Chapter 22 #2
No one has ever touched me like he did. Not even close.
I tried. Made a couple of semi-serious attempts over the years.
Good men, most of them. Careful. Patient.
We did the dinners and the trips and the polite fights about whether throw pillows are a scam.
I even thought, once or twice, that I could be happy enough if I just kept moving forward and forgot the shape of his laugh.
But my heart is a stubborn bastard. It kept a ledger I could never throw away.
I walk to my car and sit with the door open for a minute, letting the air move over me. My hands find the steering wheel and hold on.
He came back. Cameron told him it would be fine. His old teammates were there for him. The gym didn’t fall in on itself when Caden went up on one foot and made the shot. The alum who talks too much got told to shut up. I survived reffing with my veins full of static.
I can survive tonight.
I pull out of the lot and drive home, past the diner where I learned the names of every pie, past the park where we trained when the gym was locked, past the house that isn’t his anymore and into the drive that’s now mine because my parents trusted me with it when they wanted a smaller place and fewer stairs.
I shower until the heat wrings me out. I eat eggs on toast and a peach so ripe, it drips down my wrist. I find the box of neon headbands and laugh until I choke at the sunglasses Vanessa picked for the photo booth.
And when I’m dressed, I stand in front of the mirror and look at myself like I’d look at one of my kids before a big game.
You’re okay. You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to try.
I grab my keys and step back into the day.
Tonight might be the prom we didn’t get. Or it might just be another night in a small-town gym with too many balloons and not enough AC.
Either way, I will see him again.
And when I do, I will not run.
By the time I pull into the lot behind the school, the sun’s just starting to dip, staining the edges of the sky in pink and orange.
The gym’s already buzzing—Vanessa’s outside, issuing orders like a general in a sequin blazer, and the scent of hairspray, perfume, and whatever’s on the hors d’oeuvres table hangs in the humid air.
I’m dressed up. Suspenders and all.
They’re obnoxiously shiny—black suspenders with little neon splatters that look like an art teacher’s paint drop cloth—and I love them.
When I came out in college, I made a quiet deal with myself: no more hiding the parts of me that didn’t fit someone else’s mold.
Suspenders were one of those things. I’d always liked them in secret—dorky as hell, sure, but they made me feel…
like me. When I moved back to Gomillion to take the job at the high school, I promised myself I wouldn’t put any part of me back in the closet, suspenders included.
So here I am, in black trousers, a fitted white shirt rolled at the sleeves, my ridiculous suspenders, and a tie so thin, it’s practically a ribbon.
The large gym is transformed. Round tables draped in shimmery cloth crowd the floor.
The DJ booth—already softly cranking through a mix of Wham and Cyndi Lauper—sits where the scorer’s table usually is.
Streamers hang in diagonals overhead, catching the glow from a disco ball that spins lazily, scattering light across the hardwood.
I’m here early, helping with the final touches—straightening chairs, checking water pitchers, making sure the dessert trays are within arm’s reach for Maddie so she doesn’t have to wade through the crowd later.
People start filtering in around six. The cocktail hour hum builds, laughter spilling into the air as groups cluster, comparing outfits and half-sincere gasps over who looks “exactly the same” or “totally unrecognizable.”
And then—
Caden.
Earlier than I expected.
He’s at the far entrance, tall and unmistakable, pausing just long enough to scan the room. For a moment, I think he’s just taking it in, but then his gaze moves. Sweeps. Searching.
And when it lands on me—direct, unflinching—I realize I was right. He wasn’t looking at the room at all. He was looking for me.
The hit is instant and sharp, like my chest’s both caving in and filling up at once. He starts moving, weaving through the clusters of people, and I’m caught between standing my ground and suddenly needing to straighten every single water glass on this table.
It’s impossible not to compare him to the last time I saw him at a prom.
Not actual prom, obviously. His was the year before mine.
I remember adjusting his tie for him in the mirror.
I remember watching his hands—steady even then—smooth over the front of his jacket.
He looked stupidly handsome, and I felt both proud of him and bitter that I couldn’t be his date.
That I had to stand on the edges, waiting at home until the after-party.
And then?
That was the night everything changed for the first time.
Before the accident. Before the distance.
Before the years when silence replaced every word we’d ever said.
That night, in the soft chaos of foam and the starry night and whispered secrets, Caden kissed me.
Not a friendly brush, not a quick dare—but kissed me.
Certain and slow and deep enough to rearrange my bones.
I remember the smell of his cologne, the taste of soda and mint gum, the way my hands locked at the back of his neck like I was afraid he’d vanish if I let go.
And now he’s crossing the gym toward me like no time has passed at all.
Only it has. Fifteen years. A lifetime. And still—still—he looks at me like I’m the point he’s been aiming for since he walked in.
He stops in front of me, close enough that the noise of the room fades into a background hum. His gaze drops, just briefly, before rising again.
“Nice suspenders,” he says, and the corner of his mouth tilts up.
I glance down at them, then back at him. “You mocking me, North?”
