Page 42 of The Way We Swing

College Girl joined us before I could respond. She took the gear from our arms without a word and gave a small nod toward the exit, like we were students being dismissed at the final bell.

“Grandma gave me some money for food,” Easton said. “You want a milkshake? Cookies and cream, right?”

My favorite. “Yeah.”

I sat awkwardly on a stool as I waited for him to come back; I probably should have followed him to the concession stand.

“Can we go outside?” Easton said.

The milkshake was cool to the touch as we found sunlight. Nobody was around; the two of us took to the sidewalk. He led the way but didn’t seem to have a destination in mind.

“I saw him today.”

“Your dad?”

He nodded once. “They had him in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit. The whole thing.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say; my words felt thin and useless the second they left my mouth.

He stopped in front of a quiet house with closed shutters and a lawn too neatly trimmed. A dog barked from somewhere distant enough that I couldn’t tell which house it came from. We stood close enough to touch but didn’t.

“I can’t tell you how much I needed that,” he said. “But I do want to tell you something else.”

I turned slightly, waiting.

“My dad is…not like your parents.” Easton’s jaw tensed. “He spanked me until I was twelve. He gave me my first beer at thirteen. You know about what he did to Mom.”

He paused long enough that I almost spoke.

“He’s also very…” his voice trailed off.

“Very what?” I said. I instinctively reached for his hand. Our fingers met briefly before he slipped his away, slowly this time, like he wasn’t sure if he should.

“He hates gay people,” Easton said finally, his voice steady—too steady—while his fingers tightened at his sleeve. “Like, really hates them. Says they’re all trying to convert straight kids. That they’re broken.”

The words lingered, brittle and ugly.

“I don’t—you know that.” He sped through the words, like they were an apology.

“But the other stuff…" he exhaled. "I need time. Can you…can you give that to me?”

I pulled out my phone and glanced at the screen without processing. He wasn’t avoiding the truth, but he wasn’t exactly saying it, either.

“That will work. For now. But I need you to stop acting like it means nothing. You don’t have to act like things are perfect. We don’t have to tell anyone, it doesn't have to be some big thing. I just need you to stop acting like you regret it after. Like you regret me.”

He didn’t answer right away. We kept walking, slowly, until we reached a stop sign at the end of the street. He turned but not enough to face me fully.

His right hand lifted and gripped his opposite shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he was trying to ground himself.

“I’m sorry. I didn't mean to,” he said. His voice was rough, filled with more gravel than apology. “I don’t regret anything about you. I just…I’ll try to be better for you.”

A breeze picked up and brushed against us, cool and quiet, tugging at his shirt and kicking dust along the edge of the sidewalk. The milkshake in my hand had gone warm, the cup slick with condensation that dripped in slow, steady lines down my fingers. I didn’t bother wiping it away.

Easton looked up at the sky, like the clouds might explain the mysteries of life. His chest rose then fell, and it wasn’t just air he was letting out—it was everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t quite give words to yet.

I started walking toward the Durango, ready to head home. I heard his steps behind me a few seconds later.

We didn’t speak again. We didn’t need to. His words were a promise we both agreed to carry, at least for now. And as we walked down that cracked stretch of sidewalk with the world going quiet around us, I let it be enough for today.