Somewhere Only We Know - 36. The Last Quiet Days

By the time the week tipped toward Friday, Riverbend felt like it was holding its breath.

Kitt felt it in small ways first. The way the sky seemed thinner in the mornings, washed out and pale, like someone had turned the color down a notch. The way the wind slid along the narrow streets sharper than before, pricking at his cheeks. The way sound carried differently in the courtyard of his building—an echo off brick that made things feel a little more hollow than usual.

He woke on Wednesday to the rattle of pipes and the muffled slam of a door above him. For a moment, half asleep, he thought it was just another early shift, another cold morning, another day where nothing changed except the date on the calendar.

Then he remembered.

Mateo was leaving in two days.

He lay there for a minute, staring at the stained ceiling, blankets pulled tight up to his chin. The GED result sat in his backpack in the form of a printed sheet Tom had insisted on giving him a copy of—scores neat in their lines, the word Pass printed so unceremoniously it almost made him laugh.

He had done it.
He was, on paper, finished with high school forever.

But the word didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like a door clicking open somewhere in the dark.

He just wasn’t sure yet if he was brave enough to walk through.

Eventually, he pushed himself out of bed, pulled on his jeans, layered a hoodie under his jacket, and shuffled down the hall toward the shared bathroom, towel over his shoulder. The fluorescent light flickered when he turned it on, buzzing quietly above him. Hot water took its time, but when it finally arrived, steam fogged the chipped mirror, blurring his reflection into something softer, less tired.

He pressed his palm against the cool sink and watched the condensation drip.

“I’m going home,” he whispered to his own hazy face. “Soon.”

Saying it out loud made it feel heavier and more real than it had in his head.

Downstairs, the landlord grumbled in the lobby, flipping through a stack of mail like it had personally offended her. Kitt slipped by with a nod and stepped into the cold, breath puffing white in front of his lips.

At Javier’s, everything smelled like onions, oil, and comfort.

The kitchen was already alive when he walked in—the hiss of meat on the flat-top, the click of plates stacking, Javier’s voice cutting through the noise.

“There you are,” Javier barked without turning. “Niño, we have an early table. Go bring coffee. Smile. Try not to look like someone stamped on your heart.”

Kitt blinked. “Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t ‘good morning’ me. You’re leaving and I am offended.” Javier shot him a sideways stare, eyes bright above the gruffness.

Kitt swallowed. “I didn’t say I was leaving right now.”

“You didn’t have to.” Javier jerked his chin toward him, then lowered his voice. “Tom came in yesterday for takeout. He told me about the test. About home.”

Kitt stared at the floor tiles. “Oh.”

Javier wiped his hands on a towel, then stepped closer. “You think I’d want you stuck in this town forever?” he muttered. “Working my morning shift till your joints break and your back crumbles? Go. Go live a life. Just don’t forget where you survived.”

Kitt’s throat tightened. “I won’t. I promised I’ll write. And visit.”

“You better.” Javier jabbed a finger lightly at his chest. “I expect letters. Pictures. Proof you’re eating real food and not instant noodles.”

“I work for a restaurant,” Kitt said faintly.

“Exactly.” A rare smile tugged at Javier’s mouth. “And when you come back, you sit in that booth”—he pointed toward the far corner—“and eat as a guest, not as staff. I’ll feed you until you burst.”

A laugh slipped out of Kitt before he could stop it. “Okay. Deal.”

“Good. Now go serve coffee before table three dies of thirst.”

The first half of the morning passed in that familiar blur, the motions so ingrained that Kitt could almost leave his body and get through them on autopilot: wash, stack, carry, wipe, repeat. But underneath the muscle memory, everything felt different.

Every time he glanced at Javier, something in his chest pinched with gratitude he didn’t know how to voice. Every time the bell over the door jingled, he thought of the first day he’d staggered in here half-frozen, stomach gnawing at itself, eyes searching for somewhere to exist.

The boy who’d walked in back then and the one wiping down tables now felt like two separate people wearing the same skin.

When the morning rush finally thinned, Javier leaned against the counter and said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather, “You tell the others yet?”

Kitt blinked. “Tom and Leah know. The kids kind of know. They… keep asking if I’ll visit.”

“What about my sobrino?” Javier asked.

“Mateo?” Kitt’s mouth twisted. “Yeah. He knows. He’s leaving even sooner than I am.”

Javier grunted thoughtfully. “You two were good for each other. Annoying, but good.”

Kitt smiled softly. “He… helped me remember how to laugh.”

“Then you make sure you don’t forget,” Javier said. “Even when you go home.”

