Chapter 1 #2
“Everyone,” Cameron intones, deadpan. “Everyone saw.”
Caden’s shaking with laughter beside me. “You should’ve heard the DJ. He just went ‘Oops’ and dropped the bass harder.”
I’m laughing, too, even as that little pang stirs in my chest again. I missed this part—the inside jokes, the wild chaos, the buildup. The prom. But I’m here now. And Caden’s arm is still around me, warm and firm, like I’m part of the story even if I skipped a chapter.
I glance up at him, and he’s already looking down at me, eyes soft in the way that always makes my stomach flip. He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“You good?” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
“Yeah,” I lie. Then amend, “Mostly.”
He nods like that’s fair. Like he understands. And honestly, with him standing beside me, laughing with his team, tie still perfect… maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe it has to be.
Caden shifts beside me and squeezes my shoulder once more before pulling his arm away. “I’m gonna get you a drink,” he says, already stepping back. “You deserve at least one warm beer for showing up.”
“Ooh, what a treat,” I deadpan, but I follow him anyway because where Caden goes, I go. That’s just how it’s always been.
We wind our way through the house, nodding and smiling at people as we pass.
The party isn’t wild—nobody swinging from chandeliers or anyone crying in a bathtub—just music pulsing through portable speakers, a low murmur of voices, and that undercurrent of end-of-an-era energy.
The kind that makes everyone feel a little nostalgic and just drunk enough to believe they’ll stay in touch after graduation.
There’s a mix of people in every room—some seniors still dressed to impress, jackets off and heels abandoned, and plenty of juniors too. No one seems surprised to see me with Caden. If anything, a few offer friendly waves or shout, “Hey, Theo!” over the music.
Most of Gomillion is made up of good people.
Sure, we’ve got our token jerks—your classic hallway terrors and lunchroom commentators—but we’ve learned how to steer clear.
There’s an unspoken rule: If someone’s going to bring the drama, they don’t get invited to the good stuff. So nights like this? Pretty chill.
We squeeze into the kitchen, where a folding table has been turned into a makeshift bar. It’s stocked with half-empty bottles of soda, a bowl of questionable punch, and the holy grail of teen parties: a mountain of red Solo cups.
Caden grabs two and fills one from the keg tap with all the grace of someone who’s watched other people do it often enough.
“Voilà,” he says, handing it to me.
I sniff it. “Smells like regret.”
He laughs. “Tastes like it too.”
The beer’s warm and vaguely metallic, like someone filtered it through a sock and left it on a windowsill for three hours.
I drink it anyway. I’m not a drinker—neither of us really are.
Caden’s whole future depends on his body staying strong and clean.
So no drinking, no smoking, no anything that could tank his game.
By default, I follow his lead. Always have.
Still, it feels weirdly rebellious to be holding a drink tonight. Like I’m finally a part of something I usually watch from the sidelines.
We head back outside, where the air is cooler and easier to breathe.
The backyard is dotted with groups of people, some clustered around the firepit, others lounging in conversation.
Off to the side, there’s a quiet corner with a couple of mismatched lawn chairs, slightly rusted but blessedly unoccupied.
Caden gestures toward them. “Our thrones.”
We sink into them, the metal creaking a little under our weight.
For a few minutes, we just sit there, side by side, sipping our drinks and watching the blur of movement around us.
It’s peaceful in that way parties sometimes are when you’re not in the center of the chaos.
When you get to be the observer instead of the event.
I turn to look at him. “So,” I say, tilting my cup toward him, “how was it? Prom?”
He leans his head back, eyes closing for a second like he’s pulling the night out of storage. “Honestly?” he says, cracking one eye open. “Pretty good.”
“That’s it? I’ve been salty all week for ‘pretty good’?”
He laughs. “Okay, okay. The venue was actually nice. They had fairy lights and this weird indoor tree setup.”
“I need more visuals,” I say.
“There was a chocolate fountain.”
“Ooh. That’s five points already.”
“Dirk danced with the librarian.”
I nearly spit my beer. “Ms. Callahan? Of course it was Ms. Callahan—Dirk must have dog-eared too many paperbacks.”
I know her way too well—I’m in the library so often she’s practically memorized my reading habits. She slips me new releases before anyone else, but God help me if I return them late.
Caden grins. “Yup. He asked her as a joke, and she said yes very seriously. Then they waltzed. Like, full-on elegant twirls and everything. I think she might be in love with him now.”
“I’m traumatized just hearing about it.” And no doubt she’ll tell me all about it next week when I pick up a book she special ordered for me.
“You’re welcome.”
I grin. “Was it weird without me there?”
He hesitates just a second too long before answering, “Yeah. It was.”
Something fluttery and annoying flaps in my chest. I take another sip of beer just to give my hands something to do. “And Alice?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
He shrugs. “We danced once. Talked a bit. But she kinda paired off with this guy from the catering staff.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious. He had one of those little bow ties and apparently plays acoustic guitar in his free time. She was gone like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Honestly, I don’t blame her. Guy had the whole ‘tortured artist’ vibe going on.”
I smirk. “Glad to know I didn’t miss your romantic prom arc.”
“You were the highlight of the night anyway,” he says simply.
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat it. Just sips his drink and keeps his eyes on the firelight in the distance. Like he didn’t just say something that made my brain short-circuit.
So I sit here, warm beer in hand, heart doing backflips, and try not to read into things.
I absolutely fail.