Page 76 of Caden & Theo
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, thisporch 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 nerveto 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.