Home.

The word still felt fragile.

Kitt nodded and went back to work, trying to keep his eyes from burning.

He had the afternoon off from the youth center that day—Leah had insisted he take one full day to “be a teenage boy who isn’t on someone’s schedule for once.” Tom had backed her up. You’ve been working non-stop, he’d said. Rest is not a sin.

Kitt wasn’t quite sure what to do with free hours that didn’t belong to anyone else.

He decided to give them to the town.

After washing up and changing at the apartment, he walked with no particular destination, letting his feet choose. The sky was a soft, tired gray. Leaves skittered along the sidewalk like scraps of paper.

He found himself at the park first.

The big oaks rose along the paths like sentries, their branches mostly stripped now, stark against the sky. The bench where he’d first seen the group of young men lingering in the shadows was empty. The corners where the hustlers liked to lean were quiet in the daylight—just damp grass, graffiti, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke embedded in the trees.

He walked past the spot where that man had cornered him once, voice low and transactional, reducing him to a price he hadn’t even known how to refuse at first. His stomach turned at the memory—but it didn’t paralyze him anymore. He wasn’t that lost, desperate kid now, flinching at every offer, every glance.

On another path, he spotted the bench where he’d met Andy again. They’d shared coffee there, warm croissants between them, stories about university schedules, strange clients, futures that might or might not exist. Andy had left his mark on the town in quiet ways, then vanished again toward his own life.

Everyone left eventually.

Kitt stopped at the edge of the park and looked back, memorizing it—the trees, the cracked asphalt, the distant sound of a dog barking. This place had frightened him. It had also taught him things he didn’t want to know and some he needed to.

“Thank you,” he whispered, feeling ridiculous and honest at once.

From the park, his steps carried him to the diner.

The bell chimed when he pushed open the door, the warm smell of coffee and syrup wrapping around him. A couple sat in a booth near the window, sharing fries. An older man nursed a mug at the counter. The waitress who had recognized him once—who had given him Matt’s number written on the back of a receipt—was wiping down a table.

Her eyes landed on his face and lit up.

“Well, look who came back,” she said, smiling as she tucked her pen behind her ear. “You here for pancakes again, sweetheart?”

Kitt’s smile was small but real. “Yeah. Guess I’m making it a tradition.”

“Oh, I remember,” she said, tapping her notepad thoughtfully.

He picked the same booth he and Matt had once sat in together, him across from Matt, who had ordered pancakes and a milkshake big enough for both of them to share, pretending it wasn’t on purpose. The cushion gave the same little sigh when he slid in. The tabletop still had the same faint scratch near the edge.

“So what will it be today?” the waitress asked, pen ready.

“Pancakes for sure,” he said softly. “And a vanilla milkshake.”

She tilted her head, smiled broadly. “Like last time?”

Last time. When he’d sat here in borrowed clothes, numb and silent, too ashamed to eat, too scared to stay, clinging to the memory of Lakehurst and Matt as the only warm thing in his life.

He nodded. “Yeah. Like last time.”

She scribbled the order, then paused. “You know that boy? The one who came looking for you?” she asked.

His breath caught. “Matt.”

“Yeah. That handsome kid.” She smiled. “He was a good one. You hold onto him.”

Kitt swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. “I’m trying.”

She patted the table with gentle fingers. “Good. He looked like he’d crossed heaven and hell for you.”

When the pancakes came—stacked tall, slathered in butter—Kitt ate slowly, tasting each bite like he hadn’t tasted anything in months. The milkshake was thick and sweet and made his teeth ache in a way that felt like childhood.

He left a tip bigger than he could afford and promised he’d come back one day “just to eat, no drama this time.” The waitress laughed and said she’d hold him to it.

From the diner, his feet carried him down quieter streets until he found himself in front of the natatorium.

He hadn’t come here often — not since that first hard month in Riverbend when he’d pressed his forehead to the glass and watched strangers cut clean lines through the water, each stroke a reminder of the life he’d been forced to leave behind. He’d come once more, months later, when the ache for swimming had been too sharp to ignore.

And now, standing on the sidewalk again, breath misting the glass, he found himself here a third time.

Something drew him back — the stillness, the ache, the memory of who he used to be.

The pool glowed turquoise under harsh lights. A few swimmers sliced through the water with the easy grace of people who’d been allowed to keep practicing, who had parents filling out permission forms and sitting in the stands.

Kitt’s chest ached.

