Page 94 of Caden & Theo
I spot Moses behind the bar, already deep in orders. He clocks me and lifts a brow. I hold up two fingers and mouth, “Beer.”
When I turn, Caden’s leaning against the far end of the bar.
Of course he is.
He’s nursing a bottle of something that’s definitely not local. His stance is relaxed, but I know him. I see the tension in his jaw, the way his thumb circles the lip of the bottle like he’s counting beats.
Swallowing my nerves, I slide in beside him, leaving just enough space between us to keep things plausible. “So, how many ‘remember whens’ have you been hit with so far?”
He smiles into his drink. “Twelve, I think. Thirteen if you count the guy who swore I threw a game senior year because I wanted to impress a girl.”
I laugh. “Let me guess. Max?”
“Bingo.”
A pseudo-comfortable silence opens between us. Not the same one as last night. This one has edges. The kind you don’t lean into unless you’re ready to bleed.
“I forgot how loud this place can get,” I say, nursing my beer. Sure, I come here fairly regularly, but it’s never as packed as right now.
“Feels smaller,” he replies. “Or maybe I’m just bigger.”
I glance sideways. “You were always big.”
That earns me a soft chuckle. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or?—”
“It is.”
The music shifts to something older—Bon Jovi or Bryan Adams, nostalgia for some of the room. For others, it’s just background noise while they wait for something with a little more soul. Couples dance near the jukebox. A group of former cheerleaders commandeer the photo booth. There’s a flash as someone captures a moment that, after three whiskey shots, probably shouldn’t exist.
“You didn’t stay long at the school,” I say.
“Didn’t want to linger,” he admits. “Felt too… staged.”
I nod, sipping leisurely. “That’s how it always feels now. Like I’m standing still while everyone else cycles through.”
He looks at me then—really looks. “You ever think about leaving?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But I like it here. I like the kids. The job.”
He watches me for a beat longer than necessary. “You seem like you’re good at it.”
I lift a shoulder. “I try.” Truth is, I love it. Teaching. Coaching. Staying rooted in this place in ways I never expected. But I don’t say that. Not out loud. Not to him.
There’s a pause. It’s not awkward—it’s charged. Like the moment before a storm when everything holds its breath.
“I was surprised to see you last night,” I say finally, voice lower than before.
“I wasn’t sure what I was doing or even if you still lived there,” he admits, watching the condensation roll down the side of his beer bottle.
I nod, letting the silence stretch. I could ask him why he came. Why now. Why after all this time. But the questions feeltoo sharp for the space we’ve made tonight. So instead, I give him a softer out.
“How’re your folks?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw ticks, eyes skimming over the bar like maybe there’s a safer place to look. “They’re in San Francisco, fairly close by to me,” he says finally. “They wanted me to say hi for them.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah?”
He nods. “They always liked you. Missed you and your family after… everything.”
