Page 23 of The Way We Swing

“Yeah. This is like the perfect temperature. If I could live like this the rest of my life, I’d be happy.”

We ended up in a playground. The streetlights shone off one of the slides, creating a glare even in the darkness. I couldn’t see anything outside of the boxed-off park area, but I didn’t need to.

“What else in your life would make you happy? Like in the future,” I asked.

“I don’t know, man. I try not to think about that stuff. You do enough of that for both of us.”

“How do you know what you want to work toward, then?”

“I’m fine just hanging out with you and Gavin. That’s enough.”

“Is this what makes you happy?”

“Right now? Sure. This is peaceful, Tanner. Don’t you think?”

We sat next to each other on the swings. I swung my legs, my toes scraping the pieces of old tires that covered the playground area. I mulled over how I could answer Easton’s question without giving away what I so desperately wanted to say.

“Yeah. This is kinda perfect. I could sit like this for hours with you.”

Was that too much? Had I crossed the line?

“I wouldn’t mind that, either, bro.”

We swung with the beat of our conversation. The Milky Way started to peek out into the sky; the only sound was the squeak of our swings.

Easton’s feet dragged a shallow groove into the mulchy ground, breaking the stillness. He looked at me once, then again, then swallowed like his words had gotten stuck on the way up.

“Tanner,” he finally said, barely above a whisper. “I need to tell you something.”

CHAPTER 9

My stomach tightened more than it had during our playoff game in the spring. Sweat started to pour out over my arms, even in the cold.

Was this it? Was he going to tell me what I hoped for but never thought possible? There was no way.

Except we sat in a random park, in a random town, with nobody around—nobody to see us. If there were ever a time I’d be comfortable telling a secret, it’d be now. Maybe he felt the same way.

Easton’s hands clenched the swing chains, knuckles pale in the low light. He swayed forward, like the weight of whatever he was holding in sank heavier. I fought the urge to reach for him. That kind of comfort wasn’t mine to give.

He kept staring at the ground, lips twitching, trying to move but unable. Then, finally, he said, “My dad used to take me to Ripley Park every time we visited my grandparents.”

He spoke at a fraction of his normal level, his voice flat, like he was reading a report on someone else's life. This also wasn’t what I expected; I’d tried bringing up his family before, but he’d always shut it down. This was different—and I knew to shut up and listen.

“We used to visit every month or two. Dad would take me there, and I’d play on the swings while Mom gossiped with her parents. When I got older, we started running the hills. No matter what else happened, we always played catch as the sun set.”

He paused. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve.

“I don’t know when he started hitting Mom. The first time I saw it, I was twelve. My game ended early because of rain. When I remember that night, I can still feel the wetness of my uniform sticking to my body as I rode my bike home.”

His hands stopped swaying, instead gripping each other tightly in his lap.

“I got home as the rain stopped. He had no idea I was back. I walked into the living room and saw him hit her with a full-on slap. She dropped to her knees. He started screaming.”

Something jolted through me, sharp and sickening, like the impact of the slap had landed on my own chest. Easton’s shoulders tensed, his jaw as tight as ever. He still wouldn’t look at me, his voice keeping the same listless tone.

“When he raised his arm again, I ran at him. I didn’t even think—I just wanted to protect her. He hit me so hard I flew across the room.”

His words snagged in his throat, as if bracing to get hit again.