Page 92 of Caden & Theo
“You staying long?” he asks, interrupting the spiral I feel coming on.
“Just the weekend. I head back on Sunday.”
He nods again with quiet acceptance.
The pause that follows hangs heavy. It’s thick with everything unsaid. It presses into the space between us until I can feel it in my chest, a thudding kind of ache.
“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,” he says, his voice soft but steady.
“Yeah,” I say, my throat a little tight. “Guess you will.”
He stands, and I follow. The weight of the moment pulls me up slower than I mean to rise. I adjust out of habit, trying to make the shift smooth. But I catch it—his eyes flicking to my leg, just for a second. A tiny shift in his expression. Not pity. Not disgust. Just… awareness.
And this time, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away.
He meets my eyes, and in them, I see the same unspoken storm we’re carrying.
There’s a beat. Then, casual as anything, he says, “I was about to throw something together—nothing fancy, but definitely better than leftover spaghetti. You want to stay?”
I almost say yes.
Almost.
The words hover behind my teeth, and I can feel how easy it would be to let them fall. To sit down at his table like we haven’tlost fifteen years. But I don’t. Because I’m here, and he’s here, butwe’re not here—not really. Not yet. The past is still sitting between us like a third presence, thick and sharp-edged and unnamed.
“I appreciate it,” I say, forcing a small smile, “but I should get back. Still gotta check in and pretend I’m organized.”
His eyes search mine for half a second longer than necessary, and then he gives a single, understanding nod. “Fair enough.”
“Thanks for the beer,” I add.
He nods again, gentler this time. “Drive safe.”
I make it to the door, ignoring his wince when he spoke. I make it to the car, but I don’t start the engine right away.
Instead, I sit here, the steering wheel cool under my hands, watching the porch light dim and the living room fade to dark behind the blinds. Somewhere inside that house, Theo’s moving through his evening like it’s just another day.
But it’s not.
That was the first time we’ve shared space in years.
And though we haven’t talked about any of it—not the hospital, not the accident, not the way I shoved him out of my life like he didn’t anchor me through the best and worst years I’ve ever known—I feel it, still breathing.
Some part of us is still here.
Still alive.
Still waiting.
TWENTY
THEO
I’ve beenin this gym a thousand times.
As a student, an athlete, a teacher, and now, for the past six years, assistant basketball coach. The floors have been polished since then, the paint freshened. New banners line the rafters. But the air still smells like waxed hardwood and too much adolescent ambition.
And tonight? It’s packed with nostalgia. And hairspray. And the soft rustle of name tags being awkwardly pressed against button-downs and dresses.
