Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
THEO
Two days until Gomillion High’s inaugural class reunion, and already, ghosts from the past are showing up in town like clockwork.
I saw Greg Tullman outside the gas station this morning—still wearing camo, still talking like every sentence deserves a punch line.
He didn’t recognize me at first—not all that surprising since I was in the year below him.
But when he did, his eyes lit up, and he clapped me on the back like the last twenty years since he graduated from high school had been a week and we were still teenagers and invincible.
I smiled, made polite noises, and left with my coffee.
Now it’s early evening, and I’m back home, sitting on the porch of the house I grew up in, nursing a beer and trying not to think too hard about what the next few days will bring.
The wind’s turned crisp, just sharp enough to sneak under the hem of my hoodie.
Somewhere a dog’s barking, and the high school stadium lights have just flicked off for the night, signaling the end of whatever summer program ran late.
The porch creaks beneath my foot, and I stretch it out, resting it against the peeling rail. The same rail I once leaned over while counting down the days until graduation. Back when I thought the whole world was mine.
Back when Caden was still mine.
I rake a hand through my hair and exhale breathily.
I bought this place ten years ago, right around the time my parents started eyeing retirement somewhere “blue”—someplace with good healthcare, walkable neighborhoods, and fewer Confederate flags.
Not that there were many in our small town, but the state as a whole still clung to its symbols like armor.
Gomillion’s always been complicated for us.
It’s the kind of place where your neighbors wave and bring over casseroles when someone passes, but also where you never stop noticing which families get the side-eye at the grocery store, or who has to “prove” they belong on the sidelines at Friday night football.
Growing up here meant we knew every crack in the sidewalk, every shortcut between the pines—and also every unspoken rule about which roads you didn’t drive after dark.
For me, it’s equal parts nostalgia and unease.
There’s comfort in the church picnics I occasionally attend—usually when my parents are visiting—and the sound of cicadas rolling in with the summer heat, but under it all, there’s the quiet weight of history, the knowledge that this place held us but never fully embraced us.
Coming back as an adult, I’ve had to learn how to carry that duality. To love the pieces of Gomillion that raised me while refusing to excuse the parts that cut deep. To make space for myself here anyway.
My sister didn’t stay. Amelia left after college, chasing a boyfriend to Charlotte.
They married, had Connor, and then divorced before he turned ten.
She’s doing fine now—single mom, fierce as ever—but she only comes back occasionally.
When she does, she brings her son, and for a little while, this porch feels like it did when we were kids, crowded and loud, before all of us scattered.
My parents considered Maryland, even parts of North Carolina, but nothing ever felt quite like home. They didn’t want to sell this house to strangers. Too many memories in the walls. And honestly? I didn’t either. This place meant something. It still does.
Maybe that makes me pathetic. A guy encroaching on forty, living in the same house he used to sneak back to after heated kisses in parked cars and nights spent pretending his heart wasn’t already spoken for.
The same house he came home to at twenty-one, shattered and hollow, after the only man he ever loved ended things with a look he’s never been able to forget.
But the thing is, I didn’t want new walls.
I wanted ones that remembered. Ones that creaked in the same places, that smelled like lemon oil and Sunday roast—and something deeper too.
Like simmered collards laced with vinegar and ham hock.
Like cornbread crisping in a cast-iron pan.
Like warm peach cobbler cooling on the counter, the sugar still crackling on top.
And okay, maybe there was a part of me that still wanted to be close to him. Not that that had ever worked. A week after the accident just over fifteen years ago, Caden’s parents put their house on the market and left town. They were gone overnight, like ghosts who didn’t want to haunt.
My parents were heartbroken. They tried reaching out, even after Caden’s parents stopped calling.
They respected the space, but I think it broke them a little too.
Two families who’d once vacationed together, spent holidays wrapped up like one giant crew—gone with one midnight sale and a quiet, permanent goodbye.
As for Caden…
I saw him once. Or tried to. A few months after his rehab started. I’d finally healed enough to drive and built up the nerve to find him. I ended up on some quiet street hundreds of miles away in Detroit where all the houses looked like new money. I knocked. His mom answered.
