Somewhere Only We Know - 14. Cruising Shadows and Quiet Confessions

Riverbend’s winter had a particular silence to it, Kitt noticed. Not the peaceful kind he’d known back in Lakehurst, where the snow softened the whole world and made neighborhoods hum with warmth. Riverbend’s silence was different—thin, stretched, almost tense, like a held breath. It seeped into the cracks of the sidewalks and the alleyways, the flickering lamps and crumbling apartment balconies. Even the river that split the town seemed quieter than water should be, moving slowly under the small overpass as if conserving energy for a spring that felt very far away.

On days when Kitt didn’t work at the restaurant—days when the hours stretched too long and the apartment felt too small to breathe in—he found himself drifting to Riverbend Park. It was the only place that felt open, even if its openness came with edges he didn’t yet understand. The park was sprawling and old, scattered with towering oak and maple trees whose thick trunks looked carved by decades of wind. Their branches formed a web overhead that blocked most of the sky, even in winter. Some areas near the river stayed so shaded that the snow never fully settled, leaving dark patches of earth exposed like bruises.

He always chose the same bench—a worn one near the middle of the park, half under a lamp that buzzed with a tired, yellow glow, half tucked into the shadows of a large oak whose roots curled around the earth like fingers. From here, he could see the river glinting behind the trees and the winding path lit in uneven intervals by lamps that flickered whenever the wind blew.

He started noticing the same men, but never together.

They lingered across different parts of the park, positioned almost strategically beneath dim lamps or leaning casually against thick maple trunks. They blended into the landscape rather than claiming it—solitary figures with hands in pockets, breath curling faintly in the cold, eyes quick and assessing when someone walked past. A few were strikingly handsome in that sharp, hungry way Kitt didn’t fully understand; others seemed bored, restless, pacing short distances as if waiting for something only they could recognize.

They never gathered.
They never spoke to one another.
They simply existed in the same space—scattered pieces of a puzzle Kitt couldn’t see yet.

Sometimes one of them would glance at him—longer than politeness allowed.
Sometimes a chin would tilt upward in silent acknowledgment.
Sometimes a small curve of a smile would appear when he looked away too quickly.

It made Kitt feel strangely exposed, as though the park saw him in a way he didn’t know how to see himself.
Not unwelcome, exactly,
but unsettled.
As if he had stepped into a coded conversation with rules he didn’t know.

There was also the older man, the one in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a gentle face. He walked a calm, aging golden retriever named Harbor, who always veered toward Kitt with soft enthusiasm. The man would nod kindly, offer a quiet greeting, and go on with his walk. Kitt liked Harbor. The dog felt like a small warmth in a cold world.

He didn’t know what the park meant.
Not yet.
Not until the night the lamps buzzed low and the trees seemed too close.

He had stayed later than usual. The kitchen shift had left him exhausted, and the apartment—cold and still and smelling faintly of damp wood—had felt suffocating. So he sat on the bench long after the sky darkened, hugging his knees to his chest, breathing slowly, letting thoughts of Matt twist painfully through his mind like vines he couldn’t untangle.

He barely noticed the footsteps approaching until they slowed.

He looked up.

A man stood a few feet away—not one of the usual boys, not someone Kitt recognized from the restaurant or the apartment building. He was well-dressed for Riverbend: dark coat, scarf tucked neatly at the collar, boots that didn’t look cheap. His smile was slow, friendly, almost too warm.

“You new around here?” he asked, voice smooth.

Kitt stiffened. “Uh… yeah.”

“You’re here a lot,” the man said, stepping closer, sitting at the far end of Kitt’s bench as if the space belonged to him. “You’ve got the look.”

“The… look?” Kitt repeated, confused.

The man chuckled, eyes lingering on Kitt’s face longer than comfort allowed. “Pretty. A little lost. Nervous. Guys around here notice that sort of thing.”

Kitt’s stomach twisted. He shifted, trying to inch away subtly.

“I just come here to sit,” he said.

“Sure you do.” The man’s smile widened. “So what do you do?”

Kitt blinked. “I work at a restaurant.”

The man laughed softly. “No, sweetheart. I mean what do you do.”

