9. 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.
“Then he started yelling at me. Said I made him do it. I curled up in a ball, waiting for it to stop. But when I looked up, he was gone.
Tears streamed down his face now. I’d never seen him cry before. I already hated his dad.
“He came home the next day and apologized. Said it would never happen again. And it didn’t. Until last Easter.”
My chest tightened.
“I wasn’t home that night. When I got back, she had a black eye. I told her she had to leave him. Said even if she didn’t, I would.”
He paused—a long, trembling pause.
“I went to pack. A few minutes later, I found her in her room. She had…she’d hung herself.”
He went still. Completely still. My hands flinched, ready to wrap him in my arms, crush the hurt right out of him—but he wasn’t finished.
“I called nine-one-one. She was gone before they got there. I told the cops everything. They barely seemed to care. I stayed with my grandparents and we pushed until they filed charges. Dad’s trial is this fall. We buried Mom two days later. I haven’t stepped foot in that house since.”
I had to lean in closer because his voice was so quiet.
“Sometimes I think I pushed her to do it. But I had to say what I said. If I hadn’t, maybe the same thing would still happen. Maybe she still dies, and Dad ends up in prison. But all she had to do was come with me. Just…come with me.”
Easton finally stopped talking and looked over at me. His shoulders had dropped, more relaxed than I would’ve expected from someone who’d just told that story. He breathed easily, as if he had needed me to know for a long time.
While he had talked, my heart had plunged deeper into my gut than ever before.
His eyes were on mine, begging me to say something to make him feel better, and I searched my mind for what I could possibly say. His lips twitched; tears were still in his eyes, vulnerable for the first time in our friendship.
My own tears slid down my face, hot and endless, blurring him into nothing but a shape and a sound.
I stood up from my swing, and he followed my motion.
I wrapped Easton tight and squeezed as hard as I could. I felt all the tension in his body release, and he went limp in my embrace. I still hadn’t said anything. At this point, I wasn’t even convinced the right words existed.
Easton had trusted his dad, and his dad had failed him.
He pulled back and stared deeper into me with his eyes than any boy ever had. His lips moved slightly, as if there was something else he wanted to say but couldn’t. His body shook as he continued to hold my gaze.
I don’t know what possessed me—but it felt right. I grabbed his face and kissed him. I’d wanted to for months, but this wasn’t about what I wanted. It felt like what he needed. Like the only thing that made sense.
He didn’t pull away. He kissed me back.
It wasn’t passionate. There weren’t fireworks. We were two people with no words left, doing what we could. Even if the right words did exist, I didn’t trust myself to find them.
I reached and grabbed his left hand with my right, feeling the calluses that had built up in his palms from swinging a bat.
I squeezed tight, letting him know I was still there.
I enjoyed the feeling of his lips on mine as we continued the embrace, knowing I would never be the one to break it apart.
Eventually, Easton pulled away. I didn’t know if it was ten seconds or ten minutes—but in that moment, there was nowhere else I needed to be.
I looked at Easton, and his eyes had changed. I had studied Easton for months now, and I thought I knew every look he could give me. I was wrong.
I opened my mouth, finally finding words.
And then he ran.