21. Chapter 21
When Gavin asks me to come over and swim for the first time, I am not sure what to expect.
He says they have a batting cage, so maybe we’ll get to hit before Tanner drives me home. Maybe I’ll even get to ask how they manage to have a cage in their backyard.
I don’t expect to be fed before practice.
I don’t expect Tanner’s mom to look me in the eyes like I’m someone worth having in her home.
I don’t expect his dad to talk baseball with me like I’m part of the team.
And I really don’t expect to feel... safe.
It’s been a long time since a house felt like that.
When Zach invites me to swim again after practice, it’s easier to say yes than to head home. The water is warm; the backyard smells of sunscreen and tea, and Tanner looks like he belongs in a different world—one I can’t stop staring at.
After the pool, they lead me into the basement like it’s a rite of passage. And for a second, just one, I forget to be guarded. I forget I don’t belong here.
We play pool. We laugh. I tell myself I’m not going to stay up late. That I’ll go to bed after one more game. One more lap of Mario Kart. One more joke. But I don’t. I can’t.
I ask for a blanket.
Tanner says, “Come sleep in my room.” He covers it up fast—futon, it’s more comfortable, something like that—but I hear the words first. And part of me—the part I always try to kill off—wants what I heard to be what he meant.
Stepping into his room is like stepping into someone else’s life. His glow-in-the-dark stars. His worn carpet. His second blanket, clean and folded, as if it has always been waiting for me.
And when I drop my shorts, I know he looks. The same as when I looked at him as he stepped on the deck in his bathing suit earlier in the day. I don’t say anything. He doesn’t either. But a vibe passes between us, even though neither of us knows how to put it into words.
We lay there—me on the futon, him in his bed—and I say goodnight. He says he had fun today like it’s nothing.
But it’s everything. It’s the first time in a long time someone invited me into their space and made me feel like I’m not temporary. It’s the first time I feel wanted without having to earn it.
I stare at the ceiling, blinking against the soft glow of stars that aren’t mine. I haven’t cried in months. But I almost do, not because I’m sad but because I know—I know—I’ll never let myself forget this.
I flicked the memory away, like smoke in the cold night air.
I sat at the edge of Tanner’s bed—in Tanner’s room but without Tanner.
The futon had vanished, replaced by a desk stacked with college textbooks and unopened mail.
The stars on the ceiling still hung, though—faint, chipped, barely glowing, but there.
I reached for the closest one and brushed my fingers over the plastic.
It was the same one with the broken edge I’d stared at that night when everything had been impossible and new.
Back when a couch in a stranger’s basement had been the most I’d allowed myself to hope for.
Now? I had a dresser drawer full of my own clothes in this house.
A toothbrush in the bathroom. A real bed. And yet—still—it didn’t seem real.
The room still smelled of Tanner. In all the ways that made it so I couldn’t forget him—a hint of worn-in flannel, acorns, clean laundry, and the woodsy cologne he wore when Calvin came to visit.
I’d slept in Tanner’s bed before—more times than I could count, really.
I’d crashed here after late-night batting practice, team dinners, and when movie marathons went too long.
Sometimes I’d woken to the sound of Tanner brushing his teeth across the hall or flipping pancakes downstairs and more than a few times with his arm draped over my chest, holding me tight.
But this time was different. This time, the room was mine.
At least for now.
His bed was made with fresh sheets, probably by Mrs. Quinn, and the desk had been cleared of most of his stuff.
A few framed pictures sat on the shelf: one of the three brothers as kids on a Little League field, another from senior prom, and one of Tanner and Calvin with arms around each other in front of a Christmas tree.
I looked away from that one fast, but the image had already burned: Tanner with Calvin’s arm looped around him, both smiling like it had always been easy. I hated how much space that picture took up in my head, but I wasn’t going to move it out of Tanner’s room.
The house had silenced an hour ago. Zach had disappeared into his room in the afternoon and only come out for food. A conversation needed to happen, but I didn’t want to start it and had zero clue how I’d end it.
Mr. and Mrs. Quinn had said goodnight with that casual, practiced warmth that was more parental than anything I’d known in years. Even the fridge downstairs had stopped purring.
