Page 15 of Kellan & Emmett
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 itwas 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.
”
Chapter 8
Emmett
Orange pine ice cream. My one non-negotiable, my lifelong quirk, and somehow Kellan still remembered after all theseyears. 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 toGrease Lightningat 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.”
