Somewhere Only We Know - 15. Two Boys, Two Towns, One Quiet Collapse

Riverbend mornings had a stillness to them, a kind of pale quiet that seeped through the thin apartment walls and settled over everything like a second layer of cold. Kitt woke one morning with that cold pressed against his spine, the mattress beneath him stiff, its springs biting faintly into his hip. He pulled the borrowed sweater closer around his shoulders and exhaled slowly, watching his breath bloom white in the dim room before fading into nothing. The radiator had clicked twice during the night, as if deciding whether it wanted to work, and then stayed silent. Most mornings were like this now—silent, breath-held, the kind of cold that made him fold himself tighter, as if he could shrink into warmth that no longer existed.

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the room still half-dark with dawn struggling through the poorly sealed window. The curtain swayed slightly in the draft, and Kitt stared at the shaking fabric for a long moment before forcing himself to stand. His joints ached—not in the dramatic way people described heartbreak, but in the literal way that came from cold, stress, and sleeping in positions meant to conserve heat rather than offer comfort.

He dressed quietly, pulling on jeans that had grown slightly looser around his waist since he’d left home. He made a mental note to be careful today—not to push too hard, not to let anyone at work see how his hands trembled sometimes when he hadn’t eaten enough. He’d gotten good at hiding it. Good at moving fast enough and calm enough that no one noticed how fragile his body had become.

In the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in their uneven, tired rhythm. He descended the stairs slowly, adjusting the strap of his backpack—still half full of the clothes Tom had given him, washed and folded in neat stacks he hadn’t wanted to disturb. He reached the first-floor landing just as Mateo stepped out of his apartment, locking the door behind him with a lazy twist of his wrist.

Mateo looked warm in a way Kitt envied—dark curls tucked under a knitted beanie, cheeks flushed from sleep or cold or both, hands buried in the deep pockets of his jacket. He lifted a hand when he saw Kitt, a grin already pulling at his mouth, charming in a way that made Kitt shy without knowing why.

“Morning, cariño,” Mateo called, voice smooth and bright even at this hour. “You look like someone forgot to plug you in overnight.”

Kitt huffed out a laugh, his breath misting. “No one forgot. This is just what I look like now.”

“You look better than half this town,” Mateo said, leaning into the hallway’s dim light. “Which is saying something.”

Kitt rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted without his permission. Mateo had a way of making small things feel manageable, even if briefly.

He hesitated only a second before admitting quietly, “I didn’t… really eat this morning.”

Mateo’s expression changed—not dramatically, just enough for the warmth in his eyes to sharpen into something more protective. “Restaurant gets its shipment today. I’ll snag something for you before Javier hoards it all in the walk-in freezer. And don’t argue. I like feeding stray cats.”

Kitt opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. Mateo smiled, victorious without being smug.

They walked toward the restaurant together, the cold air turning their breaths into little clouds. Riverbend’s streets were waking slowly—shopkeepers flipping signs to OPEN, buses rumbling down the main road, a few early workers brushing snow from their car roofs. It wasn’t Lakehurst. It didn’t vibrate with the familiar rhythm of home. But there was a quiet life to it, a hum beneath the surface that made Kitt feel both invisible and safe.

Inside the restaurant, the heat hit like a wave. Kitt stepped into it gratefully. The kitchen lights flicked on one by one, the metallic counters gleaming beneath them. Javier arrived a few minutes later, grumbling into his coffee mug, and the day began.

Work was loud.
Hot.
Fast.
Repetitive.
But something about the rhythm steadied Kitt—stack, scrub, rinse, slide, repeat—like each action was a small anchor holding him together.

By midday, Mateo slipped him a plate of scrambled eggs and tortillas with a wink. Kitt ate standing in the corner near the dish pit, steam rising from the food, the warmth spreading through his frozen stomach like relief he didn’t have words for.

“Eat,” Mateo said. “Eat like you mean it.”

Kitt did.

When the lunch rush passed, Javier clapped him on the back with surprising gentleness. “Good work, kid.”

It should have been a simple compliment. It shouldn’t have hit him the way it did. But something inside him softened dangerously at the words—maybe because he hadn’t heard praise like that in a long time, or maybe because it landed in a place still bruised from everything he’d left behind.

After his shift, Kitt stepped outside. The sky was a soft, pale blue, the afternoon leaning toward dusk. Snow drifted lazily from above, collecting on his hair and shoulders as he walked toward the park.