I rolled onto my side and grabbed the edge of Tanner’s pillowcase.
How many times had I lain here and wished—only for a second—that I didn’t have to leave?
How many times had I stared at the ceiling pretending it was my ceiling?
How many times had I pretended this wasn’t a temporary stop between the silence of my grandparents’ house and the ache I kept bottled inside?
And now... it was real. And I didn’t know what to do with that.
I was still caught in thought—hovering somewhere between comfort and disbelief—when I heard footsteps outside the door. A gentle knock.
“You awake?” Gavin’s voice was made softer by the door.
“Yeah.”
The door creaked open, and Gavin stepped in, barefoot and squinting in the dim light. He wore that tie-dye hoodie with the fraying sleeves that was three years too old for him, and his hair was flattened awkwardly on one side as if he’d already been asleep.
He looked around the room like he expected Tanner to be in it. “You look weird in here,” he said, half-smiling.
“I feel weird in here.”
Gavin leaned against the dresser. “I always forget how tall his bed is.”
“It’s like climbing a mountain,” I said, pulling the blanket up tighter. “Bet he did that on purpose. Power move.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him.” A beat passed. Gavin didn’t move to leave. “You alright?”
I nodded, not sure how to explain the tangle of gratitude, anxiety, and sheer exhaustion washing over me. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up back in my room,” I admitted. “And this’ll be... like a movie dream montage.”
Gavin nodded. He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed—not too close but enough to remind me I wasn’t alone. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said after a pause.
“Yeah. But... yeah.”
“Dude, stop overthinking. Just... exist. Like, breathe and stuff.”
“Philosophy by Gavin Quinn,” I muttered. “Inspiring.”
He grinned. “Volume Two comes with a breakfast coupon.”
I laughed to myself, and that settled my brain.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked.
I nodded slowly. “I think so.”
Gavin stood and ruffled my hair like I was ten then backed away as I swatted his hand. Had he forgotten I was older than him? “Get some sleep,” he said. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Is there really a big day tomorrow, or do you keep saying that so I don’t bolt in the night?”
“Well, you do have a habit of running from us,” he said, smiling, and he was gone—the door closing with a quiet click behind him.
I lay back, letting the silence fill the space again.
Tanner’s bed. Tanner’s room.
Mine, for now. It almost felt like I wasn’t borrowing someone else’s life.
In the morning, I bolted up, rubbing my eyes, remembering where I was.
It felt like waking up in the middle of a dream and waiting to see if it had turned on me.
I reminded myself this was real, as I squinted at the streaks of light slanting across Tanner’s ceiling.
This was still Tanner’s room, down to the worn-out Cardinals poster by the window and the faint scuff on the closet door.
I knew Tanner wasn’t here, but still, I caught myself glancing around for him, hoping he’d shown up overnight ready to ask if I wanted to hit today.
I pulled on a hoodie, opting for one of his instead of mine, and stepped into the hallway.
The rest of the house was the kind of quiet I used to imagine existed in other people’s homes: no creaking pipes, no raised voices from a bedroom down the hall, and no lingering tension from a night that’d gone sideways.
The smell of bacon and brewed coffee pulled me toward the kitchen. It was the same smell I’d followed once before, on my first morning here. Back then, I’d been a guest in a world I didn’t belong to. Now... I wasn’t sure what I was—firmly invited but sort of a guest still, too.
Mrs. Quinn stood in her robe at the stove, flipping bacon with the same calm confidence she brought to everything. She looked up and smiled when I entered, her hair stretching past her shoulders. “Morning, Easton.”
“Morning,” I said, my voice groggy.
“You didn’t have to wake up this early. It’s summer, you know.”
I shrugged and stepped toward the counter. “Figured I could help. You know I enjoy cooking.”
“I do,” she said, handing me a bowl of pancake batter and a spatula. “And I appreciate it. Not many boys around here offer to cook voluntarily.”
“Consider it payment,” I said, managing a half-smile. “For letting me live here.”
Her smile faltered a little, softening into a more careful look. “We wanted you here, Easton. You’re not a favor.”
