Page 4 of Kellan & Emmett
Silence stretched, broken only by the buzz of the crowd. My skin prickled under the weight of him standing there, close enough that I could smell a faint trace of aftershave—something clean, nothing fancy, but achingly familiar.
The announcer’s voice boomed again, declaring the winners and waving the gift cards in the air like he was hosting a game show. Laughter rippled through the gym as pairs headed up to claim their prizes. Someone bumped my shoulder on the way past, and just like that the crowd shifted, pulling me away from Kellan.
Good.
I let it happen. Let the tide of voices, the scrape of chairs, the shuffle of bodies carry me to the edges of the room. Safer there, surrounded by noise instead of silence that left too much space for old ghosts.
The next half hour blurred—conversations layered on top of each other, names tossed at me like I was supposed to remember every single face. Someone shoved a refill into my hand. Someone else asked if the inn was booked solid all summer. I smiled, nodded, gave short answers that made them move on. My eyes never stopped tracking wherehewas.
When the announcer cued up the next activity, the room tilted back toward him. “Alright, y’all, time for a little trip down memory lane. Name That Tune: Reunion Edition!”
Groans and cheers rose in equal measure. Groups clustered at tables, teams forming with fast, familiar energy. I got swept into a group with Meghan, Britt, and a guy I only half-remembered from senior year math.
The first few notes blasted through the speakers, tinny and sharp. It took two seconds for Meghan to slap the table. “Backstreet Boys. ‘I Want It That Way.’ Don’t even argue.”
Our team scribbled answers, laughing too loud when we were right, grumbling when we were wrong. By the time the announcer declared winners—some group on the far side of the gym whooping over their prize—it felt like the whole room had loosened.
All except me.
Because even with music pounding, even with Meghan singing off-key in my ear, I could still feel him. Kellan, somewhere across the gym, close enough to tilt the air.
About half an hour later, laughter bounced around the gym, too loud, too bright, as people crowded toward the Memory Wall. Sharpie squeaks filled the air, comments scrawled across grainy yearbook copies and candid photos.
I lingered at the edge, but my gaze kept tugging sideways. Kellan stood a few yards down, a knot of classmates around him. He wasn’t laughing, not really, but he was listening, nodding along while Justin slapped him on the back and someone else handed him a fresh drink. Every so often, he glanced away, like the noise pressed too close. And once—just once—his eyes skimmed overthe room and landed on me again. Quick. Fleeting. But enough to make heat climb my neck.
I turned back to the wall before it showed.
The wall stretched the length of the gym, plastered with faces frozen in time. Prom photos, pep rallies, cafeteria shots that captured trays of rubbery pizza and spilled chocolate milk. Sharpie captions sprawled across the paper already—“When perms attack.”“Senior prank champions.”People howled, pointing at crooked grins and fashion choices they swore weren’t theirs.
I should’ve laughed too. Should’ve leaned into the easy nostalgia. But my gaze snagged dead center.
Kellan.
Everywhere.
Helmet tucked under his arm, smile cocky enough to light the field. Mid-throw, body straining with the kind of power that used to make the crowd roar. On senior night, jersey in his hands, his father’s hand clamped on his shoulder like a badge of honor.
My throat closed. I remembered every single game. Every Friday night I’d sat in the stands, shouting myself hoarse, pretending the hollow in my chest was just school spirit. Pretending it wasn’t about him.
And there, tucked between all those football clippings, a smaller photo I’d forgotten existed. Kellan still in his jersey, hair damp with sweat, grin wide enough to split his face. Me beside him, plain clothes, pulled into the frame by the sheer force of his arm around my shoulders. And grinning just as wide. Best friends. Untouchable.
I’d had no business being in that photo. I hadn’t made a single play, hadn’t scored a point. But Kellan had dragged me into the shot anyway, like I was part of the win. Seeing it now hurt worse than I wanted to admit.
The Sharpie felt too heavy in my hand. Ink bled across the glossy paper as I forced words I didn’t mean but needed anyway:Some things don’t last.
I capped the marker, jaw clenched, and stepped back.
And there he was.
Not in the photo this time, but across the room. Watching me. His expression unreadable, jaw set like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
The sight of it stole the air from my lungs.
Twenty years ago, I’d promised myself he’d never get the chance to hurt me again.
So why did one look already feel like he had?
Chapter 3
