Kellan & Emmett: A Small Town MM Romance, page 4
The words hit soft and sharp at the same time. He tugged the fabric straight, quick, practiced motions.
I watched the top of his head as he worked, jaw tight, pretending it was nothing. Pretending I didn’t feel the heat of his knuckles against my throat.
“There,” he said, giving the knot a final tug. “At least you don’t look like you lost a fight with your closet.”
“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” I deadpanned.
He stepped back, putting the space between us again. Whatever softness had cracked through was gone by the time he said, flat as before, “Figured we’re both heading to the school. You want a ride?”
For a second, I just stared. I still had the rental. “I’ve got my own wheels.”
His jaw flexed. “I know. I’m saying—it’s stupid to drive two cars when we’re going to the same place.” A beat passed, then quieter, almost grudging: “Should’ve suggested it yesterday.”
An apology. The closest I’d ever heard from him.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yeah. Okay.”
He didn’t smile, or soften. Just nodded and stepped back, leaving me to grab my jacket and follow.
The hallway felt too narrow with him walking ahead of me. My pulse thudded with every step, too aware of the space he took up, of how different he looked from the boy I’d left behind.
I slid into the passenger seat, tugging at my collar again. The door shut with a solid thump, sealing us into a silence that pressed harder than I expected.
He turned the key, engine humming to life. For a stretch we drove without speaking, tires rolling over the smooth pavement as the inn slipped out of sight in the mirror.
I couldn’t take the quiet. “I didn’t picture you in a truck.”
His eyes stayed on the road. “It’s South Carolina. What’d you expect, a Prius?”
A short laugh slipped out before I could stop it. He didn’t join me.
“The inn looks good,” I tried again, nodding toward the rearview. “You’ve really made something of it.”
His grip tightened on the wheel. “It’s not a project. It’s a home.”
The correction hit sharper than I wanted it to. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Maybe not,” he said, voice even. “But it’s what it sounded like.”
It was classic Emmett—never raising his voice, never dramatic.
Silence pressed in. I shifted, restless, drumming my fingers against my leg. “I guess I…” My voice faltered, then steadied. “You ever wish you’d left too?”
His glance flicked toward me, then back to the road.. “Not once.”
The conviction in his voice landed like stone. No hesitation. No apology. He meant it.
I wanted to ask if he’d thought about me in those years I was gone. If he hated me, or worse, if he’d managed not to think of me at all. But the words stuck in my throat.
“Guess you were braver than me.”
He shook his head, mouth pulling taut. “No. Just means I stayed put. But don’t think it was easy. And you know what, Kellan?” He glanced at me quickly, before facing the road again. “You can’t disappear on someone and expect them to forget it ever happened.” His voice caught on that last word—happened—like he’d almost said more.
My hands curled into fists on my lap. “You think I forgot?” The words slipped out, scraping my throat on the way up. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
The admission left me exposed, skin peeled back to something I wasn’t sure I wanted him to see.
The night in question lit up in my memory whether I wanted it to or not: the darkness that cloaked us, the way he hadn’t pulled back when I kissed him. For one impossible moment, it had felt like everything was about to change.
I wanted to ask him if he remembered it the same way. If it had meant something to him. But I couldn’t force the words past the lump in my throat, and pride kept my jaw locked.
We hit the light at Main. I heard the tap tap of his fingers against the steering wheel. “You didn’t just leave town, Kellan. You left me. You left a decade’s old friendship.”
My gaze swung his way, throat tightened. “I thought it was better that way.”
“For who?” The words weren’t loud, but they landed like weight dropped between us.
Heat climbed my neck. I turned to the window again, past storefronts that looked exactly the same as when we were kids—the hardware store, the pawn shop, the diner with the sign that never fully lit up. Twenty years, and the town had stood still. We were the ones who hadn’t.
“For me,” I admitted. “And maybe that was a mistake.”
The light changed. He drove on. It was quiet for a long beat before he finally said, “I never blamed you for leaving. Chasing the NFL—that was your dream. I knew you had to go.” He huffed out a breath. “What I couldn’t make sense of was you cutting me out completely. Not even a call back. Not even once.”
The words scraped raw inside me. I’d told myself he wouldn’t have understood. But hearing it like that—so plain, so sharp—it made all my excuses sound thin.
“I know,” I said, voice low. My fingers clenched uselessly on my knee. “You didn’t deserve that. You were my best friend, Emmett. And I just…” My throat worked, but the rest stuck there, heavy as stone. “I thought if I cut clean, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.”
He let out a short breath through his nose, not quite a scoff, not quite forgiveness either.
By the time he turned into the school lot, headlights sweeping over cars crammed into every space, my chest felt raw. Music leaked from the gym—synth beats and bass thumping, like the eighties had been dragged back for one last dance.
He eased into a spot near the back and killed the engine. Neither of us moved. The glow of the gym doors bled across the windshield, painting his profile in pale light.
I cleared my throat, trying for steady. “Guess this is it.”
His jaw worked once, twice, before he finally said, “Yeah. This is it.”
We lingered one beat too long before he popped the handle and climbed out. I followed.
“Look… maybe we don’t have to spend the night circling each other like enemies. It’s one evening. We can at least try to be civil.”
He turned, finally meeting my eyes. Something unreadable flickered there. Then he gave a short nod. “Fair enough.”
I held out my hand before I could think better of it. His grip was firm, warm—too warm—and the spark that shot up my arm made my breath catch. For a second, I thought he felt it too, the way his hold lingered just past polite.