He told himself he was only walking.
That he wanted air.
That the river always made thinking easier.

But the truth tugged at him quietly: he wanted to see if the world outside the apartment changed while he wasn’t looking—if people came and went, if the men gathered in different places, if Tom and Harbor were there again.

Riverbend Park greeted him with its usual hush. Large oaks towered like dark silhouettes against the fading sky, their bare branches weaving together overhead. The lamps along the path flickered to life one by one, bathing the snow in yellow light that made everything look softer than it felt.

Harbor saw him first—again.

The dog barreled toward him, a golden blur in the snow. Kitt barely had time to brace himself before Harbor collided with his legs, tail whipping back and forth with frantic joy. Kitt laughed despite himself, sinking into a crouch to steady the dog’s excitement.

Tom appeared seconds later, breath puffing into the cold, glasses fogging near the edges.

“Harbor, have some dignity,” he scolded lightly, though the smile on his face suggested he didn’t mean it.

Kitt straightened. “He’s fine. Really.”

Tom glanced at him—the look both assessing and gentle. “I see you survived another week.”

Kitt nodded. “Barely.”

They walked together for a while, talking about nothing heavy—just the small, human things that made the world feel warmer. Tom told him about the leak in his office ceiling, about grading exams from students who thought Wikipedia counted as a primary source. Kitt shared almost nothing, but Tom didn’t seem to mind. He never asked questions that pried at wounds.

Before they parted, Tom pulled a small plastic container from his coat pocket. “Leftover pasta,” he said. “Harbor thinks you deserve it more than I do.”

Harbor barked as if confirming the statement with full conviction.

Kitt felt something tighten in his throat—gratitude mixed with exhaustion mixed with the fragile comfort of being treated kindly by someone who didn’t want anything from him.

He went home slowly, cradling the container in both hands as if it were something precious. When he reached the apartment, the hallway smelled faintly of old carpet and cigarette smoke, the overhead lights buzzing in their uneven way.

Climbing toward the second-floor landing, he slowed. One more flight up led to the third floor — to Mateo’s place — and Mateo’s door was cracked open just enough for warm light to spill into the dim stairwell, casting a soft glow over the peeling paint.

Mateo leaned in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame, black shirt clinging to him from his pre–night shift routine. He lifted an eyebrow as Kitt appeared below, a small knowing smile tugging at his mouth.

“You okay?” Mateo asked.

Kitt nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Mateo studied him for a moment, eyes searching and soft but not pitying. “If you ever wanna come with me to the club—just to see it, not to work—you can. It’s loud, but the people are good. Not like the park guys. More… alive.”

Kitt smiled faintly, because the idea both scared him and intrigued him. “Maybe. Someday.”

Mateo nudged his shoulder. “No pressure.”

Kitt nodded and went quietly into his room. He set Tom’s container aside, sat on the mattress, pulled the sweater around him again, and let himself breathe for a few minutes. He should have slept. He should have stayed in the relative warmth of his room.

But something restless kept moving beneath his skin, the kind of unsettled curiosity that lingered since Mateo’s explanation of the park.

He stood up.

The park at night was colder, sharper, its lamps flickering with an almost eerie pulse. The shadows beneath the trees were deeper, the air thick with a kind of charged quiet he hadn’t recognized before. And the men were there again—alone, scattered, leaning or pacing, never together, always watching.

Kitt walked the safer path, where the light was steady and voices could carry. He told himself he wasn’t going near the dark corners. He wasn’t participating. He wasn’t staying long.

He just wanted to understand the world he had stumbled into.

Footsteps approached.

A tall, sharp-eyed man emerged from the shadows—the same man from before. His hair was slicked back, his coat stylish despite the cold. He had the kind of smirk that made Kitt’s pulse jump for all the wrong reasons.

“Hey,” the man said, lips curling. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Kitt froze.

“I thought you said you didn’t work in this line.” The man stepped closer, voice dipping with interest. “But you're back. I like that.” His gaze dragged down and up again. “I really like you, sweetheart. So tell me… how much tonight?”

Kitt’s breath caught. He shook his head, words tangling on his tongue. “I—I’m not—”

Before he could finish, another figure approached quickly from behind—this one younger, blond, with a clean-cut look and a steady stride. He stepped up to Kitt without hesitation and placed a firm hand on his arm.

“There you are,” the blond boy said smoothly. “Aiden, I’ve been looking for you.”

Kitt blinked. Aiden?

The boy’s lips brushed his ear as he whispered, “Play along.”

