Page 106 of Caden & Theo
Because it isn’t just a toy. It never was. It’s him. It’s us. It’s the reminder of a night when we thought we had the whole world ahead of us, when everything still felt possible.
And I’ve carried it everywhere. Every move, every new start, every time I tried to convince myself I was over him. It’s been in my pocket, in the top drawer of a nightstand, sometimes in a shoebox shoved under a bed, but always close. Always safe. Even when I didn’t feel safe in my own skin.
Now Theo has it. And the hollow ache in my chest tells me he understands exactly what it means.
We step outside together after the dinner and the speeches, away from the laughter and the music and the clinking of glasses. The night air is thick and humid, carrying the sweet sharpness of cut grass and the echo of cicadas. The gym doors shut behind us, muffling the sounds of the reunion until it feels like the world’s holding its breath.
Theo’s beside me, his suspenders catching the streetlight. He looks a little ridiculous—no, not ridiculous. Brave. Free. The kind of brave I’ve never been. And it guts me how much I want him.
We stop at the edge of the parking lot. He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s holding himself together. For a second, I think he’s about to run again.
I can’t let him. Not this time.
“You still had it,” he says quietly, his voice shaking so that I hear the crack beneath. “All this time?”
“I always had it,” I answer. My voice is low, rough with honesty. “Everywhere I went, Theo, that little guy came with me. Through every move, every camp, every hospital room, every game I had to watch from the sidelines. Sometimes it was in my pocket, sometimes on the dresser. But it was always there.”
His throat works, and he looks away, like the truth is almost too much to look at head-on. “Why?” he whispers.
“Because it was you,” I say simply. “Because even when I hated what happened, I couldn’t hate you. That night, when we swapped them—you knew what it meant. I was in your pocket, and you were in mine. And when I left, when I couldn’t face you anymore, I kept mine. I guess it was the only way I knew how to keep carrying you.”
Theo’s lips part, but no words come. His eyes shine in the low light, and I don’t know if it’s anger, grief, or something else breaking through. Maybe all of it.
“You don’t understand,” he says finally, his voice hoarse. “When you cut me off, I thought I’d lost you. Not just your leg, not just the future we thought we had—I thought I’d lostyou. That night…. Caden, I can’t forgive myself.”
I step closer. My chest feels tight, like every word costs me air. “Theo, don’t you get it? I never needed you to forgive yourself. I needed you to be there. And I know I was the one whostopped you and pushed you away. But I get it now. Have made peace with it. We were barely adults. Scared. I was angry at the world, and you… you respected my choice. Even if it killed you.”
His jaw trembles. “It did.”
The silence that falls is heavy, but not empty. It’s filled with every word we never said, every night we missed, every ache we carried alone.
I lift my hand, hesitating only a fraction before brushing my thumb along his jaw. His stubble scrapes against my skin, grounding me in the here and now.
Theo’s breath catches, sharp and fragile. “Caden….”
My name, his voice—it’s enough to undo me.
I lean in, drawn to him like gravity, and before I can stop myself, I close the distance. For the second time in my life, I’m the one to kiss him first.
It isn’t cautious. It isn’t gentle. It’s everything—fifteen years of longing, regret, grief, and love bursting through the seams. His lips are warm, achingly familiar, and when he makes a soft, helpless sound against mine, something deep in my chest finally breaks open.
It feels like coming home.
The kiss lands like a door swinging fully open. Theo presses back with that small sound I haven’t allowed myself to imagine in fifteen years, and the heat of it pours through me—sure and startling, like sunlight after a storm. His mouth tastes faintly of the sweet tea the caterer served at dinner and something that’s only him. I angle closer, careful with the line of my body, careful with the prosthesis and the unevenness I still feel on hot nights like this, when the socket rubs and my balance shifts. His hands leave his pockets and find my sides, then curl into the fabric of my shirt as if he needs proof that I’m not a dream he’ll wake from.
I force myself to ease off first. We’re outside the gym. There are reunion name tags and committee clipboards on the other side of the door. If I don’t calm down, I’ll forget the rest of the world exists. I rest my forehead against his for a breath and count to three. Our chests lift and fall together. The cicadas burn the air with their endless electric hum.
“I missed you,” he says. It’s not eloquent, but it’s honest enough to make my grip on his waist tighten.
“I know,” I answer, because anything else would be dishonest. “Me too.”
We stay this way for another long inhale. He’s the first to lean back. His dark eyes shine in the streetlight and carry a thousand questions. He doesn’t let any of them out. I understand that choice. If we let them all out now, they’ll flood the parking lot, the gym, the town, and maybe the state.
“How is it?” he asks. His gaze dips, almost apologetically, toward my leg and then back up. “After the game. Are you in pain?”
“I’m okay,” I say, and I mean it. “It was a good ten minutes. Fast, and I felt it at the end, but it was good.” I study him. “You saw the moment.”
“I did,” he admits. “I’ll always be able to read you.”