Kitt’s breath caught.

“I— I don’t know what you mean—”

“How much?” the man asked quietly.

Kitt’s blood ran cold.

“How much for the whole night? I like you.”

Every part of him seized. The bench suddenly felt too small, too exposed, the shadows thickening around him like they were closing in.

“I’m not—no, I—I’m not that—” he stammered, scrambling to his feet so quickly he nearly slipped.

The man sighed, leaning back with an almost amused expression. “Didn’t think you were a hustler. Too clean. Too shy.”

Kitt’s pulse hammered in his ears as he backed away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not sure why he was apologizing, heart beating wildly as he turned and hurried off, almost tripping on a raised root. He didn’t look back even though he felt eyes on him until he burst out of the park’s dense shadows into the cold, open street.

His breath shook as he walked fast—too fast—up the hill toward Riveredge Apartments, hands trembling in his pockets. His stomach lurched with fear, embarrassment, and something else he didn’t want to name.

He kept hearing the man’s voice:
Pretty. Nervous. How much?

He felt sick.

By the time he got to the apartment building, his legs were trembling so badly he had to stop and grip the railing. The hallway smelled faintly of fried food and dust. A TV blared behind a door. Someone upstairs laughed.

He went straight to Mateo’s floor.

He didn’t even think.
He needed a voice that didn’t feel threatening.
He needed a familiar face.
He needed safety.

He knocked, soft at first, then harder.

“Yeah, yeah—coming,” Mateo called from inside, and the door swung open a moment later, revealing him half-dressed for the night—tight black jeans, a fitted charcoal shirt, silver necklace, hair still damp from a shower. He looked unfairly good, the hallway light catching the angles of his face.

He took one look at Kitt and his expression shifted instantly.

“Hey. What happened?”

Kitt blurted it all out. The man. The bench. The question. The panic. His words tumbled over each other, breathless, stumbling, scattered. His cheeks burned as he spoke, but he couldn’t stop.

Mateo listened.
At first confused.
Then amused.
Then outright laughing.

“Oh my God,” Mateo wheezed, bracing a hand on the wall. “Kitt, sweetie, please—stop—oh, you poor clueless thing—”

Kitt flushed miserably. “Why are you laughing?”

Mateo wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning. “Because you wandered into a cruising spot!”

Kitt stared blankly. “A… what?”

“A gay hookup area. Guys go there to meet other guys. Quick, no questions, no names.” He smirked. “You, sitting there all pretty and anxious under a half-broken lamp… babe, it’s practically a signal.”

Kitt’s ears burned so hard he thought he might combust. “I didn’t know— I didn’t—it didn’t look like that—”

Mateo snorted. “It looks exactly like that. You just haven’t been around long enough to know the signs.”

Kitt buried his hands in his hair. “Oh God.”

Mateo stepped closer, bumping Kitt’s shoulder with his own in a reassuring gesture. “It’s not your fault. Riverbend doesn’t have many queer-friendly spots. That’s basically the only one if you’re broke or underage.”

Kitt looked up, startled. “You know it?”

Mateo grinned. “Of course I know it. I’m gay.”

The words slid so naturally from him that Kitt’s breath hitched for reasons he didn’t fully understand.

“You’re gay?” he repeated.

Mateo raised a brow. “Well, yeah. What did you think all this was?” He gestured vaguely at himself—his clothes, his charm, his flirtatious energy. “I flirt like it’s my side job. Actually—it literally is my side job.”

Kitt blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I bartend at Lavender Light. It’s a gay club downtown.” Mateo said it like mentioning he worked at a grocery store. “I do three nights a week. Tips are good. Saves me money to get out of this dump eventually. Move to a real city. Maybe go back to school.”

Kitt swallowed. “Is that why you live here?”

Mateo’s expression softened. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Yeah. Rent’s cheap. People mind their business. And it’s temporary. Everything in my life right now is temporary. Just stepping stones.” He paused, eyes warming. “And now you’re part of the stepping stone era, golden boy.”

Kitt let out a weak laugh, but his heart ached strangely. Admiration, maybe. Or longing. Or loneliness. He wasn’t sure.

