Somewhere Only We Know - 16. Crossroads in Two Towns

Morning in Riverbend always came with a certain heaviness—like the air itself hadn’t warmed in years. Kitt woke in the dim gray of early light, the cold biting at his nose even under the thin blanket. For a moment he lay still, staring at the cracked ceiling, letting reality settle around him in slow, unwelcome pieces. Another day here. Another morning alone. Another reminder that there was no going back.

He changed into Tom’s sweater—soft, slightly oversized, smelling faintly of detergent instead of mildew—and stepped into the hallway. The stairwell echoed with his footsteps. As he descended toward the first floor, his steps slowed automatically beneath the third-floor landing where Mateo lived, the faint hum of music slipping under the door above. A strange, gentle longing hit him—an urge to turn around, climb that extra flight, and knock. To ask for warmth or distraction or just someone to say his name without anger behind it.

But he didn’t.
He kept walking, shoulders tucked in against the cold that crept in from every window frame.

Work was a blur of clattering dishes and the hiss of rushing water. It was routine now, familiar enough that his mind drifted elsewhere even while his hands moved automatically. He thought about the rent envelope tucked in his pocket—now nearly empty. He thought about the week ahead. And he thought, unwillingly, about the men in the park.

Not because he wanted to go back there.
Not because he wanted to be like Andy.
But because the math in his head was unforgiving.

Rent.
Food.
Transit.
The occasional necessity like laundry.

He was going to run out of money.

The thought lodged itself deep inside him, heavy and frightening. He’d heard whispers from others at the restaurant—under-the-table cleaning gigs, unloading trucks at dawn, overnight stocking in the next town. He could chase those opportunities. He could ask. Or—

His stomach tightened.

He could go back to the park.

The idea flashed through him like a cold spark. Shame followed immediately. His hands trembled slightly around the stack of dishes he was holding, and he set them down quickly before Mateo could see.

Hustling.
Just the word made him feel sick.

Andy made it sound manageable, even simple, with his casual grin and practiced ease—but Andy was older, confident, skilled in a way Kitt wasn’t. Kitt didn’t have that armor. He barely had a roof over his head. The thought of someone touching him without care, without meaning, without Matt’s name buried somewhere inside his ribs—it made him flinch.

He couldn’t do it.
He just couldn’t.

But that didn’t solve the problem.

His shift ended late afternoon, and he stepped outside into the cold gray, trying to clear the thoughts pressing against his skull. He walked toward the park again—drawn by habit, by loneliness, by the quiet comfort of knowing one friendly face might appear there.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Harbor spotted him first, shooting out from behind a bench with a burst of energy that nearly knocked Kitt backward. The golden retriever barreled into him, paws on his stomach, tongue out, tail whipping joyfully. Kitt laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days as he scratched behind Harbor’s ears.

“Sorry!” Tom jogged over, breath visible in puffs, glasses fogged slightly. “He likes you. Maybe a little too much.”

“He’s okay,” Kitt said, rubbing Harbor’s neck as the dog pressed closer.

Tom eyed him then—really looked. “You seem tired.”

Kitt shrugged. “Long night.”

They walked together again, Harbor circling them in happy loops. Snowflakes clung to the dog’s fur, melting on contact as he darted between their legs. The river murmured nearby, soft and steady.

After a few minutes, Tom spoke gently. “Do you have enough to get by this week?”

Kitt stiffened. He hadn’t told anyone—not even Mateo—just how close he was to having nothing. “I… I’ll figure it out.”

Tom didn’t push, but he slowed a little. “Why don’t you come by again tonight? I’ve got leftovers. And heat.”

The offer made something inside Kitt ache. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not.” Tom’s voice softened. “Besides, Harbor would riot if he didn’t get his emotional support teenager.”

Kitt smiled faintly.

“Alright,” he whispered.

They walked another block together until Tom paused. “Kitt,” he said quietly, “can I ask something?”

Kitt nodded, heart beating a little faster.

“How old are you?”

The question hit harder than it should have. He lied to Andy because Andy lived in shadows.
But Tom? Tom was warmth. Safety. Something dangerously close to fatherly.

Kitt swallowed. “Nineteen.”

He hated how quickly the lie came.
He hated even more how small and guilty he felt afterward.