He remembered the meet here in Riverbend, the roar of the natatorium bouncing off the tiled walls, the smell of chlorine sharp enough to sting. He remembered touching the wall second and coming up gasping — exhausted but proud — and seeing Matt in the bleachers, drenched from the rain outside, cheering so loudly the whole section had stared.

He remembered climbing out of the pool and Matt pulling him into a hug that smelled like cold wind and home, whispering, “first place in my heart”

That moment had felt like winning everything that mattered.

For a flicker of a moment, he imagined himself on this side of town in a year, student ID in his pocket, maybe a Northbridge hoodie over his shoulders, coming back to this pool as a volunteer coach or just someone who loved the smell of chlorine and the sound of water.

It didn’t feel impossible anymore.

He bowed his head slightly, like an apology and a promise at once, then turned away.

The last stop he made before going back to his building was the youth center.

They were closed for the afternoon—Leah had insisted on it—but he stood across the street watching the darkened windows, the crooked sign, the faded chalk drawings still ghosting the sidewalk. He remembered the timidity the first time he walked in, half expecting to be told he didn’t belong.

Now he couldn’t imagine his life without this place.

“I’ll visit,” he whispered.

He meant it.

When he finally pushed open the door to his building, the stairwell smelled faintly of bleach and fried food. Voices murmured behind closed doors. A baby cried somewhere up on the fourth floor, the sound as much a part of the daily landscape as his own footsteps.

He climbed up to the third floor.

Mateo’s door was open.

Inside, the room was more chaos than usual—open duffel on the bed, piles of clothes sorted into loose categories, a plastic bag full of toiletries, a folded piece of paper with bus details sitting on the dresser like a small bomb.

Mateo was kneeling on the floor, sorting through a stack of flyers. When he saw Kitt, he dropped them and spread his arms.

“Tell me you at least stole a pancake for me,” he said.

“I ate them all,” Kitt said solemnly, stepping into the open arms.

“You traitor.” But Mateo hugged him anyway—tight, warm, smelling faintly of detergent and the cheap cologne he wore when he went to the club.

“Where’d you go?” Mateo asked into his hair. “You got that haunted just-said-goodbye-to-a-town look.”

Kitt pulled back with a watery smile. “Park. Diner. Natatorium. Stood outside the youth center like a creeper.”

Mateo’s expression softened. “Saying goodbye?”

“More like… thank you,” Kitt said. “I think.”

Mateo nodded as if that made perfect sense. “You’ll be back. Visiting. Annoying them. Making the kids scream your name.”

“I promised,” Kitt murmured. “Javier. Leah. The kids. Tom. I told everyone I’d come back. Not just letters. Actually… show up.”

“You better,” Mateo said. His voice wobbled just slightly. “I want selfies of you at Northbridge, looking like a full-on college boy. I want dog pics of Harbor when you steal him for walks. I want proof you’re not somewhere in a ditch.”

Kitt snorted, nose burning. “I’ll send so many pictures you’ll block me.”

“Impossible,” Mateo said. “My Instagram needs your face.”

They spent the evening going through Mateo’s things. Every shirt had a story. Every flyer sparked a memory. Every small object—bracelet from a club, napkin with a scribbled number—became a piece of a life Mateo had built out of hustle and charm.

“Do you regret staying this long?” Kitt asked at one point, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a pile of socks between them.

Mateo shook his head. “No. Riverbend was what I needed. It gave me money, time, experience, hookups.” He smirked. “It gave me you. But if I stay now, I’ll rust.”

Kitt swallowed. “I don’t want you to rust.”

“Then let me go,” Mateo said gently. “And you… you don’t rust either. Don’t get stuck in the in-between.”

“What do you mean?” Kitt asked.

“You’re not from here,” Mateo said. “You’re not meant to be trapped in this town forever. You’re… passing through. You’ve got bigger places to be.”

Kitt thought of Lakehurst. Northbridge. The lake. His parents. Matt.

“I’m going home,” he said, more solidly than he had that morning. “Before Thanksgiving.”

Mateo’s smile spread slowly. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

That night, Kitt lay in his own narrow bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of Mateo moving above him, packing and repacking, sometimes humming along to music, sometimes walking laps like a caged animal who’d just realized the door was about to open.

Sleep, when it came, was thin and restless.

The next day passed in a blur.

At the youth center, Leah pulled him into a corner and hugged him so hard his ribs protested.

“When you go,” she said fiercely, “you walk out of this town with your head up. You hear me? And you come back. Even if it’s just for one afternoon. These kids adore you.”

“I adore them,” he said, voice thick.

Tom stood nearby, watching the scene with soft eyes. Later, when the kids were drawing and the chaos had quieted, he slid a mug of tea toward Kitt at the office table.

