Swing for the Fences
by Little Buddha
Chapter 36
I couldn't stop staring at the letters. I must've read them ten times already, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something less awful. But they didn't. They just sat there, heavy and merciless, like they were mocking me. Every sentence felt like a punch to the gut, and by the time I reached the end, it was like the air had been knocked out of me. And then, against all common sense, I started from the top again. Because maybe – just maybe – I'd missed something. I hadn't. The first letter, from his parents' lawyer, wasn't too bad, just a bunch of legalese:
But it was the second letter – the one tucked inside the envelope with the lawyer's response – that almost made me throw up. This one wasn't typed or signed by some partner in a glass office downtown. It was personal. Monogrammed stationery, every line in Jack's mother's unmistakable handwriting. And that was what made it worse. This wasn't legalese. This was them. His parents. Every word dripped with malice, sharpened to cut deeper than any courtroom threat ever could. And then, the final twist of the knife: they signed it "Love, Mommy & Daddy." Calling that cruel didn't even come close. It was beyond evil.
It should have felt like a victory.
A huge one.
Jack's parents weren't contesting guardianship. They'd agreed to step aside, to let Nana Beverly assume custody and handle the bills. On paper, it was done. Case closed. He was free.
He should've been celebrating.
But instead, he looked like someone had kicked the last light out of him. Because tucked inside that envelope was a second letter – handwritten, unmistakably his mother's – and that was the one that nearly destroyed him.
When he dropped it in my lap, he didn't say a word. Just sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders caved, eyes hollow. I read it once, then again, and felt my chest heating with every line.
Because it wasn't just cold. It was cruel.
They hadn't just signed him away – they'd gutted him on the way out. Called him broken. Called him sick. Said the most horribly homophobic things. Told him he deserved to rot in some locked ward. Told him he'd never amount to anything, never be loved, never be normal. Then signed it with Love, Mommy & Daddy.
That wasn't love. That was hate in cursive.
What could I possibly say? There's no speech, no hug, no whispered promise strong enough to cover over that kind of wound. This was the kind of scar that never healed – rejection sharpened into a knife and driven straight into the heart of a boy who already thought he was unworthy.
And I sat there, sick with guilt.
Because I had my own secret.
The kiss with Jonah. Ten stupid seconds. Ten electric, wrong seconds that I hadn't stopped fast enough. Ten seconds that could shatter everything Jack and I had built if he ever found out.
I had planned to tell him. I wanted to tell him. I owed him that honesty. But looking at him now – ghost-pale, barely holding himself together – I knew the truth could push him over the edge. What if he thought I was giving up on him, too? What if he thought I was just like his parents?
The thought made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
He muttered something about needing a shower and left. The door clicked shut, and I sat there staring at the wood grain, trying to breathe through the weight crushing my chest. My phone was in my hand before I'd even decided to move.
Mom answered on the second ring. "Hi, Sweetie! I was just about to call."
"About the letter?"
Her voice shifted instantly from cheerful to businesslike. She told me she'd already spoken with Beverly – thank God sober – and that the paperwork for temporary – and later, permanent – guardianship was in motion. A few weeks, max.
"That's good," I said, but my voice sounded like sandpaper.
She asked how Jack was.
"I don't know," I admitted. "He's quiet. Too quiet. Like he can't decide if he's sad or furious or just… gone."
Mom was silent, then whispered, "How could they? Their own son?"
I had no answer. My throat was thick, my chest burning.
We talked about summer plans – something hopeful to hold onto – but the words felt hollow. Because all I could think about was shame.
Shame that I'd let Jonah kiss me. Shame that I hadn't pulled away fast enough. Shame that I might become, in Jack's eyes, one more person who abandoned him.
And yet, buried underneath all that self-loathing, there was this thread of something stubborn. A thread that whispered, You still love him. You still choose him. You'll do anything to protect him.
It wasn't much. But it was enough to keep me from drowning completely.
I ended the call, thanked Mom, and told her I loved her. Then I opened the little tin where I kept my old prescription. Two Clonazepam left. I swallowed both, chased them with lukewarm water, and collapsed into my pillow.
I didn't hear Jack come back. Didn't feel the mattress shift. Didn't notice the light go off.
Two boys.
One gutted by rejection. One poisoned by guilt.
Both wrecked.
But even through the wreckage, I knew this much: I wasn't letting go of him. Not now.
Not ever.
Exam week was one week away.
