4. CHAPTER 4
We were two weeks into summer, and Easton seemed to be getting more comfortable in our routine. We were locked into a rhythm: workouts in the morning, a clean-clothes run for Easton, back to my house for swimming and hitting, then practice. Repeat.
Right now, it was just Easton, Gavin, and me in the cage. Zach had gotten a text when we were in the pool and left without telling us where he was going. I assumed it had something to do with a girl he was embarrassed to tell us about. Ricky had left, too, saying he was sick of watching us hit.
Gavin lobbed a ball into the bucket and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “I want to learn how to hit left-handed,” he said, squinting into the sun.
We moved under the net in silence, bending to scoop up balls scattered like white rocks across the dry grass.
The heat pressed down heavily in that way that made your skin feel too small.
Gavin’s shirt lay balled up and forgotten on the ground, and sweat traced shiny paths down his torso, gathering at the waistband of his shorts.
“How are you gonna pull that off?” I asked. I attempted to toss a ball into the bucket from five feet away, but it rimmed out. There was a reason I wasn’t a basketball player.
“Easton’s going to teach me while you pitch.” Gavin said this like it was obvious.
I looked at Easton, and he shrugged. “Why not?” he asked. “Let’s see your stance.”
Gavin grabbed his bat and stepped to the plate. He was a mess.
Easton looked at me with those dimples showing. He turned back to Gavin. “Drop the bat and relax. Now, get into your stance as if you are right-handed.”
Gavin got into his normal stance. His weight was more balanced and at ease. More athletic.
“Perfect. Now move your hips and shoulders slightly forward,” Easton said, grabbing Gavin’s shoulders and moving them.
He stepped in front of Gavin and said, “Now move your hands from here to here.” He grabbed Gavin’s wrists and moved them from his right shoulder to his left.
Gavin was now in a perfectly mirrored position of his right-handed swing.
“Swing,” Easton said.
Gavin took an awkward, batless cut.
“How’d that feel?”
“Weird.”
“I’m sure,” Easton said. “You’ve taken thousands of swings right-handed. Swinging left-handed is new. Let’s hit a few.”
I walked into the shed and brought out the batting tee for Gavin. He whiffed the first two swings, but after a couple dozen, he started connecting.
“Let’s see what this actually looks like,” I said. I walked behind the L screen, and Gavin went to the plate. I took a little something off of the first three balls I threw, but Gavin still swung over all of them.
“Damn,” he said. He had just started swearing in front of me. Totally unrelated, of course, to the fact that this had started when Easton began hanging out.
“Chill out,” Easton said. “You just have to get your timing down.”
Gavin tapped his bat against the ground twice and got back into his stance.
“A bit more weight on your front foot,” Easton said softly.
Gavin did as he was told, and I threw another pitch. This time, bat hit ball. It didn’t go very far, barely hopping to the screen.
Easton lifted the mesh netting over his body and tackled Gavin to the ground as if he had just gotten the game-winning hit in the World Series. Both boys were laughing when they got up, and I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
We kept at it for an hour, and by the time we finished hitting, not only was Gavin making good contact, but my arm was dead.
“I want to be a switch-hitter by the time I get to college,” he said. His voice still hadn’t changed, so it was hard to consider him anything but a little kid.
“You aren’t even in high school yet,” I said. “Why are you worried about college?”
“I want to travel the country and play,” he said simply. We sat down in our chairs and kept talking about baseball. Easton already knew the language of my family, so he fit in seamlessly. He could talk to Gavin as easily as my dad.
That scared me the most about him.
In the few times when I allowed myself to think about being gay, one of the biggest things I worried about was bringing someone home to meet my family.
I didn’t want to be with someone who’d rather talk about shoes than baseball.
If they didn’t understand my family, they couldn’t possibly understand me.
I ended up falling asleep on the deck with these thoughts swirling in my head. The crack of bat meeting ball woke me. I opened my eyes and looked up—the sky was filled with gray clouds, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. I walked over to the edge of the deck and sat down on the top step.
Easton was throwing more batting practice to Gavin, who was back in the left-handed box. Every time Gavin would make good contact, Easton would shout words of encouragement.
I sat on the porch for twenty minutes, not wanting to disturb their session. Easton never asked to switch spots, and Gavin clearly enjoyed the attention.
Why did he have to be so great with Gavin? Couldn’t he just be an asshole? Couldn’t he give me a reason to hate him, a reason to tell him to never come back to my house?