Then a darker thought flitted through his mind—quick, sharp, shameful.

He wondered what would have happened if he had said yes to that stranger.
If he had pretended to be someone else.
If he could make money doing something terrible and dangerous.

The thought made him nauseous.

Mateo caught the flicker of panic passing across Kitt’s face and his own expression softened even more. He stepped closer with a gentleness that surprised Kitt.

“Don’t,” Mateo murmured. “Whatever you’re thinking? Don’t.”

Kitt lowered his eyes. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Mateo said softly. “I know that look. I’ve seen people go down that road. You’re not built for it. You’re worth way more than that.”

The words hit Kitt so deeply he had to close his eyes.

Mateo nudged him again, voice lighter now. “Come on. You’re eating with me before my shift.”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Kitt whispered.

“You’re not,” Mateo said firmly. “Besides, it gives me an excuse to show off my cooking skills, which are mediocre at best.”

Kitt laughed—actually laughed—and let Mateo pull him inside.

Dinner was simple, warm, and real.
Kitt hadn’t felt this safe since Lakehurst.
And he hated that safety had come from anywhere except Matt.

Somewhere far away in another town, Matt Everest lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Kitt was warm enough, if he had eaten, if he was even alive.

. . .

Kitt, chewing a too-spicy taco while Mateo teased him for being a “baby gringo,” didn’t know that.

The night ended with dinner in Mateo’s apartment—simple food, warm food—and a quiet conversation about survival, pride, and safety. Kitt left with a full stomach and a lingering sense of gratitude he didn’t know how to express.

A full week slipped by in Riverbend before Kitt realized he was counting days not by dates on a calendar but by shifts worked, meals skipped, and hours slept shivering under too-thin blankets. When the landlady knocked on his door for rent, he handed over almost everything he had saved from the restaurant, the bills trembling slightly in his fingers. By the time she walked away, snapping the door shut behind her, he stared down at the remaining money in his palm—barely enough for a few meals if he stretched it, not enough to feel secure, not enough to breathe easy. Hunger pressed against his ribs again, quieter now but persistent, and shame settled under his skin like cold. He remembered the men in the park, the glances, the stranger who had approached him, and despite Mateo’s warnings, curiosity tugged at him—a restless, uneasy thread he couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t planning to talk to anyone. He wasn’t planning to sit in the shadows. But something in him needed to see the park again with the new knowledge he carried, to understand the place he had stumbled into by accident. So as dusk settled over Riverbend with its pale lavender sky and buzzing lamps flickering on one by one, Kitt pulled on his thin jacket, tucked his remaining money into the inner pocket, and walked back toward the river, toward the park, toward the strange world he wasn’t sure he belonged to—but couldn’t stop thinking about.

He kept to the open path, near the river, near his bench. He told himself he only wanted fresh air, a break from the apartment’s suffocating cold. But a small, uneasy part of him also wanted to understand his surroundings better—to see the park through clearer eyes now that he knew what it really was.

It was late afternoon when he went back, the sky dimming into that pale lavender shade that made the river look like liquid glass. Snow clung to the roots of the old trees, and the lamps had begun to warm into their nightly glow.

Harbor—the golden retriever—saw him first.

The dog bounded toward him with a burst of excitement that didn’t seem possible for an older animal. Kitt barely had time to brace himself before Harbor’s paws landed squarely on his jacket, knocking him back onto the bench with a startled yelp. Muddy snow smeared across his clothes, and the dog licked his face enthusiastically before circling him in happy chaos.

“Harbor! Down—down!” called a familiar voice, warm and gentle and a little out of breath.

The older man appeared moments later, cheeks flushed from the cold, glasses fogged near the edges.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, trying to tug the dog away, though Harbor resisted with joyful stubbornness. “He never jumps on people. Never. You must taste like whatever he wishes his dinner were.”

Kitt laughed weakly, brushing snow from his pants. “It’s okay. Really.”

But the man looked mortified. “It’s not okay—you’re covered. Look at this—Harbor, you’re embarrassing me.” The dog wagged harder.