One. Miserable. Week.
And I was barely holding it together – not just academically, but in every possible way. Between endless review packets, back-to-back prep sessions, the poison of Jack's parents' letter still echoing in our heads, the kiss with Jonah, and the guilt that never left my bloodstream, I felt like I was coming apart cell by cell.
The only thing keeping me even remotely whole was Jack climbing into my bed each night, curling into me, and pulling my arms tight around him. That simple, quiet ritual. His warmth pressed against my chest. His heartbeat synced with mine. Even when he was too sad to speak, even when I could feel his depression leaking out of him like smoke filling the room, those moments stopped my brain from spinning. He needed me. And God, I loved being needed.
But he wasn't okay. Not by a long shot. He picked at his food until it went cold. The new meds lined up on his nightstand felt like a silent warning. And during study hall, he sat like a statue – staring, blinking, trying to remember how to exist.
I kept trying to pull him toward it – to talk about the letters, to remind him he was loved, not just by me but by my family and our friends. He dodged every time, burying himself in finals like they were a storm wall. He needed to talk – anyone with a pulse could see that – but I had to find a way that didn't feel like pestering or cornering. I wished my mom were here to coach me. So I aimed smaller: get him through finals, get him home, then we deal. In the meantime, I stayed close and available – for talking, for crying, even for a tantrum if that's what cracked it. I looped in Miss Charice, too. She brought him in for what she called a "routine check-in," hoping he might open up. He didn't, and she didn't push; she just reminded him that her door was always open. At least he'd been going to his therapy appointments and, hopefully, was talking about it there. Beyond that, what else could I do but hold the net and wait?
I also knew I had to tell him about Jonah, in the midst of all this pressure and stress. I knew I couldn't put it off too long. I'd even rehearsed it in my head. But not right now. Not when he was this fragile. Not when one more weight on his shoulders might crush him flat.
So, yeah – I told myself it could wait. But not long.
I was already the world's worst boyfriend. I'd already crossed the line. What was a few more nights of selfishness? A few more nights holding him before I lost the right forever? Because once I told him – once he knew – I was sure he'd push me out of his life completely. Just like I had done to Noah.
But my little plan had one glaring flaw: Jonah.
Jonah, with his sharp tongue and zero filter. Jonah, who was brilliant, fearless, unstable, and absolutely not discreet. I couldn't risk him saying something. Not now.
Not after receiving those letters. Not with finals looming. And not with Jack barely treading water.
So, when the moment came, I didn't think – I just acted, for better or worse.
Jack was at his third therapy session that week. I was staring at my desk, doing nothing, when I heard steps in the hall and saw Jonah coming from Christian's room.
I'd already pulled Christian aside and told him what happened – made him swear to keep it quiet. I told him I couldn't deal with Jonah myself right now. Too many fires, and I was still too mad. Christian's his brother, older, actually mature; maybe he could get through to him. Perhaps he could even help us patch the friendship someday – but that would depend on Jack. If Jack told me not to talk to Jonah again and I wanted to stay with Jack, I'd respect that. For now, I just needed Christian to help Jonah understand: yes, Jonah and I had a special friendship, but it wasn't romantic and couldn't be, not with me and not with Jack. I also asked Christian for help on my side – how to tell Jack and how not to make it worse. Once again, I was leaning on Christian to pull me out of a mess.
I opened the door before Jonah could knock. "Hey."
He stopped, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket. "Can I – two minutes? If not, I'll go."
I let him in and left the door cracked. He stood there like he wasn't sure where to put his arms.
"I talked to Christian," he said right away. "He told me to come say sorry like a person, not a text. Also… he kind of bitched me out, but in big-brother mode."
"Okay."
"I'm sorry, Nick," he said, voice small but steady. "For kissing you. For not stopping when you said stop. For making things harder with Jack. For messing up with you. I'm really, really sorry."
I nodded. "Thanks for saying it."
"Christian said I don't get to decide someone else's boundaries just because I think I know how they feel," he went on. "He said I was being selfish, and I need to actually respect what people say, not what I want it to mean. He's right."
"He is," I said, softer than I expected.
"I can talk to Jack if you want," he added quickly. "Like, tell him it was on me. But only if you want that. I won't if you don't."
"I appreciate it. Let me think about that part."
"Okay." He swallowed. "I'm not telling him. Or anyone. I promise. I won't say anything unless you tell me to."
Silence for a beat. My chest unclenched a little.