Then he let go, stepping back. “Come on. Can’t be worse than prom the first time around.”
I huffed a laugh, shaky but real. “Low bar, but yeah. Let’s see if we clear it.”
I followed, my palm still tingling, the warm May night wrapping close around us, thick with everything unsaid—and everything still possible.
Chapter 7
Kellan
Inside, the gym had been transformed—streamers and neon balloons, a disco ball throwing fractured light across the polished floor. Tables lined the edges, already crowded with classmates balancing cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.
A server offered a tray of hors d'oeuvres as we stepped in. I grabbed one mostly to keep my hands busy. Emmett shook his head, scanning the room like he was cataloging every exit.
“Whole place feels like a time capsule,” I murmured, leaning closer to Emmett. “Half expect somebody to wheel out a boom box and breakdance.”
He flicked me a sideways look, the faintest glint in his eyes. “What, you volunteering?”
“Don’t tempt me.” I smirked, tapping my knee. “I could still pull off the worm.”
For the first time all night, the edge of his mouth twitched, almost—almost—a smile. “Pretty sure your knees would quit halfway through. You’re not seventeen anymore.”
The warmth of it lodged in my chest, too fleeting, too fragile. But it was there.
A group of classmates swept us up before I could say more, pressing drinks into our hands, pulling us into the hum of conversation. The room spun with voices and laughter, the kind of noise that made it easy to hide.
But even with people on every side, my attention kept snapping back to him. I couldn’t help myself.
The cocktail hour bled into dinner—someone ringing a bell, one of the organizers herding us toward the tables with all the cheer of a wedding planner on too much caffeine.
I found an open seat at one of the round tables draped in a hot-pink cloth that practically glowed under the neon lights, the scent of butter and garlic drifting from the buffet line making my stomach growl.
A few minutes later, Emmett showed up at my elbow, scanning the table before dropping into the chair beside mine. “Guess this one’s the only seat left,” he said, his tone neutral but edged with something that wasn’t quite annoyance.
I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the centerpiece Rubik’s Cube. “Seat’s a seat.”
Plates clinked as servers moved through the room, setting down appetizers. I speared a stuffed Peppadew, the heat of the pepper cut by the creamy pimento cheese, and tried not to notice how Emmett’s shoulder brushed mine whenever he reached for the breadbasket.
“So,” Meghan said, eyeing the smoked trout crostini on her plate. “Who remembers Derek’s epic fail in Home Ec? That soufflé that collapsed faster than a prom queen’s updo?”
Derek groaned, already laughing. “It was sabotage. Somebody slammed the oven door.”
“Sure,” Britt said, sipping her Blue Lagoon, the neon-blue drink glowing against her sequined top. “Or maybe you just can’t cook.”
“Hey, I’ve redeemed myself,” Derek shot back. “Ask my wife. My ribs are legendary.”
Jamal smirked over his cider. “Yeah, word on the street is your ribs are legendary for sending your wife to the ER that one time.”
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 it was 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 these years. 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 to Grease Lightning at 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.”
“Emmett,” Britt said, leaning in. “You good to say a few words? Our resident lifer.” Teasing on the last bit. Kind eyes above it.
A few hoots around our table. “Do it, Em.”
Kellan didn’t say anything, but I felt the weight of him at my side. Always had, even when he was silent. Especially when he was silent.
Feet carried me up before my brain decided if I wanted to go. The mic was still warm from the last hand. My voice came out steadier than I felt.
“Didn’t plan on talking,” I said. A chuckle here and there. “But somebody asked for a memory, and it turns out that’s what I’ve got more than anything.”
I hesitated, suddenly aware of every eye on me. Faces I’d grown up with watched me now, older but still carrying traces of the kids we used to be.
“After graduation, a lot of us thought we were supposed to run. Go find newer, shinier, louder. Some of you did, and hearing what you’ve built—it makes me proud.” Heads nodding. “I stayed. Not because I had it all figured out. Because when I didn’t have a door, someone opened one for me. This town kept holding doors. For rides. For jobs. For bad days. For second chances.” Heat pricked behind my eyes, but I kept my voice even. “If someone opened a door for you, thank them. If not, maybe you were the one holding it for the rest of us.”
A hush settled—chairs shifting, someone tugging a tissue free. I glanced back toward our table. Kellan watched me like he was bracing for a hit and hoping for one, too. I didn’t linger. Didn’t need to make it a show.
“One more thing,” I said, gripping the mic tighter. “Showing up matters. We stumble, we drift, we disappear sometimes. But when we come back—when we choose to come back—it changes everything. So thank you for being here. For showing up.”
Applause rose and swelled, not the rowdy kind, but the kind that lands warm. The emcee squeezed my shoulder as I handed off the mic. “Perfect,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
The emcee scanned the room. “Anyone else?” A few heads ducked. A few hands lifted halfway and fell. Then a woman stood from one of the middle tables. I knew her face, but her name slipped.
Her voice wavered, then steadied. “I wasn’t the kid anyone expected to stand out. I kept quiet. I kept my head down. And I got sick—sicker than I knew. It wasn’t a teacher who noticed. It was Mr. Lyle, the janitor. He saw me getting pale, saw me losing weight, and he didn’t let it slide. He told the school nurse. The nurse told my foster parents. And that started the tests that caught my cancer early. Twenty years later, I’m still here.”
The room went still. Her smile trembled but didn’t break. “So when people say schools change lives, I believe it. Not just because of the classes or the grades. But because sometimes someone is paying attention when you think no one is.”
