Page 8 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

Emmett

Orange pine ice cream. My one non-negotiable, my lifelong quirk, and somehow Kellan still remembered after all these years. Twenty years gone, and he still remembered. That rattled me more than I cared to admit.

By then the dinner chatter had quieted, dessert plates cleared, and the emcee announced the next part of the evening—class memories and reflections. A presentation by former teachers and classmates. Applause rose, a signal to turn my attention to the front.

Our old science teacher went up—gray at the temples now, same dry wit. He squinted over his notes.

“Frog dissection day,”

he said, and half the room groaned.

“We lost two lab partners to the hallway that period. To the smell.”

There was laughter.

“But you stuck with it. That’s what I remember most. You stuck with things.”

After him came our music teacher, who looked exactly the same—same thinning ponytail, same jangling bracelets. He carried a tambourine to the podium and gave it a single shake before launching into a memory about our disastrous attempt at a school musical.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve heard a dozen teenagers forget the lyrics to Grease Lightning at the exact same moment,”

he said.

“But hey, we recovered. Mostly.”

After the music teacher finished shaking his tambourine at us, Coach made his way up. He was shorter than I remembered, but his voice still carried like a whistle in the wind.

“PE wasn’t just about dodgeball, no matter what you all tried to make it,”

he said, scanning the room.

“I saw kids who couldn’t run a lap without wheezing grow into athletes. And I saw kids who hated every minute of it still show up, lace their sneakers, and try. That mattered to me.”

His voice dipped, gentler.

“What mattered more was seeing you all cheer for each other, even the ones who couldn’t make it halfway around the track. That’s what I remember.”

The applause this time felt different—quieter, more grateful.

The art teach tottered up in a scarf that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a paint palette.

“Some of you swore you couldn’t draw a stick figure,”

she teased.

“And yet those same hands built murals that still hang in the hallway today.”

Her smile softened.

“Art was never about straight lines—it was about giving you a place to breathe.”

She stepped down to warm claps, and then a girl—I barely remembered her name until someone whispered it—spoke about how she used to come to school without lunch, and how the librarian slipped her a sandwich every day without ever making a fuss. Another classmate admitted how the shop teacher helped him get an apprenticeship.

“That man saved my life more than once,”

he said, voice catching.

“He probably never knew it.”

“Emmett,”

Britt said, leaning in.

“You good to say a few words? Our resident lifer.”

Teasing on the last bit. Kind eyes above it.

A few hoots around our table.

“Do it, Em.”

Kellan didn’t say anything, but I felt the weight of him at my side. Always had, even when he was silent. Especially when he was silent.

Feet carried me up before my brain decided if I wanted to go. The mic was still warm from the last hand. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

“Didn’t plan on talking,”

I said. A chuckle here and there.

“But somebody asked for a memory, and it turns out that’s what I’ve got more than anything.”

I hesitated, suddenly aware of every eye on me. Faces I’d grown up with watched me now, older but still carrying traces of the kids we used to be.

“After graduation, a lot of us thought we were supposed to run. Go find newer, shinier, louder. Some of you did, and hearing what you’ve built—it makes me proud.”

Heads nodding.

“I stayed. Not because I had it all figured out. Because when I didn’t have a door, someone opened one for me. This town kept holding doors. For rides. For jobs. For bad days. For second chances.”

Heat pricked behind my eyes, but I kept my voice even.

“If someone opened a door for you, thank them. If not, maybe you were the one holding it for the rest of us.”

A hush settled—chairs shifting, someone tugging a tissue free. I glanced back toward our table. Kellan watched me like he was bracing for a hit and hoping for one, too. I didn’t linger. Didn’t need to make it a show.

“One more thing,”

I said, gripping the mic tighter.

“Showing up matters. We stumble, we drift, we disappear sometimes. But when we come back—when we choose to come back—it changes everything. So thank you for being here. For showing up.”

Applause rose and swelled, not the rowdy kind, but the kind that lands warm. The emcee squeezed my shoulder as I handed off the mic. “Perfect,”

she murmured.

“Thank you.”

The emcee scanned the room.

“Anyone else?”

A few heads ducked. A few hands lifted halfway and fell. Then a woman stood from one of the middle tables. I knew her face, but her name slipped.

Her voice wavered, then steadied.

