Somewhere Only We Know - 19. Crossroads

Kitt’s days slowly grew into a rhythm—a demanding one, unsteady in places, but more structured than the chaos he had fled. Every morning, long before the streets thawed from the winter cold, he walked to the small Mexican restaurant tucked between a pawn shop and a barber. Javier had given him more hours—“You work hard, kid. I like that”—which meant Kitt spent most mornings in the steaming back kitchen, scrubbing metal pans still thick with last night’s oil, lifting stacks of plates fresh from the industrial washer, and wiping down stainless-steel counters until his arms burned. The kitchen smelled of cilantro, onion, lime, and dish soap, and by the time he clocked out at noon, Kitt felt both exhausted and strangely grounded. The work was rough, but predictable. He knew exactly what each hour asked of him.

He would clock out, grab his frayed jacket, and slip through the back alley into the cold. And then, smelling faintly of steam, cumin, and bleach, he walked the three blocks toward the youth center—toward something softer, warmer, and more human than anything he had touched in weeks.

. . .

His first official afternoon shift at the center felt like stepping into a different world entirely. Leah greeted him with a clipboard, a relieved grin, and sparkling exhaustion in her eyes.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she sighed dramatically. “Someone stole the glittery markers and three kids are holding the reading corner hostage.”

Kitt blinked. “Do I… intervene?”

“You negotiate,” she said, already pushing him down the hallway. “Good luck, young diplomat. Harbor believes in you.”

Harbor, Tom’s big golden Lab, greeted him with a thump of his tail, already convinced that Kitt was the best thing that had ever happened to the building.

Five minutes later, Kitt was in the reading corner, kneeling beside a teary girl in a sparkly jacket who swore someone had stolen her favorite purple marker. A small boy climbed halfway onto Kitt’s knee to report the crime. Two older kids kept asking whether Batman or Spider-Man would win in a fight.

The room felt chaotic, warm, and alive.

And for the first time in a long while, so did Kitt.

Across the room, Tom leaned quietly against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, watching Kitt navigate the chaos with a gentleness that made something in Tom’s chest soften. Leah bumped Tom’s shoulder as she passed.

“You’re attached,” she whispered.

Tom didn’t look away from Kitt. “Someone should be.”

Leah smiled knowingly. “He’s lucky it’s you.”

. . .

Mateo arrived near the end of Kitt’s shift, leaning casually against the hallway mural of cartoon whales. His hoodie sleeves were rolled up, his expression studiously relaxed—though the way he checked his phone every few seconds betrayed him completely.

When Kitt stepped out of the playroom, paint-smudged, hair ruffled by small hands, and holding three crayon drawings he’d been gifted, Mateo let out a low whistle.

“You look like you lost a fight with an art supply store.”

Kitt looked down at a neon orange handprint across his chest. “This is my life now.”

“I’ll protect you from further paint-related violence,” Mateo declared solemnly.

“Pretty sure you’re afraid of them.”

“I am not afraid of children,” Mateo said, then paused. “I just… respect their power.”

Kitt laughed—a real laugh, small but alive. Mateo didn’t even pretend not to stare at it. He watched the shape of it, protective and warm and something unconsciously fond. But he didn’t push closer. Not tonight. Not anymore.

They walked home together through the crisp dusk air, their steps matching without effort. At the apartment building, Mateo nudged Kitt’s arm lightly.

“You doing okay?” Mateo asked.

Kitt swallowed. “I think so.”

“You’re doing better,” Mateo murmured. “I can tell.”

There was a hint of something else behind his voice—not desire, not expectation, but a quiet acceptance. Mateo had come to peace with whatever soft affection he held for Kitt, letting it settle into something loyal, protective, unspoken.

“Goodnight,” Kitt whispered.

Mateo lingered, hands deep in his pockets. “I’m just upstairs. If you need anything.”

“I know.”

He smiled, small and crooked, and disappeared up the stairwell.

For the first time since running away, Kitt opened his apartment door and didn’t feel swallowed entirely by loneliness.

. . .

Across state lines, the Lakehurst football field glowed under tall floodlights. Matt stayed long after practice had ended, running drills alone, breath fogging in the cold, muscles aching from exhaustion that was more emotional than physical.

He couldn’t find Kitt.
He couldn’t undo the night Kitt ran.
He couldn’t break into Stephen Wellington’s walls.

But he could keep a promise.

