Page 5 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

Kellan

The smell of bacon and brewed coffee drifted up the stairwell before I even reached the bottom step. By the time I stepped into the dining room, the place was already alive—chairs scraping, silverware clinking, voices rising and falling in easy currents. Sunlight spilled through the wide windows, striking the mason jars of wildflowers set at each table.

And Emmett.

He moved through the room like it was second nature, topping off mugs, answering questions. Button-down sleeves rolled, expression composed, he looked every bit the innkeeper. Professional. Untouchable.

I grabbed a plate at the sideboard more for cover than hunger. Eggs. A biscuit. Fruit I barely registered.

“Coffee?”

His voice brushed my shoulder.

I turned, heat already creeping up my neck.

“Unless you’re hiding sweet tea back there, yeah, thanks.”

He poured without reaction, steam rising between us. Not so much as a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Early start for a Saturday, huh?”

I tried again, lifting the cup.

“Nine o’clock tour? Thought reunions were about sleeping in and regretting the night before.”

“Plenty of time to regret things later.”

His answer clipped short, polite enough for anyone else to miss the edge.

I nodded like I hadn’t felt the sting. “Right.”

He was already gone, refilling another guest’s mug.

I sipped. Too hot, but my eyes tracked him anyway. Efficient. Calm. At home in a way I’d never managed as an adult. Regret pressed tight under my ribs. I’d run from Gomillion like it was poison. He’d stayed. Rooted. Built something. And damn if he didn’t look good doing it.

“Hey, Miller.”

A voice at my elbow pulled me back. I glanced over—Caden North, taller than most even sitting down. I remembered him from the basketball team. He gave me a quick nod, easy smile.

“Caden,”

I said, returning it.

“Hell of a turnout, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Polite. Nothing more.

A couple of other classmates offered passing greetings as they drifted to the buffet. I managed short replies, the kind of small talk that could be over in three words.

When a guy, whose name eluded me, but I think was in the school band, jostled past to reach the orange juice, my coffee nearly tipped, dark liquid sloshing against the rim.

“Sorry, man!”

he said, grabbing a napkin.

“Don’t worry about it,”

I muttered, blotting at the spill.

From across the room, I caught Emmett’s glance. Just a flicker—his eyes on me, then gone as quick as it came. No warmth. No opening. Just the reminder of a wall I’d never learned how to climb.

At the campus tour, we got to see the new wing that’d been added. The colors were bright with fresh paint and the windows were wider.

I trailed with a loose knot of classmates. Derrick Barnes pointed out the spot near the science lab where he’d set off a stink bomb in tenth grade, swearing the janitor had tried to hunt him down for weeks. Jamal Johnson cracked a joke about still having nightmares of Coach’s push-up punishments.

That sent the two of them right back into old rhythms—ribbing each other about who’d gotten softer since high school.

“Definitely you,”

Derrick said, poking Jamal in the stomach.

“Yeah? Takes one to know one.”

“Please,”

Derrick shot back.

“Last time you ran a full mile was probably to beat the ice cream truck.”

Jamal clutched his chest.

“And I’d do it again. Bomb pops don’t chase themselves.”

They broke into laughter, and Derrick turned to me, eyes scanning me head to toe—but not in a sexual way. More like the quick appraisal of a teammate sizing up an old friend.

“Man, Kell, you still look good for a guy pushing forty.”

“My guy, I’m only thirty-eight,”

I said, tongue in cheek.

“And besides, as a coach I have to set a good example for the kids. Eat right, exercise… occasionally yell at them to do push-ups so I don’t have to.”

That cracked them up, Jamal doubling over like he’d actually been dropped for twenty. Even Megan shook her head, grinning.

We moved past the trophy case outside the gym. Rows of polished metal reflected our faces back at us—a football championship, basketball wins, Emmett’s debate team plaques tucked in among them. For a second, it was like time folded in on itself, memories pressed between glass.

The double doors ahead stood propped open, letting out the low buzz of a crowd settling in. Inside, the gym smelled like varnish and sweat soaked deep into the bleachers, same as it always had. Folding chairs lined the far baseline, the current varsity team jogging layup drills while the alumni stretched and ribbed each other on the sideline.

