Page 17 of The Way We Swing

When I saw Gavin fumbling with the grill, I used that as an excuse to leave.

“Move,” I said. “You need to turn on the propane.”

“I had it,” Gavin said.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Need help?” Easton asked. He twirled a pack of burger buns in his hand as he joined me, and Gavin sulked away, muttering something about me being a jackass. I decided to ignore him.

“Bella scaring you?” I asked.

“Just a little,” he said. Our laughter intermingled as we lined up the patties.

“Are there any other gay kids at our school?” He glanced over his shoulder like someone might hear.

“A few,” I said. “All girls.”

“Cool. I had a friend in Ashland who was gay.”

My hand paused over the grill before I could flip the burgers. His tone had been too casual. I waited for the joke, the glance, the trap. But Easton just stared at the sizzling burgers, as if he’d asked about the weather.

The smell of the meat rose into my tiny nostrils as I went to flip a burger, but Easton stopped me, hand brushing mine. “Not yet. You’ll give everyone E. coli.”

“Maybe that’s my goal.”

He laughed. “Shut up and let the pro work.”

I checked behind us. Everyone was watching the game.

Except Bella.

After lunch and a title in the tournament, we went home for the party my parents threw every year.

“What are you doing?” Easton asked.

We’d ventured into the attic—a place he’d never seen. The air was thick with mildew, the wood chipped and dusty. A few old boxes lined the walls, filled with Christmas decorations and other junk we only used once a year.

I walked to the window at the far end, pushed it open, and climbed out onto the flat roof of the garage. "Follow me," I said. The black slate was warm beneath my bare feet.

Easton glanced back, checking the room to see if somebody was following us. I reached for his hand, scraping my forearm against the siding as I helped him to the second-floor roof.

We stood on top of the house. The angle allowed movement, and the view stretched over the trees.

“Why are we here?” he asked.

I pulled a blanket from my backpack and spread it across the shingles. “Fireworks,” I said. “They shoot off that way. Best view in town.”

We lay side by side, but I made sure there was a deliberate gap between us. I didn’t trust what I’d do if the gap closed.

The sky burned orange and gold, the sun fading fast. I had grabbed a couple of beers and handed him one. We had stolen them from the cooler; of the few dozen people at the house, no one had noticed—or they just didn’t care.

Zach and Gavin had gone to the golf course for the fireworks, but we stuck back, not wanting to risk being around the wrong person with alcohol on our breath. Voices, but not the words they shaped, drifted from the deck below.

Easton stared into the distance, quiet. I giggled—rare for me and a sign I wasn’t sober.

“What?” he asked, glancing at me.

“You spaced out.”