Northbridge.
Their dream school.
The university they whispered about by the lake sophomore year, planning futures they didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

Matt sat on the cold metal bleachers with the scholarship packet resting on his knee. His gloves were off, fingers stiff with cold, but he didn’t care. He thought of the booth in the diner. The waitress’s words. The blond boy she said looked lost. His heart clawed itself raw all over again.

But he forced himself to breathe.

“If I can’t find you,” he whispered to the empty field, “I’ll build the life we planned. And someday… you’ll walk back into it.”

He began filling out the application right there, under the stadium lights. The essays. The personal statement. The academic goals. His handwriting wavered, but he wrote every word with a fierce, aching clarity:

I want to prove I can be someone worthy of the future I hope to share.

He didn’t name Kitt.
He didn’t need to.
The truth pulsed through every line.

. . .

Meanwhile, the Wellington home was quietly splitting apart.

Stephen sat stiffly at the dining table, Bible open, but his eyes unfocused, scanning the same lines without seeing them. The walls felt colder than they once did. Susan moved around him, folding blankets, washing a mug, avoiding his gaze. She slept in the guest room now. She spoke to him only when necessary. She had not said his name in days.

Desperate for reassurance, Stephen sought out Pastor Greene at the church. He expected validation—maybe even admiration. He had convinced himself he was protecting God’s order, protecting his home, protecting morality itself.

The church office was warm, lit by afternoon sun filtering through tall stained-glass windows. Stephen sat rigidly in the wooden chair opposite Pastor Greene’s desk, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles were bone white. The pastor closed the door quietly behind them, an act that should have provided privacy, but instead deepened the silence like a held breath.

“Stephen,” Pastor Greene began gently, “I’m glad you came.”

Stephen nodded stiffly. “I needed counsel. I need you to understand why I did what I did. My son—”

“Your son,” the pastor repeated softly, “is still your son.”

The words landed like a weight on the desk between them.

Stephen straightened, defensiveness shooting up his spine. “He sinned. He defied Scripture. He hid it under my roof.”

Pastor Greene folded his hands, calm but unyielding. “And you cast him into the cold winter night because of it.”

Stephen’s nostrils flared. “He refused to repent. He talked back. He accused me of not trusting him. I—” He swallowed hard. “I reacted the way a father must to correct his child.”

“You reacted the way a frightened man does when faced with something he doesn’t understand,” Pastor Greene said calmly.

Stephen’s jaw tightened. “This is not fear. It is conviction.”

“Conviction without compassion becomes cruelty,” the pastor said quietly. “You know that.”

“That boy—” Stephen’s voice cracked. “He is… wrong in what he feels. He is lost.”

“And what have you done to help him find his way?” the pastor asked. “Shut your door? Shattered his phone? Sent him into the snow?”

Stephen froze.

“How do you know about the phone?” he whispered.

“I don’t need the details,” the pastor replied. “I’ve worked in ministry long enough to tell when a man is trying to bury something he regrets.”

Stephen’s face twisted, guilt flashing so quickly he wiped it with anger. “Regret is not the same as wrongdoing.”

“It can be,” the pastor said gently. “If the regret is for how you acted, not for who your son is.”

Stephen’s breath trembled. “My house follows God’s law. I can’t allow—”

“God’s law,” Pastor Greene said, interrupting softly but decidedly, “begins with love.”

Stephen’s chair scraped loudly as he shifted. “Love does not mean permissiveness.”

“Love does not mean abandoning a child.”

Stephen’s voice rose. “I did not abandon him. I gave him the consequence of his actions.”

The pastor leaned forward, voice low but firm. “Stephen, you didn’t just discipline him. You exiled him.”

A silence stretched between them.

Stephen’s eyes flickered, unsure, wounded. Then hard again. “The world tells us to accept everything. To compromise morals. I won’t.”

“The world also tells us not to lose our children to our own pride,” the pastor said. “Jesus welcomed the people others called unclean. Broken. Unworthy. He sat among them.”

“He didn’t celebrate their sin,” Stephen snapped.

“And he didn’t throw them out into the night,” the pastor returned sharply. “Tell me—did you think he was safe out there? Did you consider that? Did you imagine him cold? Hungry? Alone? Robbed? Assaulted? Is that what you call a lesson?”

Stephen’s lips trembled imperceptibly.

The pastor softened. “Stephen… have you even looked for him?”

“I—” Stephen swallowed. “I… assumed he would return.”

“Because you think fear will guide him,” the pastor said. “Not love.”

Stephen blinked rapidly, like something inside him was fraying.

Pastor Greene continued, voice gentle but devastating. “I have seen fathers lose sons to accidents, to addiction, to despair. You still have yours. But you have pushed him so far away he may not know how to come home.”