"Look," I said, "I get how it got confusing. We're all kind of handsy. We hug a lot – me and you, me and Jack, you and Jack. But we've told you before: we're friends. It can't be romantic. Not with me, not with Jack. Jack and I are boyfriends, for as long as he'll have me."
"I know," he said, eyes shiny. "I heard you. I just didn't want to hear it. I screwed up."
"I don't want to lose you," I said. "But I have to take care of Jack first. And me. So I need space to figure out what our friendship even is now."
"I'll give you space," he said immediately. "I won't push. I won't try to, like, win you back as a best friend on a schedule. I'll just… be around when you decide. Or not, if that's what you decide."
"Thank you."
He rubbed his sleeve. "I hate that I made you feel like you couldn't trust me. Like, the most important thing for best friends to have is trust. I get that, and I'm going to be better about boundaries. For real. Christian basically drilled it into my skull."
I grinned. "Sounds like him."
He breathed out. "I'm sorry, Nick."
"I know," I said. "I believe you. And we'll figure it out."
He backed toward the door. "I won't say anything to Jack. I'll leave you alone till you're ready. If you ever want me to talk to him and own it, text me. Otherwise… I'll keep my distance."
"Okay."
"You were my best friend, other than my brother," he said, not dramatic – just honest. "I want to earn that back someday. I get that it's not today."
I nodded once. "We'll see. I hope we can work it out once I've talked to Jack."
He gave a small grateful look and slipped out. The hall swallowed him. I stood there a while, trying to let the quiet feel like something other than a loss, and hoping Christian's advice would help me do the next part right.
By the time Jonah walked out, I felt… off-center, like a hairline crack I needed to tape up, not a full break. My chest was tight, thoughts busy, but I could still breathe. Finals, Jack, Jonah, the letters, the lie – it was a lot, and it sat on my shoulders all at once. I've always been a worrier; that's not new. After Dad died, I kind of decided – without anyone asking – that I had to be the "man of the house," keep Mom upright, protect the edges. Sometimes I could help and sometimes I couldn't, and watching her cry those first months taught me there are things you can't fix just by wanting to. That stuck with me and put a lot of pressure on me. Dad was my anchor and my coach – math, fear, the dumb voice that says you're not enough – he had a way through it. He also taught me how to be a good, kind, generous, and compassionate person. But he wasn't here now. He couldn't unspool the Jonah mess for me or tell me how to make this easier for Jack, and he couldn't cram quadratic equations or the date of the fall of Constantinople into my head, no matter how long I stare at the review sheet (it was May 29, 1453, by the way). I didn't really want to unload all of this on Mom; she wouldn't hear it like Dad did, and then she'd feel bad about that, which wasn't fair to her. So it was on me to carry it right now and not drop anything important. I wasn't the kid who blew up. I wasn't the kid who cheats on tests or kisses people to make a point. I wasn't the kid who let guilt run the whole show. Lately, though, I've felt close to that version of me, and I didn't like it. I wanted to be the person who steadies things – who owns the mistake, fixes what can be fixed, studies what needs studying, and keeps Jack safe in the middle of all this. I wanted to be more like my dad. That was the job in front of me.
Later that night, the dorm was silent, the usual chaos replaced with the heavy hush of exhaustion. Jack had just come back, fresh from therapy, sitting on his bed in a towel, hair dripping. He looked drained, eyes shadowed, shoulders sagging. It just reminded me that no matter how bad things were for me, they were a lot worse for Jack, and I felt useless in helping him. I knew I would say or do the wrong thing, and it would make it worse.
I swallowed. "Wanna shower together?"
It was the only thing I could think of, and I immediately felt stupid for suggesting it. He was going to think I wanted to mess around when that wasn't my intention at all. I just wanted a little bit of … intimacy. Closeness.
He looked up, tired but soft, and gave me the faintest smile. "I always wanna shower with you, Nicky."
We grabbed our things and headed down the hall. The showers were empty, the tiles echoing under our bare feet. Sure, we could get caught, but at that moment, that was the last thing on my mind. I needed this. We needed this.
We stripped down, stepped into the stall, and let the water wash away everything else.
We kissed briefly, gently. But there was no groping. No teasing. No messing around. Just the sound of water and our breathing. We stood there, arms wrapped around each other, clinging like we were afraid of being ripped apart. I didn't want to let him go. Not ever. His hugs were the only things that grounded me. I would literally lose everything if I lost him. And I knew he probably felt like I was his only anchor now. I didn't want to take that away from him. I wanted to be the one who took away his pain, not added to it.