Kitt nodded instantly.

The first man—Pete, though Kitt didn’t yet know his name—clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Taken already? Shame.” He winked. “If he bores you, you know where to find me.”

He disappeared back into the trees.

The blond boy released a breath. “Sorry about that,” he murmured. “Pete’s persistent. And an ass.”

Kitt swallowed hard. “Thank you. I didn’t know what to do.”

“That’s because you don’t know the rules yet,” the boy said. Then he offered a small smile. “I’m Andy. Well—‘Andy.’ It’s my work name. Never give the real one.”

Kitt hesitated. “Work name?”

Andy shrugged and chuckled lightly. “University student. Northbridge. Rent and tuition are brutal. Sometimes this helps.” He gestured vaguely to the shadows. “Fun some nights, dangerous others. Gotta know what you’re doing.”

Kitt’s stomach tightened. “I’m not… I’m not doing this.”

“Oh, I figured.” Andy gave a soft laugh, not mocking, just knowing. “You don’t carry yourself like someone who’s here for business.” He looked at Kitt more closely. “How old are you?”

Kitt’s voice came too quickly. “Eighteen.”

Andy’s brow lifted, amused. “Barely.”

Kitt didn’t correct him.

Andy nodded. “Tip, kid—don’t tell anyone real details. And if someone ever offers money, you ask to see the cash first. Never go somewhere dark. And don’t trust men who ask twice.”

Kitt listened, heart thudding uncomfortably. Everything about the conversation felt surreal—like stepping too close to a fire he didn’t intend to touch.

“I should go,” Andy said gently. “Client waiting. Be safe, yeah?”

Kitt nodded. “You too.”

Andy disappeared down the path, leaving Kitt standing in the cold, breath trembling. He turned back toward the apartment, steps unsteady, hearing Mateo’s warnings echo in his mind.

His room felt colder when he returned.
But the loneliness felt heavier.

He sat on his thin mattress, and ate Ton’s food slowly until warmth spread faintly through his stomach. When he finally curled beneath the sweater and pulled the blanket to his chin, the room felt unbearably quiet.

He tried to breathe deep.

Tried to think of anything except the danger he’d just walked past. But when the tears rose, soft and unexpected, he let them fall silently down his cheeks.

They were quieter now, softer than the first night, but no less painful. He pressed his forehead against his knees and whispered Matt’s name into the darkness, the syllable trembling on his lips.

“I miss you so much, Matt” he breathed, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

. . .

In Lakehurst, Matt was unraveling.

He left school early, telling the office he wasn’t feeling well—though the truth was that the halls felt too tight, too loud, too full of eyes watching him with pity or curiosity. He walked out into the cold afternoon, breath sharp in his chest, and ended up wandering across town with no destination in mind.

He checked the bus station again.
And the pharmacy where Kitt once bought bandages for a scraped knee.
And the corner store where they laughed about energy drink flavors.
And the path behind the school where they used to race each other to the fence.

Every place was empty.
Every place felt like a ghost of a memory that hurt to touch.

When he finally went home, his mother met him at the door, worry carved into her face so deeply it made Matt flinch.

“You’re scaring me,” she said softly. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. You’re disappearing, Matt.”

He tried to laugh it off.
Tried to pretend he was fine.
But the laugh cracked halfway through.

“I just need to find him,” he whispered.

His mother stepped forward, reaching as if to hug him, but stopped short—caught between wanting to comfort him and fearing she didn’t know how.

“Maybe,” she said quietly, “you should talk to someone. A counselor. A teacher. A—”

“No,” Matt said sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t need help. I need Kitt.”

His mother’s eyes shone with something like heartbreak.

Matt escaped to his room before she could say anything else. He shut the door, slid down the wall, and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until stars sparked behind his eyelids.

That night, he opened his laptop and typed the same search phrases again:

Kitt Wellington missing
Lakehurst police scanner
Riverbend news
Unidentified teen found
Teen shelter Lakehurst
Teen runaway hotline

He read until his eyes burned and the screen blurred.

Nothing.
No sightings.
No mentions.
No clues.
Just silence.

He closed the laptop.
Laid down on his bed.
Grabbed the hoodie Kitt had borrowed once.
And cried into it—quiet, broken, exhausted.

Two boys, two towns, two rooms.
One invisible thread stretched painfully thin between them.

And somewhere in the dark, both whispered the other’s name, not knowing their voices would one day carry across the distance again.

. . .

