Page 95 of Caden & Theo

There’s something in his voice—a flicker of guilt, fast and sharp—and I know exactly what he’s thinking because I’ve thought it too. He was the one who told me to leave. The one who shut the door on all of it.

And in doing so, he cut the lines between all of us.

“Mine ask about you sometimes,” I say quietly, “wondering if I’ve heard from you. They know what happened and respected your choice to stay away.”

Caden doesn’t say anything, but the guilt deepens in his eyes like a tide rolling in. I don’t push. He already showed up unannounced on my doorstep after fifteen years—maybe this is enough for tonight.

We do the only thing we can: pivot.

Caden glances around the bar like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Did Moses always hang those ugly-ass antlers up there, or is that new?”

I follow his gaze. “They’ve been there since the second Bush administration. You’re just finally noticing because they’re now next to a framed photo of someone riding a mechanical bull in a prom dress.”

He snorts. “God, please tell me that’s not someone we know.”

“Oh, it is,” I say with a wicked grin. “Cassie Benson. Junior year prom. She wore the dress over her uniform because shewas working first thing in the morning and was worried about oversleeping, and Brad dared her. You don’t forget things like that.”

“I think I just fell back in love with this town,” Caden says dryly, raising his beer. “And I’m also still kind of terrified of it.”

It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Like the years haven’t calcified between us.

“So,” he says, after another sip, “the pizza place. Still as criminally bad as I remember?”

“Worse,” I reply. “New owners last year. They tried to go fancy. ‘Gourmet wood-fired crust’ that tastes like its main ingredient is regret.”

He chuckles, head tipping back, and for a second, he looks so much like the boy I used to know that it stings. “We used to eat similar crap after every game.”

“Yup. Usually with you bitching about Coach and me pretending I didn’t want to kiss you even with your mouth full of pepperoni.”

He chokes on his beer, and I win that round.

“I can’t believe you just said that.” He laughs, dabbing at his shirt.

I shrug, trying not to grin too hard. “You started it with the antlers.”

We keep going, trading stories like playing cards tossed onto the table.

“Remember when the gym lights used to flicker every time it rained?”

He groans. “Don’t remind me. That buzzer beater in the regional semis? I couldn’t see shit. I hit the shot blind.”

“Which makes it sound way cooler than the truth,” I say. “You were aiming for the other side of the rim.”

“I’ll never confirm or deny that,” he says, smirking.

I roll my bottle between my palms, stealing a glance at him. “They finally fixed the lights in the east wing last year. Whole place smells the same, though. Bleach, rubber, and teenage angst.”

His expression softens. “I miss it sometimes. The gym. The game. All of it.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Me too.”

A beat passes. He doesn’t flinch. I don’t either.

We talk about the seniors on the current team—my kids now. About how I inherited Coach Sanders’s whistle and his overuse of the phrase“Run it again.”

Caden smiles. “And that right there is how I know for certainty that youaregood at it.”

I snort and shake my head.