Jack rested his cheek against my shoulder. I rubbed small circles into his back, the way I knew soothed him.
The steam curled around us, thick and quiet, like the whole world had shrunk to this stall – just the hiss of water, the slippery tile under our feet, and the warmth of his skin against mine. For a while, that was enough. For a while, it felt like the only safe place left on earth.
Eventually, the water sputtered cold, and we yelped like idiots as we stumbled out, grabbing towels in a shivering blur. We dried off, brushed our teeth, and padded barefoot down the hall, hair dripping.
Miss Charice was waiting outside our room, leaning on the doorframe like she'd been standing guard. She gave us a tired smile and waggled two paper cups at us.
"Here y'all go. Got your nighttime specials. Hot off the press."
We each took our pills with the water she handed us.
She didn't leave right away. She lingered, studying us with those sharp eyes that saw everything. Finally, she said softly, "Sleep well, okay?"
We nodded, and she gave this slight hum of approval before walking away.
Then Jack and I crawled into bed, pulled the covers over our heads, and clung to each other like it was our last night on earth.
For a while, I even believed it might hold me together.
At 1:00 AM, I woke suddenly in a cold sweat. Soaked. Trembling. My heart was pounding so violently I thought it might burst through my ribs. My chest ached. My vision tilted sideways. Every nerve in my body buzzed like live wires.
I knew the feeling. Panic attack. But worse. Much worse.
I bit down on my fist to keep from waking Jack. He needed rest – God, he needed rest more than anyone. I couldn't drag him into my spiral, not tonight.
So, I slid carefully out of bed, tugged on my hoodie and gym shorts, and crept barefoot down the silent hall. My legs were shaking so badly I had to grip the wall for balance.
I knocked on Miss Charice's door. Once. Twice. Three times.
When it opened, she looked half-asleep, hair wrapped in a scarf, wearing a massive hoodie that read More Hugs, Less Homework.
Her eyes cleared instantly when she saw me.
"Nick, baby, what's wrong?" she gasped, ushering me inside without waiting for an answer. "Lord have mercy, you look like you seen a ghost."
I collapsed onto her sofa. My whole body shook. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead.
She scurried around, busy hands pulling out a kettle, rummaging in cabinets. When she sat back beside me, she pressed a warm mug into my trembling hands.
"Tell me what's happening, sweet boy."
"I think it's a … a panic attack," I croaked. "But worse … than before. I'm … I'm scared. I'm really … scared ."
The sobs hit me before I could stop them – ugly, loud, humiliating. She set the tea aside and gathered me against her chest, stroking my hair.
"Shhhh," she whispered, rocking me like I was five. "Mamma's got you. You hear me? Mamma's got you."
I clutched her hoodie like a lifeline.
"What do you think brought this on?" she asked softly.
I shook my head. "Everything. Jack. His parents. Finals. Friend problems. I just… I feel like everything's falling apart at once."
She sighed, rubbing steady circles into my back. "Is Jack okay?"
I hesitated, then whispered, "…Not really."
Her mouth pressed into a line, but she didn't push. She just held me tighter.
After a pause, she clicked her tongue. "Didn't the doctor give you something for this? Xanax?"
"Yeah. But I… never filled it."
Her head whipped toward me like I'd cursed in church. "Now why, child, would you do something that dumb?"
I shrugged miserably. "I didn't think I needed it. I was more focused on Jack."
She muttered something under her breath, stood up, and started moving like a hurricane – pulling on jeans, grabbing her purse, sliding into sneakers, slicking on lip gloss in the mirror, all in one fluid motion.
"Come on," she announced, jingling her keys. "We're going to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy before you fall out right here on my rug."
I stared at her. "It's one in the morning."
"Uh-huh. And panic, don't check the clock, baby. Let's move."
I didn't argue. I was too weak, too out of it. Too desperate to stop this feeling.
Minutes later, I was buckled into her ancient silver Camry, which smelled like lavender, lemon Lysol, and about fifteen years of church mints. She drove with the windows cracked and gospel radio low, humming under her breath as if to keep me tethered to earth.
The pharmacy was fluorescent-bright and utterly empty. She marched straight to the counter, slapped down my script, and gave the pharmacist a look that said Don't test me, son. Ten minutes later, I had a pill in my palm and a Styrofoam cup of water in my hand.