Finally, the skies opened up, and rain pounded us as we jogged inside.
Gavin stripped off his clothes the second we were inside and ran for his room in his underwear, the white of them a stark contrast to the summer tan that covered the rest of his body. He had no shame unless Mom was home.
“I’m not stripping,” Easton said, as he slipped off his shoes.
“Neither am I,” I said. I walked to the hallway closet, trying not to leave puddles behind me. I grabbed towels for both of us and walked back.
“Looks like no practice tonight,” Easton said. “What is there to do on a Friday night around here?”
“I’m sure there’s a party somewhere. They’re not for me, though, especially with a double-header tomorrow. I played hungover once, and it was the worst experience of my life.”
“It’s not that bad,” Easton said. “I’ll probably head home for the night. I think my grandparents are going out, so I’ll have the place to myself.”
“Why don’t you stay here, then?”
“I’ve stayed here like four times this week. Didn't want to be in the way.” Easton had, in fact, stayed the last four nights. Zach kept going to bed before us, so Easton and I played pool and Mario Kart late into the night.
With Zach going to bed early, that meant Easton slept in my room. Zach had always been the one who stayed up late, but I wasn’t about to complain about this sudden change in behavior.
“We’ve been over this. You can stay whenever,” I said, handing him a towel.
Our bare feet thudded softly against the hallway carpet as we made our way to Gavin’s room.
It felt like stepping into a mirrored version of mine—same red walls, same scuff marks near the door.
But instead of a twin bed and futon, bunk beds loomed against the far wall.
His shelf held a neat row of autographed baseballs, each tucked into its own little plastic cube, glinting under the ceiling light.
“Nice room,” Easton said. He had somehow not entered the room before now, and Gavin decided he needed to give Easton a tour of the small space.
Gavin pointed out the Yadier Molina poster that he had tacked above his desk as well as his own baseball jerseys.
Since Gavin’s first year playing baseball, he had asked Dad to frame his jerseys when the season was over and they'd end up nailed to the ceiling. I’d never admit it to Gavin, but I was insanely jealous of the idea and loved the different colored shirts lining the ceiling.
When he got to the bunk bed, Gavin jumped on the top bunk and made a show of adjusting one of the frames. It didn’t move an inch—Dad had nailed them tight—but Gavin was trying to show off to Easton.
“Easton.”
“Gavin.”
“Are you staying over tonight?”
Easton looked at me, and I nodded. “I think so. We’ve got a game tomorrow morning, so I’ll stick around.”
“Cool. You should stay in here. You can sleep on the bottom bunk.”
“Don’t make him do that,” I said, not wanting Easton to feel pressured. Not wanting to lose my new roommate.
“Awesome!” Easton said. “I’m so game.”
My stomach dropped as Gavin did a fist pump. I couldn’t argue with that without looking weird. Or desperate. Or gay.
We hung around in Gavin’s room until Mom and Dad got home.
Dad grilled on Friday nights, so he cooked all of us steak with a side of peppers and onions.
We sat on the back porch playing Euchre until the sun set, with Mom and Dad crushing us like always.
When it was time for Gavin to go to bed, Easton followed, just as he had promised.
Mom—cradling her mug of tea—went into the kitchen and started to clean. I went to the sink and washed the dishes from dinner. She gave me a tired smile and leaned on the counter next to me.
“Thanks for helping clean up,” she said. “I could’ve finished.”
I shrugged. “I’m not ready for bed.”
She nodded, sipping her tea, the overwhelming aroma filling the kitchen like it always did. “Easton seems like a fantastic kid. Polite. Funny, too.”
“Yeah. He’s been great with Gavin.”
“He’s been great with all of you,” she said, and I caught a flicker in her expression—something thoughtful, as if she were weighing her words. “It’s nice seeing you with someone who gets you.”
I didn’t say anything, just focused on wiping down the plate in my hand even though it was already clean.
Mom didn’t press. She just kept sipping, eyes warm but unreadable.
“It’s good to let people in, Tanner. Even when it feels weird.
” She gave my shoulder a light squeeze and padded off down the hall, her mug still in hand.
I stood there a while longer, alone in the quiet hum of the kitchen, before heading to bed.
Did Mom know—or at least suspect—what I was starting to feel for Easton? I needed to be more careful; I had zero idea how she would react if I came out. The stories of kids coming out, then getting kicked out rattled in my brain like they always did.
That night, I slept alone. The emptiness curled in my gut like a warning.
I was in trouble. And I had nobody I could ask to save me.