Swing for the Fences

by Little Buddha

Chapter 37

Finals week was hell.

But honestly? Not the inferno I'd been bracing myself for. More like a slow, suffocating burn, the kind where you don't even realize you're crisping until you smell the smoke.

By Monday morning, my brain wasn't a brain anymore. It was a broken search engine, tabs left open from every subject imaginable: history dates blinking at me like annoying pop-ups, math formulas scrolling past in strings of gibberish, vocab words from three multiple languages jammed into one sentence, and biology terms that I was pretty sure I'd invented in a fever dream. I couldn't tell anymore if I was actually prepared or if I'd just hallucinated the last three days with a mechanical pencil in hand.

I'd studied until my eyes felt like sandpaper. Made flashcards, then flashcards for my flashcards, like some deranged Inception of academia. I wrote so many practice essays that my hand had a permanent dent where my pen dug into it. By the time I woke up Monday morning, there was only one clear, shining truth:

I was fried. Toasted. Cooked. Done. Stick a fork in me.

And the pressure wasn't just academic. If I tanked these exams, I could lose my scholarship. If I lost my scholarship, I'd be back in public school next year, where AP courses were a rumor and teachers were just trying to survive the day. I'd never see Jack or my friends again. My mom would be devastated after everything she'd sacrificed to get me here. This school wasn't just a school anymore. It was my family.

I couldn't afford to fail. Literally.

The only thing holding me together – barely – was Jack. Waking up next to him every morning, his arm tucked under our shared pillow, his cheek pressed warm against mine, his breath brushing the back of my neck. It was the single calm point in the hurricane. Even when he was quiet, even when his own depression leaked out of him like ink in water, having him there reminded me to breathe. He was my anchor.

And I still couldn't figure out how I deserved him. After everything – after Jonah, after the guilt – I should've lost him. But somehow, impossibly, he was still here. Still loving me, no different than he had before. I almost couldn't believe it. How did I deserve that?

Uniforms weren't required during exams, so after a too-hot shower that steamed up the bathroom mirror, I pulled on jeans and a polo, combed my hair back, and tried to look less like the walking dead. Jack brushed my hand as we walked to the dining hall, a quiet little squeeze that said, We've got this!

Breakfast was like a morgue. Nobody was talking. Forks scraped, spoons clinked, pages of notes rustled. Some boys muttered formulas under their breath, like casting protective spells. Others had textbooks propped open on their trays, reading while mechanically chewing toast. Even the smell of bacon couldn't lift the gloom.

Even Jonah was unusually subdued, sitting between Christian and Emery, his head bowed, hair a mess. His eyes looked glassy, shadows under them like bruises. I caught myself staring for a second too long before looking away. The tension between us buzzed under the table like an electric wire, but no one else seemed to notice. Or maybe they were too wrapped up in their own private implosions to care. Jonah was lucky, though, in a sense. The middle-schoolers' final exams weren't as rigorous as ours, and they didn't count for as much of their grades, but next year, when he was a freshman, he'd be going through the same hell as us.

Nobody knew what had really gone down – about the kiss, about the breakdown, about the letter Jack's parents had sent that should've destroyed him. All they knew was that Jack had announced he'd be back at Harrison West next fall. That was enough. For now.

I loaded up my tray with a massive cheese and spinach omelet, greasy home fries, too many sausage links, and three cups of coffee I'd probably regret later. By the time I swallowed the last bite, I felt jittery but ready. Or at least, less doomed.

"Good luck," I said as we all stood and slapped a few high-fives, shoulder bumps, fist bumps, anything to convince myself we were still human and still had a chance against this academic onslaught, the likes of which I had never experienced in public school. This was a brand-new experience for me, and while some of my friends tried to explain to me how it worked, how much of our grades depended on it, and if teachers ever graded their tests on a curve, I still didn't really quite know what to expect. Just that it would be bad.

First up: World History.

It felt like fate, starting with my favorite subject. I'd spent the last week practically living inside my notes, tracing the rise and fall of civilizations until they started bleeding into my dreams. Ancient Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, Rome – whole empires fought and crumbled behind my eyelids while I tried to sleep.

