Chapter 2
TWO
CADEN
Sitting here next to Theo, I feel relaxed for the first time tonight.
Which says a lot, considering prom was supposed to be the big moment.
The culmination of senior year. Fancy suits, twinkly lights, catered desserts that ended up tasting like sadness.
None of the details really hit me until Theo showed up.
Now we’re out here, parked in a pair of half-rusted lawn chairs on the edge of the yard, warm beers in hand, stars overhead, and Theo’s voice rolling on about his summer job. I should be listening. I want to be listening. But my brain? Absolutely refusing to cooperate.
Because Theo’s mouth is moving, and I’m too busy staring at it.
It’s not even what he’s saying. It’s just… him.
That look he gave me earlier—when I told him he was the highlight of the night—I can’t get it out of my head. I meant it as a joke. Sort of. Okay, maybe not really. But when he looked at me like that, all wide-eyed and quiet and hopeful, something in my chest flipped.
Now he’s going on about some gig at the rec center, coaching kids through chaotic games of foam-ball dodgeball, and I swear, I haven’t heard a word in the last two minutes.
Because I’m thinking about what it’d be like to kiss him.
And that’s… new.
Like really new.
I’ve never thought of myself as anything but straight. Girls have always been the thing. Or at least I thought they were. I’ve had crushes, dated a couple here and there, nothing serious. But lately… lately it’s like my brain’s rewiring itself every time Theo walks into a room.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
Theo’s always just been Theo. My best friend. My ride or die. Since we were barely out of diapers and my family moved next door, he’s been the center of my orbit. Every birthday, every scraped knee, every game, every late-night shootaround—it’s always been me and him.
Most of the street are white families, but the Brookses and the Norths had been side by side for over a decade. Cookouts, shared lawnmowers, backyard basketball—it made us a kind of island, but not a lonely one.
When he told me he liked boys, he was thirteen. We were in my room, playing video games, and he paused the match mid-battle and just… said it.
“I like guys,” he blurted. No buildup, no explanation.
I remember turning to him, blinking. “Cool,” I said. “You wanna switch to two-player?”
That was it. I didn’t think twice. Why would I? Theo’s my best friend. Him being gay didn’t change anything. Until, apparently, now, when I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to grab his jaw and pull him in just to taste him.
I don’t even know if I am into guys. Maybe it’s just him. Just Theo. The way he laughs, the way his curls bounce when he’s excited, the way he always seems to get me in ways no one else ever has.
I haven’t told anyone. Not even him. Especially not him.
People in town wouldn’t get it. Gomillion’s not a terrible place, but it’s small.
Small enough that everybody knows your business.
Narrow enough that anything outside the usual gets side-eyed.
Folks still whisper if they think somebody might be gay—and for two Black boys like us, people already watch harder, like we’ve got to walk softer just to keep the peace.
And don’t even get me started on what it would mean if what I’m feeling got out in the sports world.
I’ve heard the locker room jokes. The offhanded slurs. Coaches turning a blind eye. And if that’s what Theo could face from classmates, I don’t even want to imagine what a pro team—which is where I’m on a mission to land—would do with a player who doesn’t “fit the mold.”
Still… I strongly suspect he’s into me.
It’s in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
The way he gets quiet when I mention dating.
The way he lit up when I said he was the highlight of prom and then tried so hard to play it cool.
He always brushes against me—his hand on my shoulder, knee bumping mine, his stupid little smirk when I tease him.
It’s not nothing.
And yeah, maybe I should be careful. Maybe I shouldn’t flirt back. I don’t want to ever hurt him.
But God, I want to kiss him.
Even now, while he’s animatedly describing being mobbed last year by foam ball-wielding eight-year-olds, I can’t stop watching the curve of his mouth. I imagine leaning in, enough to catch him mid-sentence, shutting him up with a kiss and feeling what it’s like.
But then come the what-ifs.
What if it ruins everything? What if I misread the signals? What if I’m not actually into guys and this is just some kind of best friend confusion? What if I am into him, and it makes everything harder?
“What if it ruins everything?” I say quietly and without thinking.
Theo frowns. “What?”
Shit.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just… thinking about the future.”
He studies me for a second, and I know he knows I’m dodging. But he doesn’t push. He never pushes.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”
We fall into this easy silence we’ve always been good at. Comfortable. Familiar. But under it, there’s this crackling energy I can’t explain. I feel it when our shoulders brush. In the way he shifts just slightly closer, like he’s settling in. Like maybe he feels it too.
I stare at the stars for a while, trying not to think about kissing him again—and failing miserably. Because now that the thought is in my head, it’s like it won’t leave.
And maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t want it to.
“—and Shane actually ate it,” Theo’s saying, pulling me back into the conversation with that mischievous glint in his eye. “Like, full-on chewed and swallowed. Thought it was a meatball. It was a dog treat. Shaped like a meatball, yeah, but still.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
Theo grins. “See? You miss one punch line and the whole story falls apart.”
“I was paying attention,” I lie.
“You so weren’t.” He nudges me with his knee. “Try to keep up, North.”
“I’m trying,” I say, smiling. “It’s just—your face is really distracting.”
He freezes.
My mouth goes dry.
“I meant, like, you make distracting faces,” I scramble, waving a hand vaguely at him. “You’re expressive. It’s… uh… charming.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
Theo lifts one brow slowly, eyes sharp with interest now. He sips from his cup like he’s trying not to smirk. “Mm-hmm.”