She looked older than I remembered. Sad, not angry. She told me gently but firmly that Caden didn’t want to see me. Said it wasn’t personal, that he was going through a lot. That he needed time. That she hoped I was healing too.
And then she shut the door.
That was the last time I saw anyone from the North family in person. Until now. Because this week, Caden’s name sits on the reunion RSVP list, a checkmark beside it. No additional notes. Just a ghost I can’t stop thinking about.
He’s coming back.
I’ve known for weeks. I’ve helped with some of the planning—one of the perks of teaching at Gomillion High. I’m the assistant basketball coach, too, though these days my knees groan more than they used to. Still, I love it. The kids, the game, the smell of the court. All of it.
And if I’m being honest, this place saved me. When I didn’t get to be with Caden, I poured everything into trying to be the version of me he used to believe in. The one who cared about stories, about truth, about kids who needed someone in their corner.
But now, with the reunion looming, I can’t help but feel like the loser who never left. The guy still carrying a torch for someone who walked away without looking back.
I tip the bottle of beer to my lips and let the cold sting my throat.
From inside, my phone buzzes.
I don’t move right away, letting it buzz again. It’s probably Vanessa texting me about the sound equipment for Friday night’s “Millipede Memories” mixer. God help us all with that theme.
Eventually, I drag myself up, bones protesting, and grab the phone from the kitchen counter.
It’s not Vanessa.
Miles: I’m ten minutes out. Try not to fall asleep before I get there.
I shake my head with a tired laugh and text back.
Me: I’m not that bad. Bring snacks.
Miles: They’re already in the back seat, and I picked up dinner from the diner too. You know how you get when you skip meals.
I snort, because he’s not wrong. Miles might be the town’s quietest handyman, but he’s also uncannily observant. We’re not the type of friends who sit around having deep talks about life and trauma, but we get along. We always have, ever since I moved back.
We weren’t close in high school—he was a year older, on the football and swim teams, and kept mostly to himself—but we shared a few classes and nodded at each other in the hallways.
Since I came back and started teaching, he’s helped fix everything from the gym bleachers to my leaky sink.
And somewhere in the middle of tool kits and quiet companionship, we became something like friends.
I head back to the porch and settle into my chair just as a car pulls into the driveway next door.
The headlights wash over the faded siding of the Norths’ old place, casting it in that eerie soft glow that makes it feel alive for a split second.
Like the past is reaching out just enough to say hello.
Two days.
Two days until I see Caden again.
If he shows.
I grip the neck of the beer bottle a little tighter and whisper to the quiet night, “Please show.”
Because I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires reaches me, and I glance down the driveway to see the boxy silhouette of Miles’s pickup trundling into place. The porch light glints off the hood, highlighting the dull paint and a smear of dirt across the side panel.
He climbs out slowly, like he always does, with a Tupperware container tucked under one arm and a paper sack swinging from the other. He doesn’t say anything until he’s on the first step, then grunts, “I hope you’re hungry.”
“You know I am,” I say, reaching for the bag like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Rose packed extra hush puppies,” he mutters as he drops into the chair beside me. “She said you looked ‘thin and stressed’ last time she saw you.”
“She’s not wrong.”
He shrugs, cracks open a beer from the sack, and hands me one too. I must look seriously sad if he’s passing me a beer despite the half-full one in my hand.
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us digging into the fried chicken and sides like men who’ve earned their keep. The food’s greasy and glorious and makes the weight of the day soften a little around the edges.
The sun’s set now, leaving the yard steeped in navy shadows. The air smells like damp pine and fried batter. Miles is halfway through his thigh when he speaks again. “You know I’m not one to spread rumors,” he says, wiping his mouth with an already messy napkin. “But I think it might cheer you up.”
I glance over at him. “What?”
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “I heard someone talking down at Stanley’s Hardware this morning. They said Caden was calling around last week asking about rental cars.”
My chest goes tight. “Really?”
“It could just be gossip. You know how people are.”