Page 6 of Reece & Holden (Gomillion High Reunion #6)

CHAPTER SIX

Holden

It’s been twenty years since I walked the halls of my old high school, but the time melts away as soon as I step over the threshold.

I don’t know if it’s the combined aromas of floor polish and gym uniform but it smells exactly the same as I remember it.

I wonder if there’s a universal high-school smell.

Clara confirms it as she turns to me, her nose wrinkled.

“That’s a smell I never thought I’d revisit. Why does it make me feel like I’m seventeen again and I’m about to be late to class?”

“You too?” I ask. “Which class were you late for?”

She turns and gives me a huge grin. “All of them.”

I chuckle as it doesn’t surprise me at all.

We follow the general throng of people heading toward the small gym.

I’ve no idea why it’s called the small gym because it’s exactly the same size as the other gym.

They couldn’t just name it after a famous sportsperson who went to the school, could they?

Probably not, because we haven’t got many famous alumni, but almost anything else would have been better than naming it the small gym.

The registration line extends out into the hall and we wait patiently amid the lockers.

I look around at the people standing in line.

I wave and call out to a few of them. Some of them are good customers of mine, others I see occasionally around town or at the grocery store.

None of them are Reece, and relief floods through me.

I check it, because I hate that I was tense enough to feel relieved when I don’t spot him.

I also know that he should be here somewhere, though, and I need to deal with that.

We shuffle forward as the line moves and I run through some of the exercises my therapist suggested.

“Do I look alright?” I ask for the millionth time and receive the well deserved eye-roll.

“You ask me that, wearing a sweater vest? If the look you’re aiming for is middle-aged dad trying to cling to the last vestiges of youth by trying to look cool and missing the mark completely, then you’ve nailed it.” The sarcasm instead of reassurance calms me a little.

“You don’t like my sweater vest?” I hold my hand to my chest in a dramatic way. I knitted it myself, like most of my clothes.

“You know I like all your creations—except maybe that neon sweater you insisted on wearing over Christmas a few years ago.” She has a point there, it wasn’t the wisest choice for me. “But I’m not sure the world is ready to accept the sweater vest as stylish.”

“I wasn’t going for stylish,” I counter quickly, then my anxiety ramps up a little as her words sink in. I glance down at my chest. “Hmm, maybe wearing this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

She frowns at me.

“Holden, you look like you. A guy who is very creative and crafty, who isn’t afraid to wear his creations and be proud of them. Anyone worth knowing will see that.”

One thought springs to mind . . . Will Reece see that? Or even worse. . .

“Do I look gay, though?”

“You heard what I just said, right?”

“Yes, yes, but do I look too gay?”

“Is that even a thing?” Clara snorts. It is most definitely a thing. Her voice softens. “Who are you trying to impress?”

No one, definitely not anyone. Certainly not my former bully. Nope. No. Not a chance. I wipe the clamminess from my hands and ignore how my heart has sped up.

“Will I be ridiculed?”

“Asks the guy who turns up at his school reunion in a sweater vest?”

“Which he is now regretting,” I admit, trying to keep the panic from showing in my voice.

She squeezes my arm. “You aren’t in high school anymore. Everyone here is an adult, most of them pushing forty. So, mature adults, or so they should be. No one is going to ridicule you, and if they try, they’ll have to deal with me.”

Her words reassure me and I love how she has my back like no one has before. I count my lucky stars for the day she walked into my store and adopted me. My anxiety banks back down a little as we reach the front of the registration line.

We sign in, and we’re given a card with an explanation that it’s for an ice-breaker game later, where we have to find and talk to the owner of the matching card. I can’t think of anything worse, but I take one anyway. Clara smirks as she holds up her card. It’s a bottle of rum.

“What’s supposed to match with that?” I ask, my mind drawing a blank.

“Coke,” Clara says. “I usually take mine neat but I might make an exception if I match well.”

She starts scanning the room and I can see from her expression she’s checking people out.

“It’s an ice-breaker not a date match.”

“Nobody said it couldn’t be both.” She grins. “What did you get?”

I turn it over. “Cheese.”

“All you need to do is find your perfect macaroni.”

“Not a dating game,” I repeat, but she laughs and pulls me over to the bar. I eye the orange drink she hands me a few minutes later with suspicion.

“Are you trying to pass this off as fruit juice?”

“No, it’s definitely alcohol and you should drink it.”

I’m not sure I agree, but I take a sip anyway and move away to let others order their drinks. We stand by a tall table at the side of the room, handy to prop ourselves up on. I look around but I can’t see Reece anywhere, and I allow myself to relax. Maybe he hasn’t come after all.

“OMG. Look!” Clara squeals and I spin around to see what’s got her attention.

“Don’t look,” she hisses, grabbing my arm. “He might see.”

“You just told me to,” I reason, and she gives an exasperated growl. “Who am I not looking at anyway?”