The multiple-choice section was brutal but manageable. Questions about the Code of Hammurabi ("an eye for an eye" – easy), the Mandate of Heaven in Zhou China, and the role of Alexander the Great in spreading Hellenistic culture. One even asked us to identify which of the following rulers had never ruled during the Maurya Empire in India, and I swear I could hear half the class groan when they realized they hadn't studied that chapter hard enough.

Then came the essay prompts – my real playground. We had to choose two out of four. The first one I tackled was about the transition from hunter-gatherer societies to early agricultural states and how that shift created both opportunity and inequality. I practically carved my pencil into the page, weaving in the Fertile Crescent, Nile irrigation, and the city-states of Sumer. The second essay was even better: "Assess the legacy of the Roman Republic's political institutions on modern democracies." Jackpot. I went off about the Senate, consuls, checks and balances, even compared it to the U.S. Constitution … well, what was left of it after the first eight months of the year, I thought to myself. My hand ached, but I couldn't stop.

By the time I hit the short-answer section – identifying key trade routes like the Silk Road and explaining how they facilitated not just commerce but cultural diffusion – I was in the zone. Talking about how Buddhism spread to China from India through merchants and missionaries felt less like an exam and more like something I wanted to lecture about for hours.

When I finally set my pencil down, I almost wanted to laugh. I'd crushed it. For once, all those nights of flashcards and color-coded outlines actually felt worth it. And in that moment, it gave me the confidence boost I desperately needed.

Jack met me outside the classroom, humming under his breath, which was his tell-tale sign that he thought he'd done well, too. He wouldn't brag, not even to me, but the little spark in his eye was enough. I was just so proud that he could get through his exams considering all the emotional turmoil he'd been through recently, but he seemed focused anyway. I just hoped that pushing all of his emotional turmoil to the very back of his mind didn't come back to bite him later.

We crashed for a brief nap in my bed that afternoon, limbs tangled, neither of us talking. The silence was the kind of silence you earn. Exhausted, but alive. We probably should have been studying more, though, but I need to be with Jack to recharge my batteries. He was my safe space. My safe harbor, the calm inlet I could always sail into no matter how violent the hurricane outside.

That night, after two grueling hours of mandatory study hall, we needed a break. Everyone did. The whole dorm had the energy of a hospital ward where all the patients were caffeinated ghosts.

So naturally, the guys crowded into our room like it was the last refuge on earth, and someone (probably Kit, because he always smuggled contraband board games from the common room) dragged in Monopoly. Jonah, maybe trying to pretend things were normal, immediately half-joked about inventing a new rule called "Communist Banking."

"Shut up," Christian said instantly, deadpan. "Go back to history class. Lenin already tried that."

"I'm Lenin on your mom," Jonah shot back, grinning.

"You do realize we have the same mom, don't you?" Christian asked dryly.

Mark threw a pillow at him. "Boo. Worst joke of the night."

Danny snorted. "Please, the night's young. Give him five minutes."

Jonah got that look again – the one where the laughter around him suddenly seemed sharper than funny, where his smile faltered and his eyes darted like he wanted out. Before anyone could crack another joke, he crawled across the floor and plopped himself down on Christian's lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I braced myself, fully expecting Christian to shove him off or make some sarcastic dig. But he didn't. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Jonah, steady and protective, and just held him there. No words, no jokes – just warmth. Jonah sank into it instantly, his whole body softening, his eyes closing like this was exactly what he'd been hoping for.

It was… beautiful, honestly. A reminder that beneath all the teasing and bickering, those two really did love each other. Fiercely. Without question.

But watching them, something twisted in me. Because there had been a time – back before everything got complicated – when Jonah would have come to me like that. Crawled into my lap, hidden his face in my hoodie, and asked me to make it better. And now? That space wasn't mine anymore. It was Christian's. His brother's, as it probably should be.

Still, I couldn't stop the pang in my chest, sharp and sudden. A little sting of loss I didn't want to admit to anyone, least of all myself. My relationship with Jonah had changed irrevocably.

