."

All I managed was a meek, "Me too."

Other than that all-too-brief interlude, it was just the soft rustle of the blanket. The faint whine of the pipes. And Mr. Bojangles' steady, reassuring snore from the foot of the bed.

Jack exhaled. "Good night, Nicky."

My heart stuttered a little.

"Good night," I said.

We didn't move.

And eventually – somehow – we fell asleep.

Pressed together.

Not touching.

Not quite.

But still impossibly close.

I woke up to forty pounds of pure, slobbering dog.

Mr. Bojangles now wedged himself between us, tail wagging wildly as he shoved his snout under Jack's arm and let out a delighted groan. It was, in a word, chaos.

"Ughhh—what—" Jack blinked, hair sticking up, voice still scratchy from sleep. He looked at me over Mr. Bojangles' head, dazed, shirtless, and... smiling.

Not smirking. Not sarcastic.

Smiling.

Shy, even.

"Happy Thanksgiving," I mumbled.

He smiled a little wider. "We're being mauled."

"He loves us."

"He weighs more than most bowling balls."

We lay there for a second, neither moving much. Just side by side, blankets tangled, eyes adjusting. Jack turned to look at me again – and in that half-asleep haze, with his cheeks a little pink and his voice soft, I thought: This is dangerous.

He wasn't usually shy.

And it was so cute when he was.

Upstairs, the kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off in a grocery store.

My mom was in the middle of it all, arms deep in a roasting pan, wrestling what I assumed was the turkey (and the turkey appeared to be winning). The gizzards had been set aside in a little bowl for adding to the gray later. Pans covered every surface. The windows were slightly fogged. There was a pile of potatoes that looked as if it were preparing to attack.

"Grab some cereal," she called, not turning around. "I'm in full combat mode."

"Need help?"

"No. Absolutely not. You'll mess with my system."

Jack and I looked at each other, shrugged, and poured ourselves bowls of Frosted Flakes.

"You do this every year?" Jack asked, milk sloshing as he sat down.

"Every year," I said proudly. "She yells at me to stay out of the kitchen and then complains that no one helps."

From across the room: "I heard that!"

By noon, it was time.

The Detroit Lions Thanksgiving Day game was a sacred tradition in our household –regardless of record, forecast, or logic.

"Seriously?" Jack said, eyeing the TV like it might bite him.

"It's non-negotiable."

"I hate sports."

"You hate joy. "

He groaned, dragged his blanket from the basement, and flopped down next to me on the couch. His leg bumped mine. He didn't move it. I didn't want him to.

Mr. Bojangles stayed in the kitchen, sniffing around for scraps. Jack stayed beside me, pretending not to care, even as I caught him watching the screen with increasingly focused skepticism.

"You're getting into it," I whispered. "In fact, I think you like watching their butts in those tight pants."

"Shut up," he said, looking around nervously to see if my mom had heard. I really had to come out to her one of these days. I just didn't think Thanksgiving was it.

At halftime, we headed outside. The backyard was cold but wide open, scattered with dry leaves and rimmed by bare trees. The sky was the washed-out gray of a Michigan November.

We tossed the football back and forth, mostly because I insisted that it was a family tradition (it was with my dad). Jack groaned dramatically every time he caught it. But he did catch more balls than he dropped.

When I pointed that out to him, Jack smirked and said, "I've always been a savant when it comes to handling balls."

I blushed crimson, but so wanted to respond to his lewd comment, to flirt back with him. Why did this have to be so hard?

"This is what you do for fun, Kincaid?" he asked, stumbling as he tried to spiral it back to me.

"You're doing great," I cheered him on.

"Nick, I feel like a Labrador being trained for the first time!"

"You're kinda graceful. And you've got a cute tush … maybe even cuter than your favorite little goblin's," I joked with him.

Jack blushed. "Shut up."

He then beaned the ball right at my head. Fortunately, I was able to block it.

Still, we stayed out there. Tossing. Laughing. And then heading back in, cheeks red and ears cold, just in time for the final two quarters of the game and two large mugs of hot apple cider, my favorite thing to drink in cold weather (although I did enjoy a good pumpkin spice latte from time to time, too).

And then – somehow – the Lions pulled out the win, despite being down 27-21 at the two-minute warning.

I jumped up, yelling, then turned and – without thinking – threw my arms around Jack.

I held him tight.

And after half a second, he hugged me back.

Really hugged me. And I buried my face in the nape of his soft neck.

It was much longer and more intense than a casual, bro hug . His arms wrapped around me like he didn't want to let go. I didn't either. There was definitely electricity .

From the kitchen: "Oh, don't you boys look cute !"

And then I heard a click from my mom's camera phone!

We sprang apart like we'd been electrocuted.

"Mom!" I yelled.

She just cackled and went back to basting something.

Jack was pink from his ears down to his collarbone.

It was so cute. He was so cute!