Thirty minutes after that, I was breathing again.
She told me she'd register the prescription with the infirmary in the morning and would see about keeping a small supply locked in the cabinet in her office in case of another emergency.
When we got back, she walked me all the way to my room like she was escorting fragile cargo. Jack stirred the second I slid under the covers.
His eyes opened instantly, wide and frantic, like he'd been half-expecting me to disappear for good. "Nicky? Where were you? What happened?"
Miss Charice tucked the blanket over both of us. "Nick had himself a little episode. We got his meds. He's fine now. But you—" she pointed at Jack— "you hold him extra tight tonight, you hear me?"
Jack sat bolt upright and yanked me into his arms like he was afraid I'd vanish into thin air. His grip was almost crushing. "Oh my God. I love you so much, Nicky," he whispered, voice hoarse. He kissed my temple, my forehead, my cheek, like he needed to leave proof I was still here. "Don't do that again. Don't you ever leave me like that – I thought –" His words broke apart into ragged breaths.
"I'm right here," I whispered, throat raw. "I'm not going anywhere."
Jack clung even harder, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands trembling against my back. He didn't ask questions, didn't press for details – he just wrapped himself around me like he could will the world to leave me alone. Even after Miss Charice slipped out, he stayed awake, whispering soft, half-coherent reassurances into my hair.
I've got you, baby. You're safe. I'm here. I'm always here.
And finally, finally, my body let go, sinking into his warmth until the edges of the night blurred away.
But the guilt still lingered in the back of my mind like a splinter. Jack was holding me like I was his whole world. What would he do – what would it do to him – when he learned I hadn't been as unshakably loyal as he thought?
I kissed him softly on the lips in the dark and held him tighter, praying it wouldn't destroy either of us.
I woke up feeling like I'd been scraped off the pavement after being hit by a truck.
My head throbbed – sharp and mean, like an icepick wedged behind my eyes. My hoodie clung damp to my skin, soaked in cold sweat, heavy as lead. My heart wasn't racing anymore, but it wasn't steady either. It was drained, running on fumes, like it had finally given up trying to keep up with all the panic and just… surrendered.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Jack's face hovering above mine. Pale. Fragile. His bottom lip trembled, his eyes wide and terrified, like he'd been holding vigil for hours just to see if I'd ever wake.
"Jack…" My throat was sandpaper. The words came out like gravel.
"You're awake." His voice cracked, barely a whisper. Just two words, but packed so full of relief it almost broke me again.
And then everything rushed back – the panic, the guilt, Jonah, the kiss, the lies. Nothing had gone away. Nothing had healed. And here was Jack, watching me like I was worth saving. When I knew damn well I wasn't.
He didn't know yet.
But he would.
And then he'd see.
"Where are my pills?" I croaked.
"Miss Charice has them," Jack said, already half out of his chair. "Do you need one?"
"Yeah. Please."
Because if I was going to do this – really do this – I needed help. Chemical courage.
He was gone for less than two minutes. When he came back, Miss Charice was with him, fully dressed, hair pulled back, eyes sharp with maternal focus.
"Here, baby," she said, pressing a paper cup and two little pills into my hand. "We talked to the doctor this morning. He said it's fine to bump your dose for a few days – just 'til exams are done, but it may make you drowsy. You come to me for each one, every eight hours. If you don't come find me, I'ma come find you. We need you calm and stable right now."
Stable.
What a joke.
I swallowed the pills with a trembling hand, then looked up at her. "Can I… can I be alone with Jack for a while?"
She studied me for a moment but finally nodded. "Of course. But don't make me regret it, you hear?"
When the door shut, the silence hit like a gun going off. Jack perched on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight across his chest, like he was bracing for an earthquake.
I sat up slowly, back against the wall, heart hammering.
"I need to tell you something," I said. My voice sounded flat, but my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Jack's eyebrows pulled in. "Okay… what's up?"
"It's serious. And I can't sit on it anymore. I know it's really, really bad timing, but …"
He shifted closer. "You're freaking me out, Nicky. Just – say it. We'll deal."
I took a breath. "I love you. That hasn't changed."
"I know," he said, cautiously. "So…?"
"The day you got the letters – from your parents – Jonah kissed me."
He blinked like he'd misheard. "He… kissed you?"