Meanwhile, Emery had apparently lost all grip on reality and launched into a pitch-perfect imitation of our biology teacher's lisp, turning photosynthesis into a tragic opera. He stood on Jack's desk, one hand clutching his chest, the other raised dramatically to the ceiling:

"Theee chloro—phylllll… it absorbsssss the lightttt… the glucose is my soul, my soul is glucoseeee!"

We lost it. Absolutely lost it. I laughed so hard I snorted root beer out of my nose and had to grab Jack's hoodie sleeve to wipe my face while he groaned, muttering, "Why am I dating you again?"

"Because I'm hot and I know how to suck a dick," I wheezed.

"You're lukewarm at best," he deadpanned, but I caught the corner of his mouth twitching. "And I guess I must admit that you do give pretty good head."

Christian, unamused that the game had gotten so clearly off-track, but still clearly entertained, was playing banker. "No more singing, or I repossess your property. I'm serious. The free market cannot handle this level of drama and immaturity."

"Capitalism kills art!" Jonah declared, grabbing half the Chance cards. "I'm seizing the means of production!"

Kit nearly fell off the bed laughing. "Bro, you can't just annex the Chance pile. That's not even—"

"Silence, peasant," Jonah said, fanning himself with the cards.

Mark collapsed onto the floor in mock despair. "The proletariat will remember this."

For an hour – just one stupid, golden hour – it felt like we were just boys again. No finals, no lawyers, no panic attacks or parents or secrets. Just us, laughing until our sides hurt, drowning in root beer and bad jokes and the sheer relief of not thinking.

At lights out, after a quiet shower together, Miss Charice appeared at our door with our meds. We swallowed them, brushed our teeth, and collapsed into bed. Jack curled behind me, arms locked around my waist, his breath warm on my neck.

"I love you, Nicky," he said softly. "Just so you don't forget."

We lay in the dark talking about nonsense – whether penguins had knees, if the vending machines were secretly sentient, which teacher would survive longest in a zombie apocalypse, and whether Jonah actually owned more than one hoodie, or just borrowed Christian's.

Just dumb things. Ordinary things. The kind of things that didn't matter but mattered to us.

We kissed until our lips felt raw, and sleep finally pulled us under. And for the first time in forever, I fell asleep smiling.

The rest of the week developed a rhythm.

Wake up. Get dressed. Breakfast. Exam. Recovery. Prep. Try not to cry.

Tuesday was English and U.S. Government – back-to-back, a double-header of brain drain.

English came first. Two hours, three essays, one poetry analysis, and a short-answer section that looked deceptively simple until you realized the "short" answers were basically miniature essays. I stared at a Robert Frost poem for a full minute before my brain kicked into gear, scribbling about enjambment, symbolism, and the irony of rural isolation in early 20th-century America. Then came the comparative lit essay: Brontë versus Hemingway. Storm-tossed cliffs and repressed longing against terse, iceberg-style masculinity. My hand cramped so badly halfway through that I thought I'd have to start dictating to the kid next to me.

The final essay was open-ended: "What role does literature play in shaping cultural identity?" I almost laughed. Too broad. Too philosophical. But once I started, I couldn't stop writing about Baldwin and Morrison, about how stories weren't just mirrors but blueprints for who we wanted to become. By the time the proctor called "five minutes left," I was still furiously scrawling, my handwriting devolving into something barely legible.

Then, U.S. Government. Honestly, I'd been kind of looking forward to this one. I'd inhaled that textbook cover to cover, memorized the Bill of Rights like song lyrics, and tortured Jack for weeks with flashcards on the Federalist Papers. Multiple-choice questions about checks and balances, the Electoral College, and the Commerce Clause flew by. Then came the essays: one about the role of judicial review in shaping civil rights, another comparing the strengths and weaknesses of federalism versus unitary systems. I went full nerd. Cited Marbury v. Madison, Brown v. Board, even a line from Justice Kennedy's opinion in Obergefell v. Hodges. My pencil was smoking.

When it was finally over, I stumbled out into the hallway like a soldier crawling out of a trench.

Jack was leaning against the wall, waiting for me with a protein bar in one hand and that crooked half-smile that always managed to make my pulse settle.

"Still alive?" he asked, holding out the bar like it was a life preserver.

"Barely," I croaked. "If I never write the words 'judicial activism' again, it'll be too soon."