Stephen stood abruptly. “I cannot listen to this.”

“You must,” Pastor Greene said, rising as well. “Because you came to me for truth. And truth is not always the answer we want.”

Stephen turned toward the door, hands trembling at his sides.

“Stephen,” the pastor called quietly. “If your boy freezes in this winter, if he starves, if he suffers… you will carry that for the rest of your life.”

Stephen’s breath hitched.

“He is alone,” the pastor whispered. “And he believes his father does not love him.”

Stephen couldn’t breathe.

Pastor Greene took a slow step toward him. “Do not let this be the legacy you leave him.”

Stephen gripped the doorknob like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

His voice was raw when he finally spoke. “I will not bend. I will not be weak.”

“Then pray,” the pastor said. “Not for righteousness. But for humility.”

Stephen left without another word.

His footsteps echoed down the empty hall.

And for the first time in his life, he did not know whether he was the righteous man he had always believed himself to be.

Stephen left the church trembling, fury and confusion burning hot beneath his skin. He drove home in silence, the pastor’s words echoing with unbearable clarity.

At home, Susan was sitting on the couch with her hands clasped tightly, as though praying silently for something she no longer dared to name.

She didn’t ask how the meeting went.

She didn’t need to.

Stephen walked past her toward the hallway, but her quiet voice followed him.

“You can’t outrun what you did.”

His shoulders tensed.

But he didn’t turn around.

And he didn’t sleep.

. . .

Back in Riverbend, Kitt collapsed onto his bed, still wearing the sweater Tom had washed for him. He smelled faintly of cilantro from the restaurant, crayons from the center, and Riverbend’s winter air from the walk home.

His body ached, but for the first time, it wasn’t the ache of fear.

It was the ache of survival.

The ache of trying.

A few tears slipped down his face—not from despair, but from the quiet relief that he had made it through another day without breaking.

Above him, Mateo paced restlessly in his own apartment.
Across town, Tom finished grading papers with Harbor asleep at his feet.
And miles away, Matt pressed his scholarship application flat and whispered Kitt’s name like a promise.

. . .

It was one of those winter evenings when Riverbend looked softer than usual—streetlights glowing through a thin blur of falling snow, the sidewalks shining under freshly scattered salt, the air sharp enough to sting but beautiful enough to make Kitt pause. He had just finished his youth center shift and didn’t feel ready to go home yet; the thought of the cold apartment waiting for him, the thin walls, the quiet that pressed in too hard at night—it made him wander instead. He walked toward the small bakery-café on the corner, drawn by the glow of its windows and the faint smell of pastry drifting out each time someone opened the door.

He didn’t expect to run into Andy.

Andy stepped out of the shadows near the lamppost, hands deep in the pockets of his fitted jacket, looking warmer somehow than the night around him. His smile was slow and knowing.

“Well, look who’s out past curfew,” Andy teased gently.

Kitt blushed. “I don’t have a curfew.”

“Lucky you,” Andy said with amusement. “Most pretty boys your age do.”

Kitt stared down at his boots. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Andy cut in, shrugging casually. “Don’t worry. It’s a compliment.”

Kitt didn’t know what to say, and Andy must have sensed it, because he lifted a hand and jerked his chin toward the café.

“Come on. You look like you haven’t had a warm meal in a day. I’m buying you coffee and a croissant.”

Kitt hesitated—he hated taking charity—but his stomach answered for him with a low, humiliating growl. Andy’s brows lifted.

“That settles it.”

They stepped inside the café, bathed instantly in warm yellow light and the comforting smell of butter and espresso. Snow clung to their jackets, melting into damp speckles. Andy ordered for both of them, leaning against the counter with lazy confidence, his voice low in that charming, practiced way Kitt now recognized as part of his “work persona.” The croissant flaked under Kitt’s fingers, warm and soft, and the first sip of hot coffee nearly made him close his eyes in relief.

He didn’t realize how starved he had been for warmth until that moment.

But he barely got through half the croissant when the front door opened again, a gust of cold wind sweeping into the room.

Tom walked in.

Kitt froze.

Andy stiffened slightly, but recovered with a slow, easy smirk.

“Evening, Tom.”

Tom stopped mid-step, surprise flashing openly across his face before he schooled it into something neutral. “Andy.” He nodded, then his eyes shifted to Kitt. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Kitt’s heartbeat spiked. “You two… know each other?”

Tom’s mouth parted as if to answer, but Andy raised a hand in playful surrender.