"Yeah." I swallowed. "I didn't kiss him back. I told him no. I told him I love you. But I froze for a second. Like… ten seconds. Then I pulled away and left."
Jack's face went pale around the mouth. "Did you – did anything else happen?"
"No. Just that. I should've stopped it faster. I didn't. I'm sorry."
He looked down at his hands, then back at me. "Ten seconds?"
"About. It felt longer." I hated how small my voice sounded. "I should've said something sooner. I just – didn't want to wreck you right before finals and with everything else going on. But keeping it was wrecking me. I think that's what caused the panic attack last night."
He was quiet long enough that the room got loud – radiator, hallway, all of it. Then he said, "Okay."
"Okay?" I asked, not sure what that meant.
"I'm… shocked," he said, honestly. "And not happy at the situation. But I'm not mad at you." He rubbed his jaw. "He kissed you. You told him no. You told me now. That matters."
"I froze," I said. "That's the part I hate."
"You're human," he said. "I've frozen before, too. It doesn't mean you wanted it."
"I still feel like I let you down."
He exhaled, a shaky one. "I'm not gonna lie – this hurts. But it doesn't change that I love you. And it doesn't change that we're us."
I nodded, eyes burning. "If you need space, or if you want me to—"
"I don't want a breakup speech," he said, voice soft but firm. "I want honesty, which you just did. And I want us to set lines so this doesn't happen again."
"Yeah. Lines. I'm in. I talked to Christian, Christian talked to Jonah, then I talked to Jonah again. Told him I needed time to figure out where our friendship goes from here."
He sat closer, knee to mine. "Sounds like you handled it pretty well already. I can talk to him, too, if you want?"
"That's up to you, babe. I already told him I need space," I said. "He apologized. A lot ."
Jack nodded once, like that fit with what he expected. "Okay."
"I'm sorry," I said again, because it felt like it was still sitting in my throat.
"I know," he said. "Thank you for telling me." He hesitated, then added, "Can I… hug you, or do you need a second?"
I didn't answer; I just leaned in. He wrapped his arms around me, tight, and I held on like I'd been holding my breath all day.
After a minute, he said into my shoulder, "We're gonna be okay. I'm not promising it won't feel weird for a bit, especially with Jonah. But I'm here."
"I'm here too," I said.
He pulled back enough to see my face. "We study after this. We sleep. We finish finals. Then we deal with the Jonah part, together. Cool?"
"Cool," I said, and meant it.
He kissed my temple, quick and shaky. "You've saved me a lot, Nicky," he said, not making a speech, just saying it. "You pulled me back when I was falling. You kept showing up when I was weird and quiet. You made this a life. Friends, a mom who likes me, safety… that's you. Telling me now doesn't ruin us. It's the opposite. It's what we do."
It landed like a rope tossed to someone treading water. I could hear a wobble under it – he was still scared and a little hurt – but he meant it.
"About Jonah," Jack said, softer. "He's… intense. He jumps, then thinks. I'm not excusing it. I just—he's probably miserable, too. We don't have to fix it tonight. Space first. After finals, we can figure out what 'forgive' looks like. If you want me to talk to him with you, I will. If you don't, I won't."
"He promised not to say anything to anyone. He said he'll wait until I decide what our friendship is."
Jack nodded. "Okay. Good. We'll handle it – later. After finals. And after I finish… dealing with those letters."
I pulled him into a hug. "Whenever you're ready, I'm here. We can loop my mom in when we're home, too. I know it sucks, and you probably feel miserable, but remember – they were never your family." I tapped his chest, then mine. "I am. My mom is. Nana Bev. Mr. Bojangles, obviously. That's your family now. We grind through finals, then we get a whole summer for us – reset, make sure you're okay, and actually have some fun. We've got this, if we do it together."
"You really still love me?" I hated how small that sounded.
"Yeah," he said, steadying. "I do. I'm shaken, but I'm here."
"I love you," I said.
"I love you, too."
He kissed me – soft, simple, enough. When we pulled back, he tried for a smile. "Now we study. Finals aren't going to pass themselves."
I snorted a laugh that was half-ugly, half-relief. "Fine. Twenty minutes of review, then bed."
"Deal."
We opened our notes and pretended the radiator wasn't the loudest thing in the world.
The words didn't all stick, but some did, and that felt like a start.
Later, lights out, we fit into our usual shape – Jack's bare back warm against my bare chest, my arm around him, tight. His breathing evened; mine followed. We departed together for Dreamland.
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