He grinned. "That bad?"

"Let's just say my brain is currently a mushy casserole of Federalist Papers and Brontëan moors. Do not recommend."

Jack unwrapped the protein bar and shoved it into my hand. "Eat. You're useless when you're hangry."

I bit into it, chewing like I hadn't seen food in years. " Mmm . Tastes like democracy."

He rolled his eyes, but I caught the little twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Wednesday was brutal. Algebra II in the morning, Mandarin in the afternoon.

Algebra was straight-up nightmare fuel. Quadratic functions, logarithms, factoring polynomials that looked like Satan himself had designed them. I stared at one word problem for fifteen minutes before realizing I had no idea what half the words even meant anymore. Something about two trains leaving Chicago at different times—except my brain was stuck on, why are these trains always leaving Chicago? Where are they even going? Who writes these questions, and do they hate children?

I'd done the math in advance – literally. If I didn't at least scrape out a C- on this exam, my overall grade would drop below the scholarship threshold, which meant bye-bye Harrison West, hello public high school with broken lockers and half-dead fluorescent lights. No pressure, right? By the time I stumbled out of that classroom, my hand was cramping, my brain was mush, and I honestly couldn't remember if I'd just taken a math test or a foreign language exam in a dialect no one actually speaks.

Jack met me outside with a water bottle and half a protein bar. "You look like someone just beat you up."

"Math did," I muttered. "Math jumped me in an alley."

He laughed softly and kissed my temple, and for about three seconds, I felt like maybe I'd survive.

Mandarin in the afternoon was, shockingly, a breath of fresh air. Sure, my tones were still rough enough to make a real native speaker wince, but I understood the reading comprehension passage about a Beijing family going shopping at the market. I even managed to hold a short conversation with my teacher – awkward and clumsy, but still. Even my brief essay wasn't bad. I didn't forget a single character that I needed to write out a decent answer. I walked out of there with this tiny spark of pride in my chest. I could kind of speak another language. Not fluently. Not beautifully. But enough to get by. Enough to prove to myself that all those endless hours of practice, the flashcards taped to my mirror, the late-night drills with Jack quizzing me on vocabulary, and Emery drilling me on grammar, had actually amounted to something. That was… huge.

Thursday was the grand finale: Biology.

And dear God, they didn't hold back. The diagram section alone nearly killed me. Labeling parts of the human brain, sketching the steps of mitosis and meiosis, explaining photosynthesis like I hadn't already had Emery turn it into a full-on opera two nights ago. Then came the essay portion – three long-answer questions that might as well have been titled "Good luck, sucker." I wrote furiously about the impact of invasive species on ecosystems, tried to recall the exact function of the endoplasmic reticulum (seriously, why are we still talking about that squiggly thing?), and prayed my rambling essay about genetic mutations at least sounded smart enough to scrape by.

By the time I put my pen down, my hand felt permanently clawed into writing position. I stumbled out of the exam hall like I'd just run a marathon with weights strapped to my brain.

But I was done.

Finished.

For better or worse, finals were over.

And just like that – it was over.

No more finals. No more cramming formulas into my skull like Tetris blocks. No more flashcards taped to the wall or late-night breakdowns over whether mitochondria were really the powerhouse of the cell or just a sick inside joke teachers had been playing for decades.

Just… waiting.

Grades were supposed to drop on Monday morning, glowing on the school portal like judgment handed down from Mount Olympus. Until then, we had one more week on campus: a weird, weightless limbo where the entire student body collectively forgot how to function. Half the time, we were packing up trunks and scrubbing down dorm rooms under the watchful eyes of the RAs. The other half, we were being herded into "bonding" activities like capture the flag on the lower field or ultimate Frisbee in the blazing sun – school-sponsored desperation to wring out one last dose of wholesome fun before they unleashed us back into the world.

I could've gone home sooner, logged into the portal from my mom's living room, and found out my fate with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in hand.

But I didn't want to.

Because even after everything – after the letters, the fights, the panic, the guilt, the exhaustion – I wanted to hold on. I wanted to soak up every last second with Jack, with my friends, with this messy, broken, beautiful little family we'd somehow built here. This place had nearly destroyed me, sure – but it had also given me everything I cared about.

