Page 7 of Kellan & Emmett
The air outside pressed thick when I cracked the window. Frogssang[3] their endless chorus, a sound I’d half-forgotten until it wrapped around me again. Pine. Damp earth. A sweetness I couldn’t place—honeysuckle, maybe, drifting through the dark.
My hands gripped the wheel too tight.
I tried not to picture Emmett leaning in close to Leif Lawson, laughter slipping easy between them. Tried not to imagine what they were doing outside while I’d sat in that bar choking down beer I couldn’t taste.
It didn't matter. Shouldn’t matter.
But the image clung like humidity.
A mile marker flashed by, the green sign swallowed in shadow before I finished reading it. For half a second, I remembered a different line—kids bunched together on the edge of the playground pavement, waiting for Coach’s whistle.
That’s when I first saw him. Emmett, small for his age, arms wrapped tight around himself, sneakers scuffing the ground like he wanted to disappear. The red rubber kickball rolled to his feet, and every kid’s eyes turned his way. He froze.
I jogged over, grinned like it was no big deal.“Come on,”I said.“We’ll kick it together.”
His eyes flicked to mine, nervous, searching. Then he nodded. And when our sneakers hit the ball at the same time, sending it wobbling down the field, we both broke into grins—wide as the South Carolina sky.
That was the first day. The first time I knew I had a best friend.
I shook my head, jaw tightening, wishing I could drive fast enough to outrun the memory.
The clock on the dash glowed 11:57. Almost midnight. My stomach knotted. I still hadn’t checked in at the bed and breakfast. Just needed a key, a bed, and silence.
Instead, all I could feel was the restless drum of the past beating against the dark.
The rental eased into the drive, headlights sweeping across the porch. Midnight pressed heavy across Gomillion—dark roads, shuttered storefronts, not a soul in sight—but the inn glowed ahead like a lantern. Fresh paint, white against the dark. Porch light spilling golden across the steps. Flower boxes under the windows, neat and bright even in the low light.
I killed the engine, sat there a moment with my hands still on the wheel.
The booking site had called it The Gardenian Inn.Seeing it in person, I realized it was Miss Cole’s place. Of course it was. Every kid in town had walked past this house at some point, and Miss Cole had always been there—small, wiry, cardigans no matter the season, hummingbird feeders dangling from the porch beams, yard always neat as a pin. I remembered thinking the house would be sold after she passed. It hadn't crossed my mind to wonder who bought it.
Made sense, though. Everything changes when you aren’t looking.
I hauled my bag from the backseat and climbed the steps. The wood gave a faint groan, though the paint was new and glossy. My stomach knotted.
The door opened easy, the bell above it chiming once, soft. Inside smelled of lemon polish and cinnamon. A desk stood just past the entry, oak dark with age. Someone leaned over a ledger behind it, pen scratching faintly.
Then he looked up.
My pulse stuttered.
Emmett.
Not wearing the same clothes. Not with a glass in his hand this time. Not surrounded by classmates. Here, in a button-down with sleeves rolled, hair falling into his eyes as he straightened. His face went still the moment he saw me.
I froze too. For a long beat, it was just us and the silence.
“You work here?” My voice cracked, like it had to scrape its way out.
His jaw shifted, tight. “I own it.”
The words landed heavy, a stone in my chest.
Of course.
I blinked, trying to piece it together. “You—own it?”
“Yeah.” No flourish. Just a fact.