“Him, there. That perfect piece of flesh squeezed into those tailored slacks and dark red polo is AJ Quick.”

“Who?” I have no idea who that is.

“Are you kidding me?” she asks incredulously. I shrug. I honestly have no idea.

“He’s the quarterback for the LA Warriors.”

“Is that football?” I take a guess.

“How are we even friends?” she gasps.

“You know I don’t follow football.” She learned long ago that I wouldn’t watch games with her, or if I do, I pay no attention, too involved in my knitting.

“Well, you should follow the players at least.” She smirks and it’s my turn to roll my eyes.

“Oh stop it,” she says. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’d say no to AJ Quick.”

I look over at him. He’s tall, broad-chested, almost intimidating even though he looks kind rather than mean.

He has golden hair, curling at his collar, and a ready smile.

Not really my type, not that I have a type.

Well, I do, but that hasn’t got me anywhere so far.

The look Clara gives me when I’ve taken too long to answer tells me enough.

“Ha, my point exactly,” she exclaims. “I’m going to see if my card matches his and say hello.

“You can’t just go up to an NFL player and say hello.”

“I can if he’s silly enough to come to a school reunion in this two-bit town. If he didn’t want attention he shouldn’t have come here.”

She has a point, but on the other hand the guy does deserve his privacy.

“I’ll be back soon, and I’ll get us another drink.”

She’s already gone before I tell her not to bother with the drink, I can make this one last a long time.

I sip at it and survey the room again. I see Miles Johnson.

I remember he was on the swim team with Reece.

We didn’t hang out back then, never became friends after school either even though neither of us have left town.

I think he works as a handyman or something like that.

I see he’s with Atlas St James who works in fashion.

Although I don’t know him well either. As I look at the people gathered in the room, I realize I haven’t stayed in touch with many of them. Not that I’ve wanted to.

“Hi, I’m Amber.” A young woman startles me and I frown at her. Without a falter in her beaming smile she holds out a tablet to me.

“Would you like to vote for the next school mascot?”

“Wouldn’t that be more appropriate for the current students, since they have to live with it?” I ask.

“We’d be honored if you’d choose for us,” she replies, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t speak for all the students with that, but it doesn’t look like she’s going away until I’ve chosen so I tap my finger randomly on the screen, barely looking at it, and she buzzes off to accost the next nearest person.

I take a gulp of my drink, forgetting for a moment that it’s alcohol.

I sputter and nearly spit it out again. I swallow quickly and the drink hits my stomach, mingling with the drink I had earlier, and my stomach revolts at more alcohol by bubbling slightly.

I can’t see Clara anymore, but I can still see the football player, so I guess she didn’t have much of a chance there.

I flick my eyes over to the bar to search for her there and I see him.

Reece.

I automatically take another large gulp of my drink and instantly regret it as the queasiness increases.

It has to be the effects of the drink and not that Reece is standing there barely twenty feet in front of me.

He hasn’t seen me, or I don’t think he has.

He’s looking around, scanning the room, and I’m a little off to the side out of his line of sight.

I watch him for a minute, taking in how well his suit fits him.

It’s cut well, expensive, he must be doing well for himself, and once again I regret my choice of knitwear.

His brown hair is close-cropped and tidy, it suits him.

He’s lean, like he still has the same swimmer’s body even if he has filled out a little—haven’t we all, some of us more than others—but he’s certainly looked after himself. The bastard.

He swivels and I see the exact moment he spots me.

He blinks slowly and then his eyes light up.

His mouth quirks into a little smile that looks uncertain, which is curious.

He gulps down the drink he’s holding and starts moving.

Shit! He’s coming over. The roiling in my stomach breaks into waves like a stormy sea crashing against rocks.

He’s on a trajectory straight for me. I can’t avoid him, nor can I look away.

I’m caught like a deer in headlights just awaiting my fate.

I try to suck in a breath in an attempt to actually breathe, though trying to do that normally as a way to steady my anxiety like I practiced with my therapist is beyond me.

Also, in all of my therapy sessions the one thing they never prepared me for was how handsome he’d be.

He really has aged well I can see, as I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

I hate that after all this time he’s still so fucking gorgeous.

Reece.

My bully.

My first crush.

“Hi, Holden,” he says as he reaches me. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Those words echo back through time, over twenty years, to a spring day a few weeks before the end of the school year.

Reece had been in a foul mood through all our morning classes.

It sometimes happened and I knew he’d be looking to let off steam at lunch, which usually meant he’d lash out at me.

I’d hidden under the bleachers on the baseball field, which wasn’t very original, and it didn’t take him long to find me.

He stood, blocking my way out with a dark look on his face and the words, “I’ve been looking for you. ”

Fear shudders through me at the memory and bile rises in my throat. I clamp my hand over my mouth. I might not be able to speak but there’s no way I’m going to embarrass myself by vomiting all over his expensive shoes. Shaking my head, I rush past him and run out of the gym.