“Relax, professor,” Andy drawled. “The kid’s not stupid.”

Tom shot him a sharp look. “This isn’t the place.”

But Kitt was already putting the pieces together—slow, delayed, then suddenly all at once. Andy had introduced himself by his work name. By the name used in the park. And Tom had used it naturally, without pause, without confusion.

Kitt’s chest tightened.

They knew each other in a way that wasn’t friendship.
They knew each other in the way of men who had shared something—brief, physical, transactional, or complicated.

And for one dizzy second, Kitt felt something like betrayal twist inside him, even though he had no right to feel it.

He pushed his chair back.

“Excuse me,” he whispered.

“Kitt—wait,” Tom said quickly.

But Kitt was already moving.

Tom caught up with him halfway down the block, Harbor bounding beside him, leash clutched tightly in Tom’s hand. Snowflakes gathered in Tom’s hair and on Kitt’s jacket, glowing faintly under the streetlamps.

“Kitt, please,” Tom said quietly. “Let me explain.”

Kitt didn’t stop walking. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“But I want to,” Tom said, breath visible in the cold. “I should have told you sooner.”

Kitt finally stopped, fists curling in the pockets of his jacket. “Why? Why would you need to tell me anything? It’s your life. Your business.”

Tom exhaled slowly. “Because I care about you. And because I saw the look on your face.”

Kitt swallowed hard. “I just… I didn’t expect…”

“You didn’t expect me to know someone like Andy,” Tom finished gently.

Kitt looked away.

Tom paused—measuring his words, choosing each one with care. “Let’s go somewhere warm. I’ll explain. All of it. Nothing hidden.”

Kitt hesitated—wounded, confused, but not mistrusting enough to run.

He nodded.

. . .

Tom’s apartment was warm, smelling faintly of clean laundry and old books. Harbor curled near the fireplace, tail thumping lazily as if sensing the tension. Tom poured Kitt a glass of water, then sat across from him, elbows resting on his knees.

“What you saw tonight wasn’t what you think,” Tom began.

Kitt blinked. “I don’t know what I think.”

Tom nodded slowly. “Fair. Let me start from the beginning.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. “My wife left me years ago. So did my son. They… both found out I was gay. I had known it for years, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think I could. When they found out anyway, they left.”

Kitt’s breath faltered. “I’m sorry.”

Tom gave a sad, small smile. “So was I.”

He continued quietly. “After that… I was lonely. I made mistakes. I went to places like the park. Sometimes…” His voice dropped. “Sometimes I paid for company. Not often. But enough that Andy recognizes me. Enough that I recognize him. We went to some events together—he as my escort. We slept together a few times, yes.”

Kitt flinched—not from disgust, but from the collision of naivety and reality.

Tom saw it. “Kitt… none of this has anything to do with you.”

Kitt stared at his hands. “I guess I just… didn’t expect it.”

Tom leaned forward, voice softening. “I don’t want anything from you. Not like that. I just want you to be safe. I want to help you. That’s all.”

Kitt’s chest tightened painfully. “I don’t judge you,” he whispered. “I just… I feel stupid. Like I don’t understand anything.”

“You’re young,” Tom said kindly. “And you’ve been through hell. It’s okay not to understand everything yet.”

Kitt swallowed.

After a long silence, Kitt swallowed and looked down at his hands. “I’ve seen guys at the park,” he murmured. “Some of them look like they’re… doing okay. Like they make enough to survive. I just wondered if…” His cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “If someone could be an escort without… you know. Sex.”

Tom inhaled sharply. “Kitt, no.”

The memory of the park drifted through Kitt’s thoughts—the looks, the offers, the way his stomach had twisted with fear. He didn’t need a warning to know how unprepared he was.

“You’re too young,” Tom said firmly. “Too vulnerable. Too new to all of this. Those boys know what they’re walking into. You don’t. And you shouldn’t have to.”

Kitt blinked quickly, throat tightening again. “I wasn’t saying I’d do it. I just… wondered.”

Tom’s voice gentled. “Curiosity isn’t wrong. But that’s not the life you deserve.”

Kitt nodded slowly, chest hurting with the weight of everything he still didn’t understand.

Tom sat back, letting silence settle.

“Kitt,” he said softly, “you’re not alone. Even if you feel like you are.”

Kitt looked up, eyes shining with something small and vulnerable.

“I know,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Harbor nudged Kitt’s leg, and Kitt buried his fingers in the dog’s warm fur.

He didn’t know where his life was going. Or who he was supposed to become. But for the first time that night, he felt a little less lost.