I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or filing that away for later. Probably both.
I drag a hand through my cropped curls and look out at the firepit, where someone’s trying to toast a marshmallow with a sparkler. “So, uh… Shane swallowed dog food, huh?”
“Fully. Cam’s got video. He’s saving it for blackmail when Shane’s rich and famous.”
“Honestly? Smart.”
“He’s calling it the Pup-Peroni Incident.”
I laugh, relieved to be back on safer ground. “You really have a gift for attracting chaos.”
Theo leans back, arms spread on either side of his chair like he owns the lawn. “What can I say? Drama follows me.”
“I think you follow it.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
A breeze stirs through the yard, lifting his curls. He looks over at me, relaxed and glowing under the string lights, and I get that same stupid urge again—to just lean over and kiss him.
I swallow it down like I have been.
He bumps my knee with his again. “You’re not planning on working this summer, right, Mr. Scholarship?”
“Nope. Coach lined up that summer training program. Strength stuff. Film sessions. Basically they’re gonna break me down and rebuild me with kale and protein powder.”
He grins. “So, like, Athlete Frankenstein.”
“Exactly. Biceps first, soul later.”
“You’ll be eating egg whites like breath mints by the time you start college.”
“I already am.”
Theo snorts. “Gross.”
But then he smiles at me—really smiles—and I forget how to breathe for a second. It’s stupid. It’s dangerous. And it’s getting harder to ignore.
I’m about to say something—anything—just to break the tension when a shriek splits through the night.
Not the horror movie kind. The “what the hell did you just throw at me” kind.
We both turn toward the house as a glowing cloud of something comes barreling through the side gate like a rogue weather system. A half-dozen people are fleeing from behind it, some covered in bright neon pink and green.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, half standing.
Theo cranes his neck. “Is that… foam?”
Then someone yells, “FOAM BLASTERS!” like it’s the last thing they’ll ever say, and a geyser of pastel bubbles explodes from the patio.
“Why is there always a foam machine?!” Theo groans, but he’s already moving, grabbing his cup and abandoning the lawn chair.
“We should run,” I say.
“Definitely.”
And then splat—a foamy clump of something cold and lavender-smelling lands squarely on Theo’s shoulder.
He freezes. Looks at me. “They hit me.”
I try not to laugh. “It’s barely a graze.”
“They. Hit. Me.”
And then a second splat lands across my back, soaking through my shirt.
“Okay,” I say, “now it’s personal.”
We both bolt.
Laughter and foam trail behind us as we take off across the yard, cutting around the house. There are shouts and more bubble grenades flying through the air. Someone’s got a water gun full of paint. It’s full-on prom after-party warfare now.
Theo grabs my arm at one point to steer us around a kiddie pool (why is there a kiddie pool?), and my hand finds his without thinking, fingers interlacing.
We don’t let go.
The property’s bigger than I expected. We weave through a side gate, down a little dirt path that leads into the trees lining the edge of the backyard.
After a few more turns and one close call with a low-hanging branch, we find a quiet patch behind a shed, just far enough from the house that the music and chaos sound like background noise.
We stop, finally, both of us panting and wheezing with laughter.
Theo doubles over, hands on his knees. “I’m too young to die like this: covered in off-brand bubble bath and glitter paint.”
I lean against the shed, grinning. “If this is how we go out, at least we’ll look fabulous.”
He stands and wipes his face with the back of his arm, which only smears the pink foam worse. His cheek is streaked with something neon, a splash of blue across his jaw and temple. There’s foam in his curls, sticking up like whipped cream.
I can’t help it. I step forward and reach out. “Hold still.”
His breath catches just a little as I touch his face, but I don’t stop. I brush my fingers along his cheekbone, wiping away a streak of purple with slow, careful pressure. I move my hand down to his jaw, then gently run my thumb along the edge of his mouth, catching the last of the foam there.
The moment stretches.
He’s three inches shorter than me, and he’s so close now, we’re nearly chest to chest. I can feel his breath. Hear it hitch.
He looks up at me with those hazel eyes, soft and golden and a little bit startled.
His skin is warm under my touch, a golden brown that’s a few shades lighter than mine thanks to his white Irish grandma on his mom’s side.
There’s moonlight filtering through the trees above us, mixing with strands of leftover fairy lights someone’s strung along the fence.
It casts his face in a glow that makes him look unreal. Dreamlike.
His lips part like he’s going to say something, but I don’t let him. I move closer. One breath. Two. And then, without thinking—without planning—I close the distance.
I kiss him.
It’s not long or practiced or perfect. It’s soft. Hesitant. Testing.
His mouth is warm and still for a second, and my heart is a thunderstorm in my chest. I think he might pull away. I’m ready for it. But then—God—he kisses me back.
His fingers curl into the front of my damp shirt. My hand moves to cup his cheek, thumb brushing just below his eye. We fit. We fit, and I feel it in my bones, in the way his body leans into mine, in the way every nerve ending lights up with relief.
We pull back only a little, our foreheads almost touching.
Theo’s eyes flutter open. “So… foam machine, huh?”
I laugh—soft, breathless. “Best prom after-party ever.”
And in this quiet little pocket of the night, with the chaos behind us and Theo in front of me, I realize there’s no more pretending.
I’m in deep. And I don’t want to run.