And for all I knew, this could be the last chance.

One more week. One more stretch of time to make memories, to laugh until my stomach hurt, to sit tangled up with Jack in bed and pretend the world outside didn't exist.

And when I finally did go home, I wouldn't be going alone.

Nope.

This time, I was bringing someone very special with me.

Jonah was hunched on the common room couch like a shipwreck survivor, halfway through a battered white box of Murdick's Fudge from Traverse City, eyes glazed and locked onto Below Deck Down Under playing on the big screen. The glow of the TV flickered across his face, his expression oddly intense for someone watching a bunch of yachties argue about laundry service. He didn't even register us walking in – at least not until I made the rookie mistake of blurting, "Oh my god, that fudge smells amazing."

Jonah levitated about a foot in the air. He clutched the box to his chest like a squirrel protecting its last nut before winter. His eyes darted between me and Jack, wide, guilty, and feral. For one terrifying second, I thought he might actually bolt for the nearest exit, fudge box and all.

"Relax, dude," Jack said quickly, his voice soft but steady. He stepped forward and laid a hand gently on Jonah's shoulder.

Jonah flinched like Jack's fingers had been made of live wires and let out an involuntary hiss.

"Seriously," I added, keeping my tone low and careful, like I was trying to calm a spooked animal. "We're not here to interrogate you. No drama. We just… want to talk."

Jonah didn't answer right away. He stared at us like we were holding him at gunpoint with emotions. Then, finally, he eased back into the couch cushions and ripped another chunk of fudge with his teeth like it was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

"You guys are seriously messing with my blood sugar levels," he muttered.

Jack and I traded a look. It wasn't exactly an invitation, but it wasn't a door slammed shut either.

Jack took the lead, sliding onto the armchair across from him. "When we first met, it was instant. You were funny, smart, sharp. You made everyone laugh. It felt like we'd known you forever. Then… yeah. Something happened." His voice softened even more.

"But you apologized. And I believe you meant it."

I picked up the thread. "We've forgiven you, Jonah. Really. And we miss you. I miss you. The group hasn't been the same without you – like the whole chemistry's been off. You made things funnier, weirder, more interesting. You made us… us . So… what do you say? Want to come back?"

Jonah's eyes narrowed suspiciously, like he was waiting for the punchline. "You're serious?"

"As a panic attack," I deadpanned.

His brow shot up. "Too soon."

I lifted a shoulder. "Never claimed to have good timing."

For a moment, Jonah just stared at his lap, thumb tracing the sticky edge of the fudge box. I could feel the hesitation rolling off him in waves. He wanted to believe us, but he wasn't sure he could.

"You're really saying…" His voice dipped low, almost squeaky with nerves. "Like, for real… no one else will ever know? And you're not gonna, I dunno, humiliate me in front of everyone or drag me into some sketchy Detroit alley where you both beat me senseless and leave me to fend for myself? 'Cause then I'd probably get addicted to crack, join the dumbest gang imaginable—like, the Crochet Cobras or the Discount Ninjas —and within three months I'd be gone. But not in a cool, tragic way, like a slow-motion shootout with violins playing in the background. Nope. I'd choke on a Funyun, trip into a pothole, and die of crack plus shame. And the obituary would just say, 'He loved snacks and poor choices.' "

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "It stays between the three of us. That's it. No one else needs to know anything about this. We just want our Jonah back."

"You didn't deny that you would beat me up and leave me to become a crack whore in the alleys of Detroit," he said, eyeing us skeptically.

"No, Jonah," I said, sighing. "We would never beat you up or leave you in Detroit to become a crack whore or a member of any gang, dumb or not."

Silence hung in the air for a few beats. Then Jonah glanced between us again, eyes calculating, as if trying to decide whether to risk stepping back into the circle he'd broken.

"…Will there be free fudge?" he asked finally.

Jack's grin broke across his face like sunlight. "There can be."

Jonah's lip twitched, just slightly, like he was trying not to smile. "And snuggles?"

I looked at Jack, who gave me the tiniest nod.

