Page 103 of Caden & Theo
He snorts. “I’ll say you’re allergic to synthesizers.” He takes a step back. “You’re not alone, Theo. Even when it feels like you are.”
I nod, because anything else will turn my voice to gravel.
He heads back toward the school with the long, purposeful stride of a man who lives for a plan, and I stand there in the thin slice of shade until the sweat cools on my neck. The guilt is still there, but it’s shapeshifted. It lives alongside the other thing now—the feeling from the court when I watched Caden plant and rise and release like the game was still in his bones and would be until the end of everything.
No one has ever touched me like he did. Not even close. I tried. Made a couple of semi-serious attempts over the years. Good men, most of them. Careful. Patient. We did the dinners and the trips and the polite fights about whether throw pillows are a scam. I even thought, once or twice, that I could be happy enough if I just kept moving forward and forgot the shape of his laugh.
But my heart is a stubborn bastard. It kept a ledger I could never throw away.
I walk to my car and sit with the door open for a minute, letting the air move over me. My hands find the steering wheel and hold on.
He came back. Cameron told him it would be fine. His old teammates were there for him. The gym didn’t fall in on itself when Caden went up on one foot and made the shot. The alum who talks too much got told to shut up. I survived reffing with my veins full of static.
I can survive tonight.
I pull out of the lot and drive home, past the diner where I learned the names of every pie, past the park where we trained when the gym was locked, past the house that isn’t his anymore and into the drive that’s now mine because my parents trusted me with it when they wanted a smaller place and fewer stairs. I shower until the heat wrings me out. I eat eggs on toast and a peach so ripe, it drips down my wrist. I find the box of neon headbands and laugh until I choke at the sunglasses Vanessa picked for the photo booth.
And when I’m dressed, I stand in front of the mirror and look at myself like I’d look at one of my kids before a big game.
You’re okay. You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to try.
I grab my keys and step back into the day.
Tonight might be the prom we didn’t get. Or it might just be another night in a small-town gym with too many balloons and not enough AC.
Either way, I will see him again.
And when I do, I will not run.
By the timeI pull into the lot behind the school, the sun’s just starting to dip, staining the edges of the sky in pink and orange. The gym’s already buzzing—Vanessa’s outside, issuing orders like a general in a sequin blazer, and the scent of hairspray,perfume, and whatever’s on the hors d’oeuvres table hangs in the humid air.
I’m dressed up. Suspenders and all.
They’re obnoxiously shiny—black suspenders with little neon splatters that look like an art teacher’s paint drop cloth—and I love them. When I came out in college, I made a quiet deal with myself: no more hiding the parts of me that didn’t fit someone else’s mold. Suspenders were one of those things. I’d always liked them in secret—dorky as hell, sure, but they made me feel… like me. When I moved back to Gomillion to take the job at the high school, I promised myself I wouldn’t put any part of me back in the closet, suspenders included. So here I am, in black trousers, a fitted white shirt rolled at the sleeves, my ridiculous suspenders, and a tie so thin, it’s practically a ribbon.
The large gym is transformed. Round tables draped in shimmery cloth crowd the floor. The DJ booth—already softly cranking through a mix of Wham and Cyndi Lauper—sits where the scorer’s table usually is. Streamers hang in diagonals overhead, catching the glow from a disco ball that spins lazily, scattering light across the hardwood.
I’m here early, helping with the final touches—straightening chairs, checking water pitchers, making sure the dessert trays are within arm’s reach for Maddie so she doesn’t have to wade through the crowd later.
People start filtering in around six. The cocktail hour hum builds, laughter spilling into the air as groups cluster, comparing outfits and half-sincere gasps over who looks “exactly the same” or “totally unrecognizable.”
And then?—
Caden.
Earlier than I expected.
He’s at the far entrance, tall and unmistakable, pausing just long enough to scan the room. For a moment, I think he’s just taking it in, but then his gaze moves. Sweeps. Searching.
And when it lands on me—direct, unflinching—I realize I was right. He wasn’t looking at the room at all. He was looking for me.
The hit is instant and sharp, like my chest’s both caving in and filling up at once. He starts moving, weaving through the clusters of people, and I’m caught between standing my ground and suddenly needing to straighten every single water glass on this table.
It’s impossible not to compare him to the last time I saw him at a prom.
Notactualprom, obviously. His was the year before mine. I remember adjusting his tie for him in the mirror. I remember watching his hands—steady even then—smooth over the front of his jacket. He looked stupidly handsome, and I felt both proud of him and bitter that I couldn’t be his date. That I had to stand on the edges, waiting at home until the after-party.
And then?
