Page 102 of Caden & Theo
“I was reffing,” I say. “Not performing magic tricks.”
“You were reffing while boring a hole through one particular alum with your eyes,” he says, tone gentle, not teasing. He lifts his hands when I look away. “I’m not prying. I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay.”
“It’s… complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” He tips his head. “You two have history. Even people who don’t know know.”
I squint at him. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs, mouth tilting. “It means senior spring, you and North weren’t as subtle as you thought you were. I was student body president, not blind.”
Heat climbs up my neck before I can stop it. I glance away at the empty baseball field, the sun throwing diamonds across the outfield. “We were careful.”
“You were careful,” Justin says kindly. “And you were seventeen. Seventeen-year-olds leak feelings out of their pores. It was… sweet, actually.” He pauses. “And later… I knew something bad happened, and then he was gone. Most of us never got the details. You know how small towns work. Too much noise, not enough truth.”
I swallow. He doesn’t push. He just stands there and lets the silence be a place I can put something down in.
“Soren being an asshole didn’t help,” I say finally.
Justin’s expression ices over for a beat. “Did he say something to Caden?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He made a comment. About the accident. About his leg. I shut it down. Caden did too. But still.” My jaw aches. I unclench it. “I wanted to throw him into the bleachers.”
“Get in line,” Justin mutters. He drags a hand over his beard. “I’ll talk to Vanessa. If he stirs up more trouble tonight, we’ll have him escorted out. This is a fundraiser, not a reenactment of his worst impulses.”
A laugh surfaces, quick and grateful. “Thanks.”
Justin watches me for another moment. “How are things… between you and Caden?”
“Strained,” I say, because I am tired of lying by omission. “But we both seem to be trying. Or… willing to be in the same room without bolting for the exits.”
“That’s not nothing,” he says. “Is he here with anyone?”
I shake my head, my gut bottoming out at just the thought of it. “Not that I’ve seen.”
He nods. The early-afternoon heat warms the top of my head. A group of alumni meanders toward the lot, laughing. Student volunteers wheel a cart of paper cups back inside. The ordinary life of the day presses around us and makes everything feel both too big and mercifully small.
“You know,” Justin says, almost offhandedly, “tonight could be a chance. The prom you never had.”
I freeze.
He lifts a palm. “I’m not saying make a scene. I’m not even saying dance if you don’t want to. I’m saying… the theme’s cheesy, but the night’s yours if you take it. You were a junior when our class had prom. You weren’t allowed. He went because he had to. Maybe tonight is the one you give yourselves. Whatever that looks like.”
The idea hits me like a floodlight. Bright. Blinding. It is so tempting, I almost sway toward it.
But then the other thing rushes in—the memory of Caden in a hospital bed, telling me to leave. The way I watched his parents’ taillights disappear down our street a short time later. Years of birthdays where my phone stayed dark because I had no right to text him. All the almosts I filled with people who were kind and fine but not him.
“I don’t know if I deserve that,” I say softly.
Justin studies me for a long second. When he speaks, his voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “I can’t answer that. I can only say… he came back. That has to mean something.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard and breathe, steady and deep, like I tell my players to do when they miss an easy layup and want to hurl the ball at the ceiling.
“I have to help set up tonight,” I say, because facts are safer. “Vanessa’s got me on centerpiece duty and ‘general vibes,’ which I’m pretty sure is code for ‘move chairs until Justin is satisfied.’”
He cracks a smile. “Absolutely code for that.” He claps my shoulder once, solid and warm. “Go home. Shower. Eat something that isn’t a granola bar. Then show up and let the night be the night. If it’s awkward, we’ll blame the decade-specific playlist.”
“Please do,” I say. “If ‘Take On Me’ starts and I cry, tell people I stubbed my toe.”