"You can have as many as you want," I said carefully, "but they can't ever cross the line again. Not ever. I suppose kisses on the cheek are okay, but not the mouth. That's just for Jack. Understand?"

Jonah chewed slowly, considering it as if he were reviewing the fine print on a billion-dollar merger. Then, through a mouthful of fudge, he finally muttered, "Deal."

I let out a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding, my chest loosening for the first time in weeks. Jack's hand slid across the couch cushion until it found mine, warm and steady, anchoring me. For one fragile moment, it felt like maybe – just maybe – we were piecing ourselves back together.

Friday night dinner carried a strange hush, almost melancholy. Some of the boys were leaving first thing Saturday morning, suitcases already stacked by the doors. Even though most of us would be back in September, goodbyes had a way of tugging at something deep. For all its faults, Harrison West turned strangers into family. Guys, I'd barely exchanged two words with all year, and they were suddenly giving me awkward handshakes and side hugs. A few even pressed slips of paper with phone numbers into my palm, muttering, "Hit me up if you're ever in Jersey" or "Don't forget about us, bro." Weird. But kind of flattering.

Luckily, Jack and I weren't leaving yet. And we were determined to wring every last drop out of these final days.

For the first time in forever, there was no prep, no flashcards, no red-eyed cramming in the library. We took our time in the showers, steam curling around us, lingering until our fingers wrinkled. Then we raided every closet and storage trunk for blankets and pillows, turning our room into a cinematic nest. By the time we were done, the floor looked like the inside of a Bed Bath & Beyond had exploded.

The Lord of the Rings marathon was officially underway.

Kit and Emery had already staked out Jack's bed, tangled together under one blanket. Emery kept sneaking his hands over Kit's chest like he was trying to memorize it by touch, and Kit pretended to groan but didn't exactly push him away. They were disgustingly cute. Emery looked at Kit like he hung every star in the sky, and with Emery headed to Hong Kong and Kit stuck in Wisconsin for the summer, you could already feel the ache in their jokes. I was rooting for them, though. They both deserved something good.

Christian, Mark, and Danny claimed the floor. They sprawled on their stomachs, tossing popcorn kernels at each other during slow scenes. Christian, for reasons unknown, declared he could burp the entire Elvish inscription on the Ring. We dared him. He got through "Ennyn Durin Aran Moria" before dissolving into a coughing fit that launched his soda across the carpet. Danny nearly cried laughing, while Mark shouted, "Ten out of ten, would attend again!"

Jonah, predictably, started off sulking in a beanbag shoved into the corner, arms crossed like the whole thing was beneath him. His eyes tracked the screen suspiciously, as if Gandalf himself was about to rat him out. But after some gentle prodding – and the promise of Reese's plus unlimited root beer – he finally crawled up onto the bed with Jack and me. At first, he sat stiff as a mannequin wedged between us. Then, little by little, he melted. By the second movie, he was cracking jokes, letting us lean into him, even tolerating some low-key snuggling. Jonah may have been the most dramatic, chaotic little brother on earth, but when he let you in, he was also the sweetest and cuddliest. I was actually kind of depressed that I wouldn't see him or Christian for months. They'd somehow become my very best friends at Harrison West, despite our very different personalities and interests.

The room buzzed with laughter, popcorn missiles, and the comforting weight of bodies piled together. For the first time in months, it felt like before. Before the kiss. Before the guilt. Before I nearly lost everything. Just a bunch of idiots in sweatpants, pretending Middle-earth was more urgent than finals, heartbreak, or parental betrayal.

At one point, Jack leaned over Jonah and whispered, "Hey, wanna crash with us tonight? Just the three of us?"

Jonah blinked. "Like… a sleepover?"

"Yeah," I said. "No drama. No weirdness. Just talking, snacks, and maybe the most structurally unsound pillow fort in the tri-state area."

Jonah pursed his lips, unconvinced. "Hmm. Tempting. But I require tribute."

"Popcorn and peanut butter cups," Jack bargained.

"Plus, you pick the next movie," I added.

Jonah narrowed his eyes. "And I want a pillow fort with battlements. And a moat. Preferably stocked with Swedish Fish."

"Done," Jack and I said in unison.