Susan moved through the house like a ghost these days—quiet, pale, carrying cups of untouched tea from one room to the next. The silence between her and Stephen had grown so vast it pressed against the walls, heavy enough to feel like a physical thing.

Stephen pretended not to notice.

Or maybe he noticed everything and refused to let a single crack show.

He sat at the dining table reading the newspaper, flipping the pages more loudly than necessary, as if the rustle could drown out the truth: their son had been gone for over a week, and they had no idea where he was or whether he was safe. The porch light had stayed on every night since. Susan kept it on. She didn’t say why. She didn’t need to.

Tonight, she stood by the kitchen sink, washing a mug she had already cleaned twice, staring out the window as if she could will Kitt to walk down the driveway, shivering and small, and open the door with an apology he should never have to make.

She didn’t hear Stephen approach until he cleared his throat behind her.

“You should stop doing that,” he said flatly.

Susan didn’t turn. “Doing what.”

“Hoping he’ll come back before he’s ready.”

Her shoulders stiffened. She set the mug down gently, her fingers trembling only a little. “You don’t know what he’s ready for. You don’t know anything right now.”

Stephen sighed, that tired exhale of a man who believed himself right despite the wreckage he caused. “He’s confused. That’s all. He’ll come back when he realizes running off solves nothing.”

Susan closed her eyes briefly. “He wasn’t confused, Stephen. He was frightened.”

“He shouldn’t have been,” Stephen snapped, voice rising. “I didn’t raise him to be weak. To be like that.”

Her head jerked slightly, as though the words struck her physically. She turned toward him then—slowly, controlled, but with something deeper simmering under the surface.

“You didn’t raise him to be weak,” she repeated quietly. “You raised him to be silent. You raised him to hide. You raised him to fear you.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened. “I raised him to have morals.”

“No,” she said, voice trembling, “you raised him to follow your version of them.”

He opened his mouth, anger flickering in his eyes, but Susan lifted a hand to stop him—something she had rarely done in their marriage. “He’s our son,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Our boy. Does that mean nothing to you anymore?”

“He chose to leave.”

“No,” she corrected gently, painfully, “you told him to leave. You disowned him.”

Silence exploded between them—sharp and raw.

Stephen’s face twitched, the smallest flicker of uncertainty crossing his expression, but he crushed it quickly. “It’s only almost two weeks, Susan. He’ll run out of money, food, and sense. He’ll realize life out there is harder than he thinks. He’ll come back when he’s ready to listen.”

Susan pressed her palms to the counter to steady herself. Her voice didn’t rise; it didn’t need to. “And if he doesn’t come back, Stephen? What then?”

He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked away.

Susan swallowed hard, tears gathering but not falling. “I haven’t heard his voice in two weeks.” She took a shaky breath. “You have no idea how that feels.”

Her words hung in the air, suspended and heavy.

Stephen forced a brittle calm. “He’s alive. I know he is.”

“How?” her voice broke. “How in God’s name do you know that?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he couldn’t.

Susan stepped past him, her shoulder brushing his. He flinched slightly at the contact, almost startled—as if even that small connection was unfamiliar now. She walked to the living room, ignoring the open Bible on the coffee table, the sermon Stephen had been reading over and over as though scripture could justify the wound he’d carved into his own family.

She sat on the couch, face crumpling silently behind her hands.

Stephen stood in the doorway, rigid and unmoving, the porch light’s glow stretching into the room like a thin reminder of the boy who used to come home to it every evening.

He told himself he was right.
He told himself he had acted as any decent father should.
He told himself that moral boundaries meant nothing if they bent at the first sign of resistance.
He told himself the boy would return when the world outside knocked sense back into him.

And every night, after Susan shut herself in the bedroom without a word, Stephen lay awake on the living room couch—not restless, not remorseful, but resolute—staring at the dark ceiling as if daring it to challenge him. He listened to the house settle, to the furnace kick on and off, to the silence that stretched too long and too sharp. He told himself the silence meant nothing. Told himself the empty doorway meant nothing. Told himself the absence of footsteps was simply stubbornness running its course.

He refused to consider the possibility that he might have misjudged anything.
He refused to let doubt in.
He refused to waver.

Because to admit even a sliver of uncertainty would mean admitting he had driven his own son into the cold night.

And Stephen Wellington was not a man who believed he could be wrong.

And every night he found himself wondering—in quiet moments he refused to admit aloud—whether the boy who once laughed at his kitchen table would ever walk through the front door again.