“I wasn’t the kid anyone expected to stand out. I kept quiet. I kept my head down. And I got sick—sicker than I knew. It wasn’t a teacher who noticed. It was Mr. Lyle, the janitor. He saw me getting pale, saw me losing weight, and he didn’t let it slide. He told the school nurse. The nurse told my foster parents. And that started the tests that caught my cancer early. Twenty years later, I’m still here.”

The room went still. Her smile trembled but didn’t break.

“So when people say schools change lives, I believe it. Not just because of the classes or the grades. But because sometimes someone is paying attention when you think no one is.”

She sat down to applause—loud, warm, a few people even standing.

I clapped with them, throat tight. I didn’t know her story, but I knew the truth of what she’d said. Being noticed could save you. Not being noticed—that could cut just as deep.

Beside me, Kellan clapped until he eventually rested his hands on the table.

The emcee let the applause crest, then leaned toward the mic.

“Thank you for that. And thank you to everyone who shared tonight. Memories like these remind us why we’re here.”

Her voice lifted, bright again.

“Now, before we all get too misty-eyed, let’s move into our next part of the evening—awards and recognitions. Time to cheer for your classmates again.”

The room loosened at once—laughter rising, glasses clinking, voices warming back up. I joined in, smiling when someone whistled, but the segment stayed lodged under my ribs. And I didn’t have to glance at Kellan to know he’d been affected by all that had been shared too.

One of the awards—Most Likely to Still Get Detention went to a guy in a suit who stood up and bowed like he was on a Broadway stage. Best Glow-Up went to one of the girls who’d spent all of high school hiding behind oversized hoodies and was now radiant in heels and a wrap dress. Everyone clapped and teased and took a hundred pictures with their phones.

The next wave shifted the mood.

“This one’s for someone who reminds us what a community looks like. Someone who stayed, invested, showed up.”

My name hit the speakers, and the claps came fast, strong. Heat crept up my neck. People stood, cheered. A chorus of “Go, Em!”

pushed me toward the makeshift stage, whether I wanted it or not.

The plaque was small, but my hand shook taking it. I mumbled a thank you into the mic and ducked my head at the applause. What I didn’t do was look toward Kellan. I didn't need to. I felt his gaze like a spotlight. My palms sweated like I was seventeen again, not because of the crowd but because of the one man who used to know me better than anyone.

I sat back down, the plaque resting on my thigh. Meghan leaned over, grinning.

“About time you got credit for putting roots here.”

I huffed a laugh. Roots sounded noble. Most days it just felt like routine, but I supposed routine was its own kind of courage. Kellan had chosen the road out; I’d chosen the ground beneath my feet. Twenty years later, here we were again, side by side, and I couldn’t tell which choice had cost more.

The laughter picked up again with a few more awards—someone dubbed Most Likely to Host a Talk Show, another Best Storyteller. Then the room hushed again.

“This next one is the Welcome Back Award. It goes to the classmate who kept us waiting the longest between visits and reminded us tonight why we missed him.”

The name: Kellan.

For half a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the room erupted. People cheered, banged glasses against tables.

“Kellan!”

Jamal’s booming voice.

“Get up there, man!”

He rose slowly, shoulders tight but his face arranged in that easy grin. The kind of grin that said he didn’t care, even when I knew he did. He walked past tables of people clapping him on the back, pulled into hugs, hands squeezing his arm.

The sound blurred around me. All I saw was that grin, those fuckingly hot lips, the same ones that had been pressed against mine twenty years ago, hot and sure and everything I’d wanted—right until he tore away and left me in the dark.

Kellan took the mic.

“Guess disappearing pays off,”

he said wryly, and the crowd roared with laughter. He added, quieter.

“It’s good to be back.”

I hated how much I wanted to believe him.

The rest blurred—Best Sense of Humor, Least Changed, Most Changed, High School Sweethearts. Laughter, cheers, photo flashes. The kind of warmth that could almost fool a person into thinking the past was simpler than it was.

The final award wrapped with a cheer, glasses lifted. The DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers, announcing the dance floor would open in a few minutes.

Everyone stood, chairs scraping, voices rising. I lifted my glass too, but my eyes found him again.

And I couldn’t help remembering the morning after graduation—the endless ring of a phone that never picked up, the walk to his house where his dad met me at the door and said he wasn’t there, offering nothing more. I’d used every way a seventeen-year-old could think of back then, and still ended up with nothing but silence.

No award in the world could drown that out.