By the time the others peeled off to their own rooms, our bed looked like the bastard child of a castle and a blanket avalanche. Jack and I stripped down to T-shirts and boxers, while Jonah, ever the awkward one, kept his hoodie and jeans on for a while before finally compromising with flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeve shirt. He curled between us, arms tucked tight like he was afraid to relax too much.

"This is so middle school," he muttered.

"You are in middle school," I reminded him.

"Correction," he shot back. "I was in middle school. I'm officially a high schooler now. Next year, they can't contain me. I'll be unstoppable. Legend. Icon. Hero." He fist-pumped weakly. "Also probably grounded within forty-eight hours, but still."

He tried to keep up the act, but soon enough the jokes started flowing. He roasted Samwise Gamgee as a "barefoot emotional support himbo," compared Gollum's raspy muttering to our Algebra teacher ("same energy, less dandruff"), and wondered aloud whether Legolas ever got tired of perfect hair or if elves just spawned that way. Jack laughed so hard he wheezed, and I nearly dropped the popcorn bowl when Jonah pitched the idea of Lord of the Rings: TikTok Edition – where Frodo is a twink influencer, the Ring is his OnlyFans following, and Gandalf is canceled for saying "you shall not pass" to a trans student.

By the third movie, the chaos had dulled into warmth. Our limbs tangled lazily under the fortress of blankets. Jonah's head sank onto my shoulder, his breath slowing. Jack reached across and rubbed slow circles on his back, eyes soft with something that looked like forgiveness. Or maybe just love.

We didn't say much after that. Didn't need to.

We just lay there – three boys, broken in different ways, trying to believe we could rebuild something whole together.

After two solid days of scrubbing baseboards, bleaching bathroom tiles, vacuuming dust bunnies the size of feral raccoons, and cleaning under beds I'd rather not know the history of, I was seriously questioning my life choices. Who in their right mind voluntarily chooses to linger at school just to do free janitorial work? Apparently, me.

The only motivations left were grades – set to drop Monday morning – and squeezing out a little more time with my friends before they scattered to the four winds. I had to admit, though, there was a guilty satisfaction in watching the so-called "blue bloods" of Harrison West, who spent holidays in the Hamptons and weekends at country clubs, now elbow-deep in a toilet bowl with a bottle of Lysol and a look of existential despair. For once, maybe we really were equal – at least in the face of communal bathroom duty.

But Sunday night, as I watched boys zip up duffel bags and climb into shiny SUVs or shuttle vans for the airport, I finally caved and called my mom.

"Can we come home on Tuesday?" I asked. "Most of our friends are leaving anyway."

Her voice lit up like fireworks. "Of course, sweetheart! I thought you'd never ask. I've missed you boys like crazy – and so has Mr. Bojangles! And I think Jack could use a bit of mothering as well."

She warned me she'd be working a double shift on Tuesday, so Jack and I would be taking the bus. I didn't care. Just the idea of going home for the whole summer – with my boyfriend – felt like a surreal victory. Of course, lugging most of my crap back home wouldn't be very fun, but I'd get over it.

I'd also get to see Tommy Reese a lot. We hadn't exactly nailed the whole "we'll keep in touch, bro" thing – other than a few short text messages here and there – but I genuinely missed him. More than I thought I would. I'd already told Jack how I felt – because we shared everything now – and all I got in return was a shrug, like he was trying to play it cool. Noncommittal. Which left me guessing. Was he okay with it? Was he secretly jealous? I couldn't tell.

But either way, I wasn't backing down. We had such a good time during spring break, and at first, Jack seemed to like him just fine. I wasn't sure what had happened. Obviously, we were going to need to discuss it further, but I was also hoping my mom might be able to intervene and talk some sense into Jack as well.

Tommy mattered. He was one of the first people outside of Harrison West who reminded me I had an identity that wasn't just "scholarship kid" or "Jack's boyfriend," or the same old Nick as before. He was proof I had changed but was also still just Nick. And he was kind, he cared about me, he didn't care that I was gay, and what should have made him much less of a threat to Jack – he was straight. And I needed all that.