He lifts his hand, hesitates a second, then hooks a finger under one strap and gives it a soft snap against my chest. My skin prickles.
“Not mocking,” he says. “Just… they’re so you. I like them.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me fight not to look away.
Before I can think of a reply, he says, “You left after the basketball game.”
I swallow and force a half shrug. “Yeah. Had stuff to do before tonight.”
One eyebrow arches. “Stuff like… running in the opposite direction?”
I glare at him, but there’s no real heat in it. “Stuff like… minding my own business.” I pause. “How are you feeling after the game?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Why? Because of my leg?”
Fuck. My stomach tightens. This is the conversation we’ve never had, and it feels like walking barefoot across glass.
“Partly,” I admit. And because I need to breathe, I add, “Also, you’re pushing forty, old man. Thought you might need an ice bath.”
That earns me the smallest smile, a flicker of the Caden I used to know. “Cute. Real cute.”
My heart’s pounding now, but I press on. “So… your prosthesis. I’ve… uh… read up on them. Over the years.” I glance away for a beat, then back at him. “And a little more today when I saw what you were wearing on the court.”
He studies me like he’s trying to decide if I’m messing with him. “You… researched prostheses?”
I nod, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “Yeah.”
Something softens in his expression—surprise, maybe, or something heavier.
Before either of us can say more, someone across the gym calls my name. It’s almost time for the dinner seating.
“I should—” I start.
“I get it. Let’s talk after the meal,” he says, stepping in just close enough that my pulse jumps. “Somewhere quiet.”
I want to say yes so badly, it scares me. But fear sits heavily in my chest—fear of opening that door and finding out nothing’s changed, or worse, that everything has. He broke me once. I don’t think I ever healed.
I hesitate long enough that he clearly notices.
His gaze flicks over my face, and then he says, “Here. Give it back after the meal.”
Something small and solid presses into my palm. His fingers linger for the briefest moment before he turns and walks away.
I stand there, staring after him—at the broad shoulders, the easy, confident gait, the way his jeans fit far too well—and my fingers tighten instinctively around the object.
Hard plastic.
My stomach somersaults.
It can’t be.
I look down, and my throat closes. Sitting in my palm is a LEGO man. The hot dog vendor.
The one I made.
He kept it. All these years. He kept “me” close.
My vision blurs, and I have to blink hard before anyone sees.
How the hell am I supposed to sit through the next hour—smiling, chatting, acting normal—when all I want to do is grab him, demand answers, and maybe—God help me—kiss him until I remember exactly what he tastes like?
I slide the LEGO man into my pocket like it’s contraband, fingers curling around it until my knuckles ache. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded right now.
Or maybe it’s the opposite—maybe it’s the thing unmooring me entirely.
By the time I make it to my assigned table for volunteers, I’ve got the reunion smile plastered on—polished, polite, just a shade too bright.
The gym’s been transformed into something vaguely resembling a wedding reception: round tables with white tablecloths, centerpieces of dyed carnations in retro glass vases, flickering LED candles.
The catering staff is already making the rounds with plates of something that smells faintly of garlic and nostalgia.
But all I can think about is Caden.
He’s across the room, laughing at something AJ said. Cameron’s at his side, radiating easy charm. The three of them look like they were airlifted in from a cooler, better-dressed world.
Caden hasn’t looked over at me again—not yet—but I feel the connection like a live wire.
Someone asks me about the alumni game—how hard the kids played, whether, as the ref, I was biased—and I manage to shake my head and throw in a joke about “generously ignoring a few traveling calls.” They laugh. I smile. My hand stays in my pocket.
The first course comes out. I take a bite of salad that has a sharp kick of goat’s cheese, nodding at the conversation around me without hearing a word.
Across the gym, Caden tips his head back to drink his water, the line of his throat catching the light.
I remember kissing that skin. I remember the exact sound he made when I did.
I press my fingers harder into the LEGO man.
By the time the main course arrives—ribs with red wine sauce—I’ve caught him looking twice. Quick glances, both times, but enough to make my stomach twist. The second time, his gaze drops to my pocket.
He knows.
I spend the rest of the meal trying to act normal while mentally cataloging every possible thing I could say when we finally talk.
All the questions. All the apologies. All the things I never said because there wasn’t time, or because I was too much of a coward, or because the moment had already passed.
The speeches start—former teachers sharing memories, a few classmates hamming it up with exaggerated stories from senior year. Laughter ripples around the room, but it feels far away. My eyes keep drifting to him. He’s not laughing. Not really. He’s watching me.
When the “fun awards” kick in—Most Changed, Still Hasn’t Changed, High School Sweethearts Who Lasted—I’m clapping along automatically. My heart’s not in it. The air between us is stretched so tight, I swear it might snap.
Finally, finally, the dinner portion wraps. Chairs scrape back. Music hums through the speakers. People drift toward the dance floor.
And across the room, Caden stands.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just tips his chin the barest bit toward the side door, then starts walking.
My pulse hammers.
I know I should give it a minute. I know I should play it cool.
I also know I’m going to follow him right the hell now.