Page 6 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

Kellan

The knot in my tie looked like a toddler had tied it with their eyes closed. I yanked it loose, tried again in front of the mirror above the dresser. Too tight this time. My fingers were useless.

The rental suit wasn’t helping. Stiff shoulders, collar that pinched like it had a grudge against me. I muttered a curse under my breath and dropped my hands, staring at the stranger in the mirror. Nearly forty. A little more gray at the temples. A little less shine in the eyes. And about to walk into a gym decorated like the 1980s had exploded.

A knock broke the silence.

I frowned, crossing the room. Nobody was supposed to come by. Maybe someone from the committee, maybe—

I opened the door.

Emmett.

He leaned against the frame like it cost him something to be standing there. Crisp shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearms, hair brushed back. My chest pulled tight.

His gaze flicked down, caught the mess at my throat. A huff of air, almost a laugh, not cruel.

“You still can’t tie one, can you?”

Heat crawled up my neck.

“It’s been a while.”

I tugged at the damn piece of fabric.

A pause. Then, quieter.

“I used to do it for you all the time.”

The memory landed before I could shove it aside—me at thirteen, my father barking that no son of his would walk into church looking sloppy. Emmett’s fingers had steadied the knot at my throat, faster and neater than I ever managed. He’d done the same before school dances, before graduation. Always gruff about it, always acting like I was hopeless, but he’d never let me walk out with it crooked.

He stepped inside before I could argue, close enough that the faint clean scent of cologne and soap reached me.

“Come here. Let me help you.”

His voice was gruff, but not unkind, his fingers already brushing mine aside.

The words hit soft and sharp at the same time. He tugged the fabric straight, quick, practiced motions.

I watched the top of his head as he worked, jaw tight, pretending it was nothing. Pretending I didn’t feel the heat of his knuckles against my throat.

“There,”

he said, giving the knot a final tug.

“At least you don’t look like you lost a fight with your closet.”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,”

I deadpanned.

He stepped back, putting the space between us again. Whatever softness had cracked through was gone by the time he said, flat as before.

“Figured we’re both heading to the school. You want a ride?”

For a second, I just stared. I still had the rental.

“I’ve got my own wheels.”

His jaw flexed.

“I know. I’m saying—it’s stupid to drive two cars when we’re going to the same place.”

A beat passed, then quieter, almost grudging.

“Should’ve suggested it yesterday.”

An apology. The closest I’d ever heard from him.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He didn’t smile, or soften. Just nodded and stepped back, leaving me to grab my jacket and follow.

The hallway felt too narrow with him walking ahead of me. My pulse thudded with every step, too aware of the space he took up, of how different he looked from the boy I’d left behind.

I slid into the passenger seat, tugging at my collar again. The door shut with a solid thump, sealing us into a silence that pressed harder than I expected.

He turned the key, engine humming to life. For a stretch we drove without speaking, tires rolling over the smooth pavement as the inn slipped out of sight in the mirror.

I couldn’t take the quiet.

“I didn’t picture you in a truck.”

His eyes stayed on the road.

“It’s South Carolina. What’d you expect, a Prius?”

A short laugh slipped out before I could stop it. He didn’t join me.

“The inn looks good,”

I tried again, nodding toward the rearview.

“You’ve really made something of it.”

His grip tightened on the wheel.

“It’s not a project. It’s a home.”

The correction hit sharper than I wanted it to.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Maybe not,”

he said, voice even.

“But it’s what it sounded like.”

It was classic Emmett—never raising his voice, never dramatic.

Silence pressed in. I shifted, restless, drumming my fingers against my leg.

“I guess I…”

My voice faltered, then steadied.

“You ever wish you’d left too?”

His glance flicked toward me, then back to the road..

“Not once.”

The conviction in his voice landed like stone. No hesitation. No apology. He meant it.

I wanted to ask if he’d thought about me in those years I was gone. If he hated me, or worse, if he’d managed not to think of me at all. But the words stuck in my throat.

“Guess you were braver than me.”

He shook his head, mouth pulling taut.

“No. Just means I stayed put. But don’t think it was easy. And you know what, Kellan?”

He glanced at me quickly, before facing the road again.

“You can’t disappear on someone and expect them to forget it ever happened.”

His voice caught on that last word—happened—like he’d almost said more.

My hands curled into fists on my lap.

“You think I forgot?”

The words slipped out, scraping my throat on the way up.

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

The admission left me exposed, skin peeled back to something I wasn’t sure I wanted him to see.

The night in question lit up in my memory whether I wanted it to or not: the darkness that cloaked us, the way he hadn’t pulled back when I kissed him. For one impossible moment, it had felt like everything was about to change.

I wanted to ask him if he remembered it the same way. If it had meant something to him. But I couldn’t force the words past the lump in my throat, and pride kept my jaw locked.

We hit the light at Main. I heard the tap tap of his fingers against the steering wheel.

“You didn’t just leave town, Kellan. You left me. You left a decade’s old friendship.”

My gaze swung his way, throat tightened.

“I thought it was better that way.”

“For who?”

The words weren’t loud, but they landed like weight dropped between us.

Heat climbed my neck. I turned to the window again, past storefronts that looked exactly the same as when we were kids—the hardware store, the pawn shop, the diner with the sign that never fully lit up. Twenty years, and the town had stood still. We were the ones who hadn’t.

“For me,”

I admitted.

“And maybe that was a mistake.”

The light changed. He drove on. It was quiet for a long beat before he finally said.

“I never blamed you for leaving. Chasing the NFL—that was your dream. I knew you had to go.”

He huffed out a breath.

“What I couldn’t make sense of was you cutting me out completely. Not even a call back. Not even once.”

The words scraped raw inside me. I’d told myself he wouldn’t have understood. But hearing it like that—so plain, so sharp—it made all my excuses sound thin.

“I know,”

I said, voice low. My fingers clenched uselessly on my knee.

“You didn’t deserve that. You were my best friend, Emmett. And I just…”

My throat worked, but the rest stuck there, heavy as stone.

“I thought if I cut clean, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.”

He let out a short breath through his nose, not quite a scoff, not quite forgiveness either.

By the time he turned into the school lot, headlights sweeping over cars crammed into every space, my chest felt raw. Music leaked from the gym—synth beats and bass thumping, like the eighties had been dragged back for one last dance.

He eased into a spot near the back and killed the engine. Neither of us moved. The glow of the gym doors bled across the windshield, painting his profile in pale light.

I cleared my throat, trying for steady.

“Guess this is it.”

His jaw worked once, twice, before he finally said.

“Yeah. This is it.”

We lingered one beat too long before he popped the handle and climbed out. I followed.

“Look… maybe we don’t have to spend the night circling each other like enemies. It’s one evening. We can at least try to be civil.”

He turned, finally meeting my eyes. Something unreadable flickered there. Then he gave a short nod.

“Fair enough.”

I held out my hand before I could think better of it. His grip was firm, warm—too warm—and the spark that shot up my arm made my breath catch. For a second, I thought he felt it too, the way his hold lingered just past polite.

Then he let go, stepping back.

“Come on. Can’t be worse than prom the first time around.”

I huffed a laugh, shaky but real.

“Low bar, but yeah. Let’s see if we clear it.”

I followed, my palm still tingling, the warm May night wrapping close around us, thick with everything unsaid—and everything still possible.