Tom studied him for a long moment—long enough that Kitt feared he didn’t believe him. But Tom only nodded once, slowly.

“Well,” Tom said quietly, “Nineteen is still young. Young enough that you shouldn’t worry about surviving alone.”

Kitt’s throat tightened. He wanted to tell the truth. He wanted to say he wasn’t nineteen, that he was barely holding himself together, that the nights were cold and the ceilings too low and the world too big. But the words stayed locked in his chest.

“You ever need anything,” Tom said at last, “you tell me. I’ll help how I can.”

Kitt nodded, blinking hard.

That evening, warmth hit him the moment he stepped into Tom’s apartment. The house smelled like roasted vegetables and herbs. Harbor trotted over with a stuffed toy clamped in his mouth, tail wagging hard enough to thump against the wall.

Tom reheated leftovers for him, piling the plate generously. “Teenage metabolism,” he said lightly, “is a terrifying thing.”

They talked about small things—weather, books, the university Tom worked at. Then, somewhere between the second helping and the soft dog snores, Kitt admitted the truth he hadn’t dared share with anyone.

“Money’s tight,” he whispered. “Really tight. I don’t… If I don’t get a second job, I won’t make next week’s rent.”

Tom didn’t react with pity. Instead his voice stayed level. “How many hours are you working now?”

“Not enough.”

Tom nodded slowly. “I’ll look into something. No promises, but… I’ll try.”

The words hit Kitt deeper than expected. “Thank you.”

“Unless you want to borrow some cash.”

“No! That’s not my intention.”

“I figured as much.”

When he climbed the stairwell back toward the second floor, he slowed at the familiar creak of the steps above him. A moment later Mateo appeared, coming down from the third floor—hair damp from a shower, hoodie hanging loose on his frame, steam still clinging faintly to his skin. He paused on the landing when he spotted Kitt, leaning against the railing with that easy, half-lazy confidence he always carried.

“You look alive,” Mateo said. “Did you eat?”

Kitt nodded. “Tom invited me over.”

“Tom?”

“An older guy with the dog from the park I used to mention”

“Ah,” Mateo grinned. “Good. You were starting to look like a sad raisin.”

Kitt snorted, shaking his head.

Then, without him meaning to, the words slipped out: “I need more hours.”

Mateo’s expression sobered instantly. “How bad is it?”

“…Bad.”

Mateo crossed his arms and nodded once, decisively. “I’ll talk to Javier. He likes you. He’s cheap, but he’s not heartless. We’ll get you something.”

Kitt stared at him, warmth spreading slowly from somewhere deep in his chest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Mateo said. “Thank me when you’re not on the verge of passing out at work.”

Kitt laughed softly, and Mateo’s smile deepened, something softer flickering under his usual swagger.

Back in his room, Kitt curled onto the mattress. The warmth of the meal, the kindness of two different men, the fragile hope of maybe having enough hours next week—it all settled into him like a blanket he hadn’t realized he needed.

But when the lights went off and the room went dark, everything pressed in again—the loneliness, the weight of the lies, the distance from the only person he wanted to see more than anyone.

He buried his face in his sweater, voice cracking on a whisper.

“Matt…”

And miles away, Matt lay curled in his own bed, whispering Kitt’s name into the dark the same way.

Two boys in two different towns, reaching for each other through cold air and heavy silence neither knew how to break.

. . .

Matt lasted another day before breaking.

He told himself he wasn’t going to do anything reckless. He told himself he would wait for a sign, a clue, any tiny piece of information that didn’t rely on wishful thinking or blind hope. But after almost two weeks of silence, after nights of staring at his ceiling until dawn bled into the blinds, after realizing he couldn’t remember the last time he slept more than an hour uninterrupted, something inside him snapped clean.

So on Saturday morning, before the sun had even finished climbing the horizon, Matt grabbed his jacket and his keys, stepped outside into the cold, and got into his truck.

He didn’t tell his parents where he was going.
He didn’t tell anyone.
He just drove.

The roads blurred past him in long gray stretches, the winter sky flattening into a pale steel sheet overhead. Riverbend was only an hour and a half from Lakehurst, but the drive felt like crossing some invisible threshold — a line between the world he knew and the one Kitt had vanished into.

He clung to steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whitened.

The first place he went was the natatorium.