“I printed another copy of your scores,” he said.

“I already have one,” Kitt replied.

“Then you’ll have two,” Tom said. “One for you. One for your parents, if you choose to give it to them.”

Kitt stared at the neat black numbers on the white page. “Do you think they’ll care?”

“I think,” Tom said carefully, “that whatever they say, you should be proud of yourself. Independent of their reaction.”

“You sound like a therapist,” Kitt muttered.

“Occupational hazard,” Tom said dryly, then smiled.

They talked for a long time—not just about forms and deadlines and Northbridge, but about practical things. Packing. Money. What to say if the conversations at home got too heavy. Where he could go in Lakehurst if he needed space. The Everest house came up more than once.

“Matt’s parents seem like good people,” Tom said quietly. “You won’t be alone there.”

At that, Kitt’s chest squeezed. “He’s been looking for me this whole time.”

“I know,” Tom said. “And now you’re no longer lost.”

The night before Mateo’s departure, Kitt couldn’t bring himself to go to bed early. Instead, he went upstairs with two cups of instant hot chocolate and knocked on Mateo’s door.

“Enter, peasant,” Mateo called.

Kitt nudged the door open with his foot. The duffel bag was closed now, zipper strained slightly at the seams. A smaller backpack leaned against the wall, a rolled towel strapped to the side.

“You look like you’re about to backpack across Europe,” Kitt said.

“I’m about to conquer Florida,” Mateo said. “It deserves respect.”

Kitt handed him a mug. “For the road.”

Mateo sniffed it. “This better not be that off-brand cocoa.”

“Shut up and drink it.”

They sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching, steaming cups cupped in their palms.

“Are you scared?” Kitt asked quietly.

“Terrified,” Mateo said easily. “But if I wait till I’m not, I’ll never go.”

Kitt nodded. “Me too.”

“You better actually get on that bus to Lakehurst,” Mateo reminded him. “I swear, if I hear you chickened out, I’m coming back to drag you home myself.”

Kitt stared at his lap. “I already told Tom I’m going. I told Javier. Leah. The kids. I told you.”

“Now tell yourself,” Mateo said.

Kitt swallowed. “I’m going home,” he said again. This time, the words landed firmly instead of skittering away. “I’m really going.”

“That’s my boy,” Mateo murmured, bumping his shoulder.

They stayed up too late, talking about nothing and everything—about Florida, about Matt, about what kind of person Kitt might become in five years, about all the different ways their lives could go right or wrong. When Kitt finally went back downstairs to his own room, his eyes were gritty and his heart felt both heavy and strangely light.

Friday dawned cold and pale, a fine frost spidering over the windows.

The bus station in Riverbend wasn’t much—just a low building with dirty glass, a row of plastic chairs, a vending machine that ate change more often than it accepted it. Breath fogged in front of their mouths as Kitt, Tom, and Mateo stood under the cracked awning, waiting for the bus that would take Mateo toward Florida, toward whatever came next.

Javier had shoved a brown paper bag into Mateo’s hands before they’d left the restaurant. “Sandwiches,” he’d muttered. “And snacks. Don’t eat garbage on the road.” He’d glared when Mateo hugged him. “No tears. I am not your mother.”

Leah had cried enough for all of them, pressing a knitted scarf into Mateo’s palms. “For when you miss winter,” she’d said. “Or us.”

Now, Tom stood on one side of Mateo, calm and steady, Harbor pressed against his leg. Kitt stood on the other, fingers dug into the straps of his jacket pockets so he wouldn’t reach out and hold on too tightly.

“Well,” Mateo said, blowing out a breath that hung between them. “This is very dramatic. I feel like I should deliver a speech.”

“Please don’t,” Kitt said, voice unsteady.

Mateo laughed softly and turned to him first. “You,” he said, poking a finger at Kitt’s chest. “You go home. You let that boy love you. You don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Kitt blinked hard. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” Mateo said, but the wink softened it. “And when you get into Northbridge, you better let Tom show you around his fancy campus. He’ll pretend he’s not proud, but he’s gonna be glowing like a damn lighthouse.”

Tom snorted quietly.

Mateo turned to him. “You. Keep rescuing lost idiots. It suits you.”

Tom’s mouth curved. “Only the ones worth the trouble.”

A bus pulled into the lot, brakes hissing, engine rumbling deep in its chassis.

“That’s me,” Mateo said.

Kitt’s chest tightened so sharply he almost doubled over. “You better text,” he muttered.

“I will,” Mateo said. “Often. To the point of harassment.”

