Page 7 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)
Kellan
Inside, the gym had been transformed—streamers and neon balloons, a disco ball throwing fractured light across the polished floor. Tables lined the edges, already crowded with classmates balancing cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.
A server offered a tray of hors d'oeuvres as we stepped in. I grabbed one mostly to keep my hands busy. Emmett shook his head, scanning the room like he was cataloging every exit.
“Whole place feels like a time capsule,”
I murmured, leaning closer to Emmett.
“Half expect somebody to wheel out a boom box and breakdance.”
He flicked me a sideways look, the faintest glint in his eyes.
“What, you volunteering?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
I smirked, tapping my knee.
“I could still pull off the worm.”
For the first time all night, the edge of his mouth twitched, almost—almost—a smile.
“Pretty sure your knees would quit halfway through. You’re not seventeen anymore.”
The warmth of it lodged in my chest, too fleeting, too fragile. But it was there.
A group of classmates swept us up before I could say more, pressing drinks into our hands, pulling us into the hum of conversation. The room spun with voices and laughter, the kind of noise that made it easy to hide.
But even with people on every side, my attention kept snapping back to him. I couldn’t help myself.
The cocktail hour bled into dinner—someone ringing a bell, one of the organizers herding us toward the tables with all the cheer of a wedding planner on too much caffeine.
I found an open seat at one of the round tables draped in a hot-pink cloth that practically glowed under the neon lights, the scent of butter and garlic drifting from the buffet line making my stomach growl.
A few minutes later, Emmett showed up at my elbow, scanning the table before dropping into the chair beside mine.
“Guess this one’s the only seat left,”
he said, his tone neutral but edged with something that wasn’t quite annoyance.
I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the centerpiece Rubik’s Cube.
“Seat’s a seat.”
Plates clinked as servers moved through the room, setting down appetizers. I speared a stuffed Peppadew, the heat of the pepper cut by the creamy pimento cheese, and tried not to notice how Emmett’s shoulder brushed mine whenever he reached for the breadbasket.
“So,”
Meghan said, eyeing the smoked trout crostini on her plate.
“Who remembers Derek’s epic fail in Home Ec? That soufflé that collapsed faster than a prom queen’s updo?”
Derek groaned, already laughing.
“It was sabotage. Somebody slammed the oven door.”
“Sure,”
Britt said, sipping her Blue Lagoon, the neon-blue drink glowing against her sequined top.
“Or maybe you just can’t cook.”
“Hey, I’ve redeemed myself,”
Derek shot back.
“Ask my wife. My ribs are legendary.”
Jamal smirked over his cider.
“Yeah, word on the street is your ribs are legendary for sending your wife to the ER that one time.”
Derek’s fork clattered against his plate. He leaned forward, eyes wide.
“Wait—what? Did Mandy call you?”
Tell me she didn’t call you. She’s still telling people that story?!”
The table erupted, Meghan choking on her salad, Britt dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, Jamal’s grin spread slow and satisfied, like he’d been waiting twenty years to use that line. Even Emmett’s lips twitched, though he ducked his head quick to hide it.
I shook mine, fighting a smile.
“Some reputations you just can’t grill your way out of.”
Meghan leaned forward, eyes flicking between me and Emmett.
“But seriously—you two. Back in the day, it was always Kellan and Emmett. Hard to think of one without the other.”
The fork hovered halfway to my mouth.
“That was a long time ago,”
I said, keeping my tone even.
Emmett took a sip of sweet tea, gaze fixed on his plate.
“People grow up. Things change.”
“Sure,”
Meghan said, but her smile softened, like she wanted to push and didn’t. She let it go, turning instead to rave about the braised short ribs and creamy grits.
I let the chatter roll over me—Britt bragging about her kid’s soccer team, Derek defending his grill skills again, Jamal telling a story that had everyone bent over their pecan pie. Well, everybody except Emmett. But every so often, he added a dry comment, and I caught myself almost—almost—falling back into the rhythm we used to have.
“You still writing?”
he asked out of nowhere.
I blinked. “Writing?”
“Stories. You used to—”
He stopped, glanced away, like he wished he hadn’t spoken.
“Forget it.”
I set my fork down.
“No, I… I haven’t written stories in a long time.”
The admission felt heavier than I meant it to.
“But I journal. Almost every morning before the day starts. Helps clear my head.”
He nodded once, eyes on the tablecloth.
“Figures. You were always good with words.”
For a moment, the noise of the room blurred—Britt laughing at something Jamal said, Megan leaning in close to Derek—and it was just the two of us, orbiting the same silence we used to fill so easily.
I gestured toward the half-empty dessert plates scattered across the table.
“Not having pie?”
Emmett shook his head, the corner of his mouth quirking.
“You know me.”
And I did. Orange pine ice cream or nothing. It had been his rule since we were kids, the kind of rule you tease a friend about until it hardens into something oddly sacred. Gomillion never carried that flavor, so he’d go without, stubborn as ever.
The memory tugged at me, warm and sharp. I almost said it aloud—you still love orange pine ice cream—but the words caught, hovering between my chest and throat.
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