Page 25 of Caden & Theo
“End of September,” I say. “We’ll make it happen.”
“You better. I’m not turning eighteen without you.”
I lean down and gently kiss him again, like we’re exchanging maps that will lead us back to each other. “I’ll see you soon,” I whisper.
He nods, but his eyes are shimmering.
I open the door. The light spills in like it’s another world entirely. And when I step into it, I carry him with me.
Mom’s downstairs when I come out, sipping coffee from the thermos she’s been nursing all morning. She looks up the second she hears me, her eyes flicking over my face like she’s doing a silent check-in. She doesn’t ask if I’ve been crying, but she doesn’t need to.
“Car’s packed?” she asks, voice gentle.
I nod. “Just gotta do the goodbye part.”
She puts the cup down and opens her arms. I go to her, and she hugs me tight, her cheek resting against my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you, Caden.”
My throat squeezes, but I manage to get words out. “Thanks, Mom.”
She pulls back and smiles up at me, but her eyes are glassy. “You’re ready. You’ve been ready since you were ten and tried to organize your own basketball tryouts.”
“That was a deeply flawed plan,” I mutter.
Her smile grows, and for a second, we’re just standing in the kitchen, not on the verge of this huge, life-changing thing.
She cups my cheek like she used to when I was little. “Are you okay?”
I glance toward the stairs, toward my bedroom. “Not totally. But I will be.”
She nods, understanding what I’m saying—and what I’m not. “He’s special.”
“I know.”
She pulls me in for one last squeeze, whispering, “He’s gonna be okay, too, baby. You both will.”
I let her hold me for a few seconds longer, then step back. “He’ll let himself out. I, um… I left him something.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“In his room. Just something small.”
She smiles but doesn’t press. “Well, we’ll be waiting in the car.”
Dad’s already outside by the trunk, fiddling with the GPS that’s stuck to the windshield like a barnacle. When I come out, he straightens, rubbing his hands on the front of his jeans.
“Got snacks, jumper cables, and your favorite water bottle,” he says, like he’s ticking items off a list.
“I’m not driving across a desert, Dad.”
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be prepared.”
I grin. “Thanks.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You know, when I was your age?—”
“Here we go,” I mutter under my breath.
“—I didn’t evenhavea car. I moved into a dorm with two bags and a secondhand alarm clock that broke on day one.”