He dropped his duffel, stepped forward, and pulled Kitt into one last hug.

It was different from every previous one—longer, tighter, fiercer, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his belief into Kitt’s bones.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered into Kitt’s ear. “For surviving. For staying soft. For not giving up.”

Kitt’s eyes spilled over, hot tears tracking down his cheeks. He clung back, fingers curling into the fabric of Mateo’s hoodie.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he croaked.

“Liar,” Mateo said. “You would’ve suffered longer. But you would’ve made it.”

He pulled back, cupped Kitt’s face briefly in both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears.

“Go home,” he said one last time. “Before you lose more time you can’t get back.”

Then he turned to Tom, hugged him quickly, scratched Harbor behind the ears, grabbed his duffel, and walked toward the bus before anyone could say anything else.

Kitt watched him hand over his ticket, watched him climb the steps, watched him disappear into the shadowed interior. His throat closed as the driver shut the door with a pneumatic hiss.

The bus pulled out, slow at first, then faster as it turned toward the highway. Mateo lifted a hand to the window as they passed, palm pressed briefly to the glass.

Kitt lifted his own hand in return, fingers splayed.

And just like that, Mateo was gone.

The parking lot felt too big in the sudden emptiness. The cold seemed to slice deeper.

Tom stepped closer, laying a hand on Kitt’s shoulder. Harbor leaned heavily against his leg.

“You okay?” Tom asked quietly.

Kitt let out a breath that shook all the way through him. “No,” he said honestly. “And… yes. I don’t know.”

“That’s allowed,” Tom said. “Grief and hope usually show up together.”

Kitt scrubbed his face with his sleeve. “I’m going to miss him.”

“So will we,” Tom said. “But this isn’t the end. Just… a different chapter.”

“I promised I’d visit,” Kitt said. “All of you. Here. And him there.”

Tom nodded. “And you will.”

They walked back toward Maple Street together, the world feeling subtly altered, like a piece of it had shifted out of place but left room for something new.

In Lakehurst that same afternoon, the wind was sharp enough to numb fingertips. Matt walked home from practice with his helmet hooked by his fingers, letter from Northbridge folded carefully in his back pocket.

Everyone knew now. Coach had announced the scholarship to the team. His parents had hugged him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack. The guidance counselor had already started talking about course loads and major choices.

It should have been the happiest week of his life so far.

And in many ways, it was.

But the happiness came with an ache threaded through it, like a chord that never quite resolved.

He took the long way home, boots crunching on stray gravel, backpack slung over one shoulder. When he reached the corner near the lake, he turned without thinking, feet finding the path that circled the water.

The shore was still. The sky reflected gray in the rippled surface. The dock—their dock—jutted out like an invitation.

He walked to the end and sat down heavily, legs dangling over the edge, breath puffing white in front of him.

“I got in,” he said softly to the empty water. “I really got in.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, unstoppable. “We did it,” he corrected under his breath. “You and me.”

He thought of Kitt’s scores—he didn’t know the numbers, but he knew, somehow, that Kitt had passed. That he was working toward something. That he was no longer stuck in limbo.

“Where are you right now?” he murmured. “What are you doing?”

He pictured him walking through Riverbend’s streets, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, cheeks pink from the cold. He pictured him at the youth center, leaning over a table to help a kid with homework. He pictured him in some cramped apartment, worrying about rent and future and whether he was allowed to come home.

Matt’s chest ached.

“I’ll be here,” he whispered. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”

He sat there until his toes went numb and his fingers stung. Eventually, he got up, walked home, and let his parents talk about financial aid and dorm options and logistics while his mind drifted to bus routes and Thanksgiving break and what it would feel like to see Kitt step onto their street again.

He went to bed that night with his phone on his chest, no notifications, no messages, and more hope than he had any right to carry.

In Riverbend, Kitt lay awake in the dark, listening to the quiet above him where Mateo’s footsteps used to be. The ceiling creaked differently now, emptier somehow. It felt like the building itself was adjusting to the absence.

Tomorrow and the next day were suddenly wide open; shifts at Javier’s, hours at the youth center, and nothing else standing between him and the decision he’d already made.

He turned onto his side, hands tucked under his pillow, heart pounding with something that wasn’t quite fear and wasn’t quite joy.

“I’m coming home,” he whispered into the dark.

This time, he believed himself.

The town that had caught him when he fell would soon become a place he visited, not a place he lived.

And Lakehurst—the home that had broken him—was about to become the place he chose.

Before Thanksgiving, he promised himself.

Not later.
Not someday.

Soon.