Without him, I could already see Jack and me driving each other nuts all summer – two boys under one roof with too much time and too many emotions. But with Tommy, and maybe some other new friends he could introduce us to over the summer, maybe things could be more balanced. A buffer. Someone to laugh with, play tennis with, toss around a football or baseball, waste afternoons with, without every moment being so heavy . I guess I felt like I could still be a "normal" teenager with Tommy, whereas with Jack, things always seemed so serious and intense .

So, yeah. Jack would have to get used to Tommy being around. Because this time, I was determined to make it work and be the friend I wish I had been to him in middle school.

At exactly 10:00 AM on Monday, I logged into the student portal with shaky hands. My heart pounded like I was waiting on a medical diagnosis. If I did well, my scholarship would be safe. If not… it was back to public school. And not even a good one. The kind with broken lockers and gym classes in the parking lot.

When the page loaded, I stopped breathing.

I did it.

I fucking did it!

A B+ on the Algebra II final – my personal Mount Everest. That dragged my overall semester grade to a B–. Add solid A's and A–'s in everything else, and I wasn't just keeping up with the rich kids anymore – I was crushing it. I let out a shout and nearly toppled backward off the chair. I had earned my scholarship for next year, dammit!

Jack burst in just as I was recovering from my academic-induced stroke. "Well? Did you check? How'd you do?" He was already halfway to his own desk, his fingers twitching for his login.

I grinned and threw him a thumbs-up. "Scholarship secured."

He launched himself at me, tackling me onto the bed in a full-body hug. "I'm so proud of you, Nicky!" he said into my neck. "You're brilliant. My boyfriend's a genius!"

Cue my face going tomato-red. "I try."

Jack's grades were solid, too – nothing below a B, and mostly A's. He muttered, "Could've done better," but I could tell he was relieved. He didn't need a scholarship, but I think he carried his parents' old expectations in his bones.

When the celebration fizzled, we sat side by side on the bed, legs dangling, staring at each other. Jack was the first to break the silence.

"So… what do you think about heading home tomorrow instead of Friday?"

I nodded. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Jack's smile softened. "Can you believe it? A whole summer. Together. It's kinda gonna be like we're married."

Technically, not the whole summer – Jack still had two weeks in Seattle ahead of him with Nana Bev around July. My mom had serious reservations about Bev's drinking, even though she'd sounded sober the last few times they spoke, and Jack said she sounded fine when he'd talked with her. Jack confessed he wasn't sure if going to Seattle was something he wanted to do or something he felt obligated to do. But if that's what it took to keep him at Harrison West, he'd go. And to be honest, a little break from each other would be a good thing. As the old saying goes, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

For now, though, Jack was mine. My roommate, my boyfriend, my partner in this weird pseudo-adulthood. We were about to spend summer break under the same roof, navigating chores, schedules, and maybe even learner's permits.

And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared.

"What if we start to annoy the crap out of each other?" I asked. "Or get bored?"

Jack chuckled. "Then we annoy each other. But we work through it. That's what couples do, or so I'm told. Besides, we already live together every day here. I think we'll survive."

"But we're, like… just teenagers," I pointed out.

"Teenagers who've been through hell and back," he countered. "That earns us at least partial adulthood. And hey – if we fight, there's always make-up sex."

My face went nuclear. "You are becoming a sex fiend."

He grinned, totally unashamed. "You always bring out the best in me, Nicky."

We still had to talk logistics for next year's dorms. This year's room assignment was random, but next year we could request one. It was a no-brainer – we were choosing each other. Still, we agreed: if summer went sideways, we'd fall back on random. Better to save the relationship than risk it on proximity.

Jack leaned back on his elbows, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Besides, it'll be way harder to hook up if we don't room together. And I've been very patient, thank you."

I groaned. He laughed.

Eventually, we just lay back, sharing earbuds, our shoulders brushing, music filling the silence. The ceiling looked the same as it had all year – plain white, dotted with shadows from the evening light – but tonight it felt like a blank canvas.

No more cramming. No more panic spirals. No more nightmares – at least for now.

Just me. Just Jack.

Just the start of something new.

And yet, even as I lay there smiling, a small part of me wondered how long this fragile peace could last.

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