Page 1 of Kellan & Emmett
Chapter 1
Kellan
The rental SUV hummed beneath me, dashboard clock glaring 6:42 p.m. in angry red. Less than twenty minutes until registration closed.Great job, Kellan. Twenty years gone and you’re about to blow it before you even walk in the door.
It had been a last-minute ticket, the kind you booked because quitting your job felt like ripping out the last excuse not to come. Same-day flight from LAX, delays stacking up until I’d nearly chewed my boarding pass in half. By the time I landed in Columbia, all I had was a pounding headache and a Ford Escape I’d rented that smelled like stale fries and too much air freshener.
Now the road narrowed, two lanes threading me straight back into the past. Signs of Gomillion crept in—the faded billboard for Chet’s BBQ, the old mill chimney against the treeline, the high school’s stadium lights standing tall like they’d never aged.My pulse kicked hard. That was the field where I’d played my last game, the field Dad once promised would be the start of everything.
I pressed harder on the gas, knee aching at the movement. Ghost pain, always reminding me. The truth was simpler: I’d left Gomillion, South Carolina, right after graduation and never came back. Not when my father packed us off to California, not after the injury ended everything, not even when Mom’s voice finally stopped filling my voicemail.[2]
The town sign came into view—Welcome to Gomillion.My throat tightened. No family waited here. No house to pull into. Just ghosts, and maybe one person I’d never stopped thinking about.
6:49. The reunion registration table would be shutting down in less than ten minutes, and the way things were going, I’d be lucky if I made it inside before they crossed my name off the list for good.
The dash clock glared 6:57 p.m. by the time I rolled into the high school parking lot, the rental’s engine ticking as I cut it off. Every slot was jammed with trucks and SUVs, the kind that still had hunting stickers slapped across the back windows. My hands stayed tight on the wheel for a beat longer than they should have. Twenty years gone, and here I was, about to walk into a gym full of people I’d abandoned.
“I’m too old for this shit,” I muttered.
By the time I stepped out, the heat hadn’t eased. It was still thick, sticky, the kind that glued your shirt to your spine. Not a welcome-home kind of warmth — more like a reminder I didn’t belong here anymore.
Laughter spilled from the double doors as I crossed the lot, my knee twinging with every step. Ghost pain, the kind that reminded me of everything I’d lost.
Inside, the gym hadn’t changed. Waxed floors shining under fluorescent lights. Trophy cases lined with dust. One banner still bragging about the state championship, older than half the kids serving canapés tonight.
“Holy hell, look who it is,” a voice boomed.
Justin Kirkwood, former classmate and reunion chairperson, wasn’t the scrawny, redheaded kid I remembered. Somewhere along the line, the lanky nerd had grown into himself — broader through the chest, beard trimmed neat around the fire-colored hair, glasses catching the light. The real shock, though, was the grin: wide and easy, the kind that made you forget he’d ever been the quiet kid who never cracked a joke.
“Kellan Miller,” he said, reaching over the registration table. “Thought you disappeared into the wild.”
I shook his hand, his grip firm, his voice warm. “Guess I did.”
“L.A., right? Teacher, coach? Man, you look good.” He scribbled my name onto a badge and slid it across. “Glad you came back.”
I gave him half a smile and pinned the badge to my shirt, heat crawling up my neck. Small talk had never felt heavier.
The crowd swallowed me next. Tables dotted with clusters of classmates, name tags slapped over dresses and button-downs. I recognized some faces instantly, others not at all.
At one table, Meghan Blake—now Meghan Price, I later learned—waved me over with the same easy laugh she’d had since sophomore year. “Well, if it isn’t Miller. We thought you went Hollywood on us.”
“More like coaching and grading essays on Steinbeck,” I said, sliding into a seat.
That earned a ripple of laughter, and the conversation turned quick—updates on kids, jobs, divorces, who’d never left Gomillion and who’d never come back. Trays floated past with sliders and stuffed mushrooms, carried by teens in matching polos who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
I picked up a mini beef slider, grease bleeding into the napkin, onions caramelized just shy of burnt. It tasted like nostalgia wrapped in cheddar. I chewed, listening more than speaking.
Every so often, Emmett’s name drifted through the chatter.Remember when Kellan tried to teach him to throw a ball? Those two were thick as thieves.Heads nodded, smiles softened. Nobody asked why I’d left. Nobody guessed why I’d stayed gone.
Plates cleared. Trays returned with bite-sized cheesecakes with raspberry toppings, chocolate-dipped strawberries, lemon tarts with dollops of whipped cream and chocolate truffles glistening under the lights. Halfway through mine, my chest had finally unclenched. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe that was better.
And then the air shifted. A hush I felt more than heard. The fine hairs on my neck rose.
I looked up.
And there was Emmy.
No—Emmett.
