Page 3 of Caden & Theo
There’s Cam, the quiet point guard, standing back and letting the others have the spotlight. Shane Bailey—the small forward—still rocking his prom tux jacket like it’s a designer coat and not something from Men’s Wearhouse. Ray Barker, our no-nonsense power forward with Mexican roots, is double-fisting soda and trying not to look impressed by anything. And towering over them all, Dale Rivers, the center, calm and imposing like always, with a deep voice that makes anything he says sound like it’s coming from a wise mountain sage.
And in the middle of it all, there’sCaden.
God, he looks… unfair.
The tailored black pants hugs him just right. That same gold-and-green tie I helped with is still perfectly knotted, and his jacket’s tossed over one shoulder like he’s a model who just finished a runway. His tight coils are shaped up clean, and the gold in his watch catches the light every time he lifts his hand to talk. He’s laughing—bright and easy—and his smile does that thing where it spreads slow, like it’s creeping across his whole face, until you can’t help but smile too.
I look for Alice. She’s not with him, thank God. I spot her a little ways off, perched on the arm of a patio couch, deep in conversation with a guy I don’t recognize. He’s got the kind of long hair that makes him look like he’s either a poet or in a band—or both—and they look… cozy.
A stupid little grin pushes its way onto my face before I can stop it. I don’t even feel bad about it. I just let myself have it.
I start toward the group, weaving through the crowd, and before I even say anything, Caden sees me.
His whole face lights up. “Theo!” he calls, sounding as if he wasn’t sure I’d come, and the second I’m close enough, he loops his arm around my shoulders in a way that seems like instinct. Like it’s where I’m supposed to be.
The rest of the team immediately shifts to make room, and just like that, I’m in. Doesn’t matter that I’m a year younger. There’s never been a space in Caden’s life that I wasn’t just… part of.
“Look who finally dragged himself out of his emo cave,” Shane says, bumping my fist.
“Only took the promise of free pizza,” I shoot back.
“Pizza and the chance to watch us recount the best night of our lives,” Dale adds, grinning.
“Speak for yourself,” Ray mutters. “My tux ripped during a slow dance. Full ass cheek out.”
Cue alotof laughter.
“No!” I say, choking on air. “Who saw?!”
“Everyone,” Cameron intones, deadpan. “Everyone saw.”
Caden’s shaking with laughter beside me. “You should’ve heard the DJ. He just went ‘Oops’ and dropped the bass harder.”
I’m laughing, too, even as that little pang stirs in my chest again. I missed this part—the inside jokes, the wild chaos, the buildup. The prom. But I’m here now. And Caden’s arm is still around me, warm and firm, like I’m part of the story even if I skipped a chapter.
I glance up at him, and he’s already looking down at me, eyes soft in the way that always makes my stomach flip. He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“You good?” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
“Yeah,” I lie. Then amend, “Mostly.”
He nods like that’s fair. Like he understands. And honestly, with him standing beside me, laughing with his team, tie still perfect… maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe it has to be.
Caden shifts beside me and squeezes my shoulder once more before pulling his arm away. “I’m gonna get you a drink,” he says, already stepping back. “You deserve at least one warm beer for showing up.”
“Ooh, what a treat,” I deadpan, but I follow him anyway because where Caden goes, I go. That’s just how it’s always been.
We wind our way through the house, nodding and smiling at people as we pass. The party isn’t wild—nobody swinging from chandeliers or anyone crying in a bathtub—just music pulsing through portable speakers, a low murmur of voices, and that undercurrent of end-of-an-era energy. The kind that makes everyone feel a little nostalgic and just drunk enough to believe they’ll stay in touch after graduation.
There’s a mix of people in every room—some seniors still dressed to impress, jackets off and heels abandoned, and plenty of juniors too. No one seems surprised to see me with Caden. If anything, a few offer friendly waves or shout, “Hey, Theo!” over the music.
Most of Gomillion is made up of good people. Sure, we’ve got our token jerks—your classic hallway terrors and lunchroom commentators—but we’ve learned how to steer clear. There’s an unspoken rule: If someone’s going to bring the drama, they don’t get invited to the good stuff. So nights like this? Pretty chill.
We squeeze into the kitchen, where a folding table has been turned into a makeshift bar. It’s stocked with half-empty bottles of soda, a bowl of questionable punch, and the holy grail of teen parties: a mountain of red Solo cups.
Caden grabs two and fills one from the keg tap with all the grace of someone who’s watched other people do it often enough.
“Voilà,” he says, handing it to me.