The man sighed, defeated, then looked at Kitt with sincere apology. “Let me make it up to you. If you don’t have anywhere urgent to be, I can clean these clothes for you. And feed you dinner while you wait.”

Kitt froze.

His mind flashed instantly to Mateo’s warning: Don’t. You’re not built for it. You’re worth way more than that.

Maybe the man saw it—the suspicion tightening Kitt’s shoulders—because his expression softened with understanding rather than offense.

“I can see what you’re thinking,” the man said gently. “And you’re right to be cautious. But I promise you—this isn’t that.” He reached slowly into his coat pocket and pulled out a small business card. “Here. Full transparency.”

Kitt took the card carefully.

Dr. Thomas Avery
Department of Biology
Northbridge University

Northbridge.

The school he and Matt had dreamed of.
The place they said they’d go together.

Something inside him wavered.

“I just live up the street,” Tom added. “Two blocks away. Clean house, nothing weird. You can even keep your phone—” He stopped short, as if remembering some people didn’t always have one. “Or whatever you have of value. I won’t ask you anything personal. I just… feel bad. And Harbor likes you. That’s a trustworthy endorsement.”

Harbor barked as if on cue.

Slowly, carefully, Kitt nodded.

Tom’s house was nice-looking and warm. The kind of place built for comfort rather than style: knitted blankets, stacked books, a few framed photos on the mantle. It smelled of rosemary and lemon and something roasting in the oven. Harbor trotted in happily, circling Kitt before settling at his feet as if defending him from cold floors.

Tom took Kitt’s dirty clothes discreetly, handing him a soft, oversized sweater and a pair of sweatpants.

“They were my son’s,” Tom said quietly. “He moved out years ago. Never took anything with him. I keep thinking he might come back to visit.”

Something softened in Kitt.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Tom cooked while Kitt waited at the kitchen table. They talked about harmless things—the weather, the university, how long Tom had lived in Riverbend. At one point Tom hesitated, then admitted:

“I’ll be honest. When I first saw you at the park, I wasn’t sure which… crowd you belonged to. I apologize for that assumption. It wasn’t fair.”

Kitt shook his head. “It’s okay. I didn’t know what the park was either.”

Tom let out a quiet laugh. “Then we’re both learning.”

Dinner was warm. Real. Too good. Kitt ate slowly at first, embarrassed, but Tom pretended not to notice how hungry he was, offering seconds with casual kindness that didn’t demand anything in return.

When the clothes were dry and folded neatly into a plastic bag, Kitt stood hesitantly at the door, unsure how to express the lump of gratitude in his throat.

Tom smiled gently.

“You’re welcome back anytime,” he said. “Purely as a neighbor. And bring Harbor’s new best friend with you if you want.”

Harbor barked again, tail thumping loudly against the wall.

Kitt left with borrowed clothes, a full stomach, and a warmth he hadn’t felt in days. A different kind of warmth. Not flirtatious like Mateo’s, not intense like Matt’s, but steady and fatherly in a way that made something deep inside him ache with a longing he couldn’t name.

He walked back to his apartment under the soft glow of the streetlamps, the plastic bag rustling, his breath rising pale in the dark.

For the first time since he’d come to Riverbend, he didn’t feel invisible.

He felt seen.

And that feeling stayed with him all the way up the stairwell, all the way back to his cold little room, all the way into sleep.

. . .

Lakehurst had never felt so quiet.

Matt sat on the bleachers long after football practice had ended, long after the last teammate had clapped him on the back and jogged off toward the locker room. The field lights shone in harsh, artificial brilliance, making his breath look like little clouds rising in the cold night air. He hadn’t meant to stay this late. He had meant to go home, shower, eat something, maybe lie to his parents again about being fine.

Instead, he just… sat.

His elbows rested on his knees, hands hanging loosely, fingertips numb. His helmet sat beside him, half-buried in a thin layer of frost, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up.

It had been eight days.

Eight days since the shouting inside the Wellington house rattled the quiet of their street.
Eight days since Matt saw the porch light burning alone, the front door slamming, and Kitt nowhere in sight.
Eight days since he followed the footprints in the snow to the road’s edge and realized Kitt had already disappeared into the night.

