Chapter 1
CADE
Ientered my shoebox-size SoCal apartment, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and propped my feet on the coffee table. I switched on the TV to a random sports channel and turned the volume down to a faint buzz.
Echo, my Australian shepherd mix, put his chin on the sofa, silently requesting permission. “Up,” I allowed, and he curled on his favorite blanket by my side. Stroking his spotted fur absentmindedly, I tried to clear my mind and decompress from the day.
My eyes caught on the dark blue envelope near my foot—the reunion invitation. Five years since graduation. Could that really be right? I pulled it from the envelope and scanned it:
I had only been back to Vermont once in those five years.
Every other year, my parents flew out to sunny California to visit me.
I had loved growing up in Vermont, especially watching the seasons change.
I enjoyed the mild summers, the vibrant fall colors, and the briskly cold winters.
By graduation, though, Vermont just felt .
. . empty, and my desire to escape outweighed my childhood nostalgia.
I had packed my bags just weeks after graduation, hopped on a Greyhound bus, and started college in California.
I hoped for a fresh start, though it turned out I found surfing far more appealing than stuffy college courses.
Over beers one night, a buddy talked to me about joining the fire department, and it felt like a sign.
I dropped out of the university, switching my focus to a 2-year program that led to an EMT certification and California State Firefighter Certification.
Firefighting was made for me—flexible shifts, time off to surf, and adrenaline-pumping action to stave off the boredom and loneliness that crept into my solitary life.
I missed my parents and all my cousins back in Birch Hollow, but I never let my mind focus on that.
I was young, fit, and had a kickass job.
They even had a softball team I could join, which was a nice throwback to my baseball-playing years of childhood.
I bonded with the guys at the station, occasionally meeting them for drinks after shifts, and I had all the long-term companionship I needed in Echo.
Knowing the uniform worked for me, I had a string of female companions, but none that lasted longer than my days off before my next 48-hour shift.
The guys at the firehouse nicknamed me “Casanova.” I was upfront with these women, and it was transactional more than companionship.
It kept things how I liked it—no commitments, and with no chance of heartbreak.
My heart had been broken clean in half once already, and I wasn’t ready to face a repeat performance. Casual suited me much better.
On my third beer, my thumb was still picking at the invitation, and I felt a sentimental longing wash over me.
I went over to the cheap faux-wood bookshelf in the corner of my small living space, bent down to the bottom shelf, and pulled out the photo album my mom had given me for graduation.
Mom collected photos almost obsessively, especially after we had lost nearly all of them.
I flipped past the baby pictures she’d collected from our grandparents and landed on the photo I was looking for, sliding it out of the album’s protective cover.
Seven kids, varying in ages from five to eleven, stood in front of an old swing set.
They were a sea of worn-out denim, backwards caps, and dirty knees and elbows.
We could’ve easily been on the cover of The Sandlot or Stand by Me.
Three boys stood on the left side—little Jared, proud Jace, and Owen, the tallest. On the right side stood Sammy, then Bryan, then me.
And right in the middle, with her toothy grin and big brown eyes, her long brown hair in a ponytail . . . was Brooke.
My chest squeezed as I lost myself in those soulful, deep chocolate eyes.
In our ten years of friendship, I’d never gotten tired of catching those eyes, desperately trying to read the emotions hidden inside.
Here she looked happy and carefree, one arm slung across her brother’s shoulder, and one across mine.
She had a large Band-Aid on a busted knee, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek that I longed to rub off.
I was so grateful we’d gotten another copy of this picture from Brooke’s mom, after ours had been lost. You never know how precious these frozen moments of memories become until you lose them.
My mind flashed back to Brooke and me, age eight, the summer that we met. We were laying on the pullout couch in my basement, our bodies stretched out facing each other. Our eyes locked as we whispered secrets. The movie playing was long forgotten.
“Tell me a secret,” Brooke would whisper into the dim room.
“I hate raspberries,” I’d blurt out, or some other inane, meaningless fact.
Brooke’s eyes would crackle with humor as she’d try to hold back her giggles, her two front teeth still too big for her smile.
She had the greatest laugh, and I’d do anything to hear it.
I wished I could bottle it and save it and play it over and over.
Her laugh was like music to me, an instant source of happiness.
I flipped a few more pages in the album, past baseball uniforms, first days of school, family photos in front of the house for Easter.
My gaze landed on another: Brooke and me at our 8th grade graduation.
Both of us were clearly in our awkward teenage phases.
Her teeth were covered in braces, and her dark hair was smoothly pulled back into her signature ponytail beneath her graduation cap.
Her cap was placed perfectly on her head, while mine sat slightly askew.
In the photo we embraced in a tight side hug and wore matching giant grins.
I could tell I was standing tall, proud that I had finally surpassed her in height.
I remembered how she and her group of girl friends at school had teased me mercilessly that year, even going so far as to convince me that Brooke had a secret boyfriend named Joshua, a fact that always made me clam up and blush.
They were never mean about it, but they loved to rib me about the blush that would creep into my cheeks at just the thought of Brooke “dating” someone.
My memory leapt to popular-kid Connor’s 13th birthday party, where everyone conspired to try to get Brooke and me to kiss through games like “Spin the Bottle” and “Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
“Stop, guys,” Brooke would scold them. “It isn’t like that. We’re just best friends.”
I searched through more photos, my eyes zooming in to see if any of the photos showed the small birthmark on the back of her neck, near her right ear. When we were teens I’d joked with her that it looked like a hickey, but my strait-laced best friend was not amused by that description.
Next, my mind flickered back to sitting in the stands watching Brooke’s varsity volleyball games.
She was the captain, and a fierce competitor.
Her long ponytail swished from side to side as she directed her teammates to victory.
As the game wore on, I loved seeing little wisps of hair sneak out from her perfect ponytail.
Her face was set in determination as she took a step forward, tossed the ball in the air, and sent it sailing over the net.
I opened my fourth beer, and fired off a text to my mom:
Coming to Vermont for the reunion.