It was almost instinctual — that was the last place Kitt had smiled fully, deeply, without reservation. Matt stood by the glass doors, watching swimmers glide back and forth under fluorescent lights, bodies slicing the water with the efficiency Kitt had always admired. He scanned the pool deck, the bleachers, the hallways lined with team banners, but there was nothing. No familiar face. No forgotten towel. No trace of Kitt ever being here.

He walked out with a burn behind his eyes.

Next he went to the park where the regional meet had been held, boots crunching over thin crusts of snow. He wandered the paths Kitt had once rushed down, breathless with excitement and nerves, the same paths they had walked together after the awards ceremony when Kitt’s fingers had brushed his in an innocent, accidental moment Matt had replayed too many times since. He checked the benches, the signs, the riverfront. Nothing. Just gray sky, empty air, and the echo of memories that hurt more than they helped.

He stopped at a convenience store nearby, asking if anyone had seen a blond teenager with blue eyes, tall-ish, swimmer build. The cashier shrugged apologetically. Matt thanked him anyway.

He drove to the street behind the natatorium, the strip of stores Kitt had pointed out once — a bookstore he loved the smell of, a thrift shop where he’d found a jacket with pockets big enough to hide his hands in, the bakery that sold cinnamon rolls big enough to share. Matt checked each one, stepping inside, describing Kitt, holding up his phone, watching every face shake their heads.

His hope thinned, stretched, nearly snapped.

The last place he went wasn’t planned — it was instinct, memory, longing. A diner with a faded red sign and fogged-up windows. The place they’d gone together once after a meet, when Kitt had insisted on ordering pancakes “as big as your face” and Matt had teased him until Kitt’s cheeks turned pink and Matt pretended not to notice how cute that was.

Matt parked and went inside.

The warmth hit him first, followed by the smell of coffee and syrup. The diner looked exactly the same — same checkered floors, same ketchup bottles half-stuck with sugar, same low hum of conversation. His eyes found the booth immediately, the corner seat where Kitt had sat with his chin tucked down and his shoulders still damp from the pool, grinning at Matt over a stack of pancakes like he’d never been happier.

Matt slid into that seat, hands folding around each other on the table, chest tight.

A waitress approached him, a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a disarming softness in her voice. “What can I get you, sweetheart?”

“Just coffee,” Matt answered, though his voice trembled around the edges.

She nodded and left, returning a minute later with a mug and a small sigh. As she set it down, she said casually, almost to herself, “It’s weird seeing another kid sitting here looking like he’s got the whole damn world on his shoulders.”

Matt’s head snapped up.

“What?” he asked, sharper than he meant to.

The woman blinked at him, then shrugged. “Just… déjà vu, I guess. Couple weeks ago — maybe three? — another boy sat right there. Good-looking kid. Blond. Blue eyes. Quiet. Didn’t order anything. Just stared at his hands like he was waiting for them to tell him what to do.”

Matt’s breath seized.

He fumbled for his phone, hands shaking, and pulled up the clearest photo he had — Kitt at the lake last fall, laughing with his hair sticking up from the wind. He held it out with a trembling hand.

“Was it him?” Matt’s voice cracked. “Please. Was it this boy?”

She stared at the screen for a long moment. “Honey… I can’t say for sure. Faces blur when you see so many. But… maybe. Could be. The hair looks about right.”

Matt closed his eyes, swallowing hard, gripping the edge of the table as warmth swelled painfully in his chest. Hope. Fragile, tiny, but real.

“When you saw him,” Matt whispered, “did he… did he talk to anyone? Did he say anything? Was he alone?”

“Alone,” she said. “Didn’t look like he wanted company.”

Matt tried a few more questions — where he went, which direction he walked, what he wore — but the waitress could only shake her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Wish I remembered more.”

He nodded, blinking back tears. “Thank you,” he managed.

Before leaving, he scribbled his number on a napkin and slid it into her hand. “If you see him again… please tell him to call me. Or you call me. I don’t care what time. I’ll come right away.”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes softening. “I’ll keep an eye out, sweetheart.”

Matt walked out into the cold with a chest so full it hurt, the sky stretching above him in pale winter blue. Nearly a month ago — that was the last time someone had seen Kitt.

But it was something.

It was hope.

For the first time in two weeks, Matt felt like he could breathe.

He climbed into his truck, held the