I wanted to hug him some more.

Around two-thirty, my phone buzzed with a string of "Happy Thanksgiving" messages.

From Mark:

eat stuffing til u pass out, love u

From Emery:

hope your mom isn't making you chop things

From Christian:

Happy Turkey Day, man. Tell Jack not to burn the place down.

Then, one from an unknown number:

happy thanksgiving, nicholas.i stole your number from christian's phone. might've seen some porn. no regrets.

did you watch the game?? tell me you screamed. Also, is jack there? is he still smoking hot or what? did u grab his ass yet?

I laughed out loud.

Jack looked over from where he was helping stir the gravy.

"What?"

I showed him the message.

He read it.

Paused.

And then turned the color of an overripe tomato .

"Oh my God," he mumbled.

"You okay?"

"He's thirteen . That's illegal."

"No, it's not. You're underage too," I pointed out.

Jack covered his face with one hand. "He's going to flirt with me until I die, the little flirt goblin."

"You like it … you like him !" I teased.

"Don't. We're gonna have to have a talk with him after the break," Jack stated solemnly.

"Nah, it's just a harmless teenage schoolboy crush. He'll probably be over it within a week," I said.

But Jack was smiling behind his hand.

Maybe Jack and I needed to have a talk, too. A long overdue talk, because I didn't know how much longer I could keep doing this. But then I'd see Noah, or he'd touch me, and I'd lose all resolve.

For now, I just texted Jonah back:

Lions won. yes I screamed. yes Jack's here. yes he's still hot. and he says hi.(also—ew re: Christian's phone)

But as I scrolled, something settled in my stomach.

There was no message from Noah.

Not a "Happy Thanksgiving." Not even a thumbs-up.

And maybe that didn't mean anything.

But it still felt like something.

At five, both sets of grandparents arrived – my mom's parents, and my dad's, who still came every year even after everything. Jack stood up awkwardly, suddenly looking like someone who had wandered into the wrong party. He was wearing recently ironed khaki pants, a blue and white striped button-down shirt, brown dress shoes, and had his hair neatly combed. He looked incredible.

I introduced him.

He blushed.

And then the grandmothers attacked.

"You're even cuter than Nick said!" one said, pinching his cheek, and causing him to blush several shades of red.

The other ruffled his hair. "Are you the one with the sarcasm problem?"

Jack looked like he was about to crawl under the table. "Probably."

My grandfather was next, offering to show him how to shave that tiny little patch of peach fuzz off his upper lip. "I like my peach fuzz," Jack insisted, gritting his teeth.

I just smiled. He was so red.

It was adorable. He was adorable. UGH!

Dinner was a mountain of food. Turkey. Gravy. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing with sausage. Green bean casserole. Creamed spinach. Mac & cheese. Salad. Fresh rolls. A pumpkin pie cooling on the windowsill like out of a storybook.

Just as Jack was eyeing the stuffing like he might do something naughty with it, my mom held up a hand.

"One thing first," she said. "What are we all thankful for?"

A round of groans.

But the grandparents insisted.

When it came to me, I cleared my throat.

"I'm thankful for my family," I said. "For the chance to be at Harrison West. For my friends. And especially… Jack. He's made my first semester at Harrison West better than I could have hoped, and I couldn't have done it without him."

There were a few quiet awwwws .

Then it was Jack's turn.

He hesitated. Then cleared his throat.

"I'm… thankful to be here," he said, softer than I'd ever heard him. "For the Kincaids accepting me into their family. And for having the greatest best friend in the world, Nick, who's shown me that family isn't necessarily just blood."

He glanced at me – just briefly.

And then the entire table squealed: "Awwwwwwww!"

Jack groaned, buried his face in his hands.

I laughed so hard I nearly fell off my chair.

Later that night, after the dishes were done and the grandparents had gone, Jack and I lay on the carpeted basement floor, Mr. Bojangles curled up in a warm lump beside us.

We didn't talk much. We were both completely stuffed.

Eventually, we got up and walked Mr. Bojangles around the block. The air was sharp and still. The world felt wrapped in cotton.

Back inside, we brushed our teeth in sleepy silence and climbed into bed again – less hesitant this time. Closer.

Jack yawned. "So, what's tomorrow's torture?"

"We're going camping."

He stared at me. "You're serious? It's freezing outside."

"It'll be fun."

He groaned. "I'll get eaten by a squirrel."

"You'll love it."

This time, I didn't have to play the "but you love me" card. He agreed.

The lights were off. The house quiet.

And then I felt it – his arm, wrapping gently around me from behind. Bare chest to my bare back.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For today. I know I've made your life harder and frustrated you in ways I can't even count. But you are my best friend, and I do love you. So, thank you for letting me be a part of your life."

I didn't answer right away. I was too busy trying to stop the tears from running down my face.

So, I just enjoyed the cuddle and covered his hand with mine.

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