I nodded and turned back to the griddle instead of answering. I didn’t know how to say that wanting something didn’t make it real, that I still half-expected someone to knock on the door and say, He has to go.
Still, I moved like I belonged. I grabbed the cinnamon from the spice rack. I mixed a dash of vanilla into the batter. I let my hands take over so my thoughts didn’t have to. Cooking was safe. Cooking had rules.
Mrs. Quinn worked next to me, sliding eggs into a pan and humming a song faintly off-key. It was nice. Familiar. That might’ve been the scariest part. It was a morning routine I could get used to.
Zach stumbled in first, his pajamas still on and his eyes half-closed. He tossed a banana in the air and caught it without looking. “You’re too awake for this hour,” he mumbled.
“Do you want breakfast or not?”
“Fair point,” he said, grabbing a plate as I slid a pancake onto it. “You know we still have a week of summer vacation left, right?”
“You’re just mad I beat you downstairs.”
He grunted and dropped into a seat at the table, eating as if he’d never seen food before. I tried to act normal—like I’d always been part of this rhythm, like I wasn’t measuring every word and waiting for someone to say I was still technically temporary.
I watched Zach slam half a pancake into his mouth at once. Hopefully, a full stomach would be a good peace offering to him for letting me stay.
Gavin showed up five minutes later, bright-eyed and messy-haired, immediately reaching for the pancakes. “Oh my,” he said. “Did you put cinnamon in these again?”
“Guilty.”
“You’re a god,” he said, making a throne of condiments around his plate.
Mrs. Quinn raised an eyebrow. “A god, huh?”
“He’s keeping me alive,” Gavin said around a mouthful of pancakes. “His cooking is divine intervention.”
I laughed—actually laughed—and Mrs. Quinn smiled at me from the sink. I ducked my head. It was easier than holding her gaze.
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” she asked.
“Gavin apparently has tutoring,” Zach said. “And we’re lifting after.”
Mrs. Quinn frowned. “Tutoring? School doesn’t start for a week.”
“Trying to get ahead of things. Can’t be missing games again this year,” Gavin said as he shoveled a pancake into his mouth.
Good. About time he realized we needed him.
“Still stuck with Maissie?” Zach asked.
“She’s not bad,” Gavin said quickly.
Zach laughed. “She’s terrifying.”
“She’s helping,” Gavin said, his face going pink, likely sick of getting crap for needing a tutor. “Actually helping. She’s nice.”
Mrs. Quinn’s head whipped at that. “You think your tutor is nice?”
“She’s bossy in a smart way,” he said, shrugging. “Anyway, I’ll be in better shape this year than I was last year.”
“Bold to assume now,” Zach muttered.
I stood by the counter, stacking plates and rinsing them. The rhythm helped. But the longer I stood there, the more the knot tightened in my chest.
Everything was the same—the pancakes, the cluttered counter, Gavin talking like he hadn’t only been awake for five minutes. But I wasn’t the same. And I didn’t know yet if the house wanted the new version of me—the one who’d finally agreed he needed help.
“Are you okay over there?” Mrs. Quinn asked softly.
I glanced up. She wasn’t pressing. “Yeah,” I said. “Just... grateful.”
She nodded. “We’re glad you’re here, Easton. You’re not a visitor anymore. So, stop waiting for us to send you away.”
The words echoed as I dried my hands and turned back toward the boys. Gavin had syrup dripping off the side of his mouth. Zach mock-yelled at something dumb Gavin had said. They looked as if they’d been doing this forever.
Maybe I could do this. Maybe if I did enough—cooked enough, cleaned enough, stayed out of the way enough.
“I’m going to the shed after this,” I said. “Might work on the cage. I noticed the netting’s sagging.”
“You don’t have to—” Mrs. Quinn started.
“I want to,” I interrupted.
She watched me for a beat longer then smiled. “Thank you.”
Gavin looked up. “You staying for lunch?”
“I live here now,” I said, surprised at how strange that still felt coming out of my mouth.
“Cool,” he said, going back to his pancakes.
I sipped my orange juice and looked around the kitchen. Same windows. Same stove. Same pancake spatula from months ago.
The Quinns had already decided I belonged here. I was the only one who hadn’t.