He had searched every place he could think of—twice, sometimes three times. He’d asked neighbors, teachers, the librarian, the custodian, even the old man who ran the corner store where he and Kitt used to buy sodas after school. Each “sorry, haven’t seen him” cut deeper, each shake of the head another thread snapping inside his chest.

He had even turned to the internet, something he never thought he’d do for something like this—not in the quiet, desperate way he now did every night. He typed Kitt’s full name into Google, then just “Kitt Wellington,” then “missing boy Lakehurst,” then “teen found,” then “runaway.” He refreshed the local news pages so often the headlines blurred, scanning for anything—any mention of an unidentified teen, any accident, any hospital report that might hide a familiar description beneath its clinical language. He checked community groups, missing-person forums, police bulletins, even Facebook posts from neighboring towns. Every article he opened punched a sick fear into his stomach, and every closed tab that offered no answers left him feeling even more lost. Each night he sank deeper into the glow of the screen, searching for Kitt in digital shadows because he didn’t know where else to look. The silence terrified him. The lack of news terrified him more.

His parents were worried in the way they always were with him: gently, cautiously, afraid of pushing too hard. His mother tried to feed him, offering warm food he never finished. His father tried to talk football—barely getting through two sentences before Matt shut down. Even his sister asked if he needed anything, and that alone was enough to make him want to scream.

But the worst conversations were at school.

The looks. The whispers.
The way people asked if he was okay with voices too soft, too pitying.
The way Lindsay—his ex—kept hovering nearby, torn between worry and awkwardness.
The way his teachers glanced at him with concern when he spaced out mid-lecture.

He had failed a quiz yesterday.
He didn’t even remember taking it.

And still, through everything, through the noise and the silence, through the cold and the exhaustion, one name kept burning in his throat like a prayer he couldn’t say without breaking:

Kitt.

He whispered it sometimes.
Into his pillow.
Into the empty hallway after everyone else went to bed.
Into his hands when he pressed them over his face, trying not to fall apart.

Tonight, the weight of it all finally settled.

He leaned forward, burying his face into his palms, and let the breath he’d been holding for days slip out of him in a shudder. His shoulders trembled, his throat tightening painfully as he fought against something that wanted to break loose.

He bit it back.

Then it surged stronger.

And before he could stop it, tears spilled over, hot against the winter air. They dripped through the spaces between his fingers, fell onto the metal bleachers beneath him, disappeared instantly into the frost.

He didn’t sob loudly.
He didn’t heave or wail.
He just cried the way someone cries when they’ve run out of places inside themselves to hurt — quietly, hopelessly, like water seeping through cracks.

“Please,” he whispered into the hollow space around him, voice cracking so softly even he barely heard it. “Please be okay… please.”

He didn’t know if he was speaking to Kitt.
To God.
To himself.

He just knew he couldn’t stop.

After several minutes, the tears slowed, leaving him hollow and aching. He wiped his face with trembling hands and finally forced himself to stand. His legs felt unsteady, brittle. He picked up his helmet and stared out at the dark stretches of field, the line of trees beyond it, the sky above heavy with clouds.

It hurt to breathe.

It hurt more not to.

When he finally made it home, his mother tried to ask where he’d been, but he brushed past her with a muttered “Just practice” and shut himself in his room. He pressed his back to the door as if it could hold him together. The light from the window cut across the floor in a pale strip, catching dust in the air that drifted like tiny ghosts.

He slid down to the floor slowly, head tipped back, eyes burning again.

Every night felt like this now.
A quiet collapse.
A small implosion.
A steady unraveling he couldn’t stop.

He pulled his hoodie to his chest — the old one Kitt had borrowed once and never returned — and curled around it, burying his face in the fabric that still held the faintest memory of warmth.

In another town, Kitt was sitting on a cold mattress beneath a flickering hallway light, clutching a grocery bag with clean hand-me-down clothes, wondering if anyone still cared he existed.

And here, in Lakehurst, Matt whispered into the dark:

“I’m not giving up on you. I swear, Kitt. I’m gonna find you.”

The words were a vow.
A promise.
A lifeline he clung to with both hands.