“You think the alumni team has a chance of beating the varsity?”

Meghan Price clamped a hand on my arm as we moved toward the bleachers.

I gave her a crooked smile.

“Depends how many knees still work and how many backs survive warm-ups.”

She laughed, steering us up the steps. My own knee twinged as I climbed, a phantom reminder of everything that had ended before it should’ve.

We wedged into a row halfway up, shoulder to shoulder with classmates trading stories.

And then my eyes found him.

One row down and across, Emmett sat among a cluster of familiar faces. His profile was turned toward someone speaking, mouth curved in a grin I hadn’t seen in twenty years. The scoreboard glow caught him just right, softening the edges, haloing him in light. He looked relaxed. At ease in a way I hadn’t managed to be since I’d come back.

My chest tightened, breath catching before I forced myself to look away.

The murmur of the crowd shifted, low and sharp enough to draw my eyes toward the doors. Miles Johnson walked in, hand in hand with Atlas St. James.

Not a friendly clasp. Not two old classmates dragging each other along. No—this was something else. Something certain. Their fingers twined, easy as breathing.

Beside me, Meghan’s smile faltered. Jamal blinked, eyebrows lifting. Derrick leaned back a little, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. None of them spoke, and I didn’t either.

Because I knew exactly what I was seeing.

Miles Johnson—straight-laced Miles—walking in with someone who wasn’t just a friend. And doing it in front of everyone.

I smiled, my lips slightly tremulous, but the warmth in my chest had a sharper edge. A rush of pride, maybe, or envy, or both. Happy for Miles—of course I was. But beneath it ran the ache of what I wasn’t. What I’d never let myself be. Miles had found his courage, claimed his truth in front of everyone. And I… I’d been running from mine for two decades.

For a moment, I let myself imagine it—what it would be like if I had that kind of bravery. If Emmett and I could step into the light together. Just us, just me, standing side by side with Emmett, with nothing to prove, nothing to run from.

Almost against my will, my gaze flicked across the bleachers. Emmett was already watching me. His expression gave nothing away, steady and unreadable, like a wall I couldn’t see past.

What was he thinking? Did he see himself in this? In me? Or had I been wrong all along—imagining that kiss, convincing myself he’d kissed me back when maybe it had been nothing more than my wishful thinking, my fear twisting memory into something it never was?

Maybe he wasn’t even gay. Maybe he wasn’t bi. Maybe he’d just been curious, a teenager messing around, and I’d spent twenty years making it into something monumental.

Or worse—maybe he’d felt the same, once, and buried it so deep I had no right to go digging it up again.

The whistle blew then, sharp and clean, pulling my gaze back to the court as players took their spots. Sneakers squeaked. The game was about to begin.

The alumni’s starting five drew a cheer as they stepped out—Cameron Jameson at point, Shane Bailey sliding into small forward, Ray Barker at power, Dale Rivers at center, and Caden North at shooting guard. For a second, it was like 2005 all over again, the crowd buzzing with old loyalties.

They opened strong, trading baskets with the varsity kids, each play tight enough to remind everyone that these men had once owned this court. Caden lasted ten minutes before subbing out—limp pronounced, but grin easy, soaking up the applause. The rest of the alumni held their ground, the game staying scrappy, competitive enough to keep the crowd leaning forward.

By the time Theo Brooks’ whistle cut the final seconds, the score tilted just enough in the alumni’s favor. The bleachers erupted, old teammates slapping backs like no time had passed. For a moment, it almost felt like history had looped back on itself—like the class of 2005 had claimed one more win.

By the time Theo Brooks’ final whistle blew—the same Theo who now taught English at the high school and served as the team’s assistant coach—the alumni had edged out the varsity by a handful of points. The bleachers erupted, old teammates slapping backs like no time had passed. I clapped along with everyone else, though my eyes slid sideways before I could stop them.

Emmett was smiling—small, quiet, nothing showy, but real. Pride softened his face, pride that didn’t surprise me. He’d always loved watching people succeed, even if he’d never stepped onto the court himself.

The ache came quickly. Once, that smile had been for me—my plays, my games, my name. Now it wasn’t. And the emptiness of that truth pressed sharp beneath my ribs.