Page 12 of November's Bad Boy: Kacen
She doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps writing something in the margins before finally speaking. “Didn’t think you’d show.”
“Ruby didn’t give me a choice.”
Her lips twitch. “That sounds about right.”
I want to say more, to ask how she’s doing or apologize again, but I know none of that will land right now. So, I nod toward the boxes on the floor. “Want me to move those?”
She shrugs without looking at me. “If you’re here, might as well make yourself useful.”
It’s a start, I guess.
By the time we finish sorting through mismatched donation centerpieces, my shirt is damp with sweat, and I’m second-guessing everything about agreeing to this. But Natalie hasn’t told me to go to hell, so that feels like progress.
Later, Kingston ropes me into helping remotely with inspections on the buildings he’s been investing in. He’s got spreadsheets, photos, blueprints, and a million questions, and since I’m here, I’ve been volunteered as his eyes on the ground.
“You’ll be looking at the old Baxter building today,” he says, telling me where to find the keys and a folder thick enough to double as a doorstop. “And if you see anything dangerous, don’t touch it. The last thing we need is you falling through a floorboard.”
“You really know how to inspire confidence.”
The next few days are more of the same. Friendsgiving prep during the day, project site work in the afternoon, and surprise, Natalie is always nearby. Ruby’s clearly orchestrating some kind of forced proximity scheme. She’s sneaky that way.
And it’s working.
Every time I see Natalie, it gets harder to pretend I’m not in over my head. Her walls are solid, but I see the cracks. The way her eyes linger on me a little too long. When I’m close, the way she fidgets with her necklace. Or the way she corrects me, even when I’m right, just so she doesn’t have to admit it.
Once again, we get paired up to organize the seating chart, which is basically a minefield of small-town politics.
“You can’t put the Greshams next to the Petrovskys,” Natalie says, scanning the list.
“Why not?”
“They’ve been fighting about property lines since the late nineties. Someone’s chicken coop got bulldozed. Long story.”
I glance at the list. “What about here?”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you seriously suggesting putting Orville next to Mrs. Dunham?”
“Why not?”
“She’s been trying to get him fired for three years.”
I throw my hands up. “You know what? You pick. I’ll just move names around when you get mad.”
To my surprise, she laughs. It’s quick, unexpected, and beautiful.
“Fine,” she says. “But don’t blame me when a centerpiece gets set on fire out of spite.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Later that evening, I find myself walking back toward the community center alone, trying to remember the last time something felt this complicated. This real. The town’s lights twinkle, mocking me, as if they know I’m in trouble.
Leaning against the side of the building, I stare up at the sky. I can still feel the echo of her body against mine. The warmth of her hands. The way she wouldn’t look at me the next morning.
And still, I want her. More than I did when we were kids. More than I expected when I saw her across the room at that party. It’s not just guilt. It’s not nostalgia. It’s this pulsing need to be near her. To fix what I broke. To show her I’m not the same boy who hurt her.
But no matter how many chairs I stack or tables I clean off or beams I measure, I can’t erase what I did back then.
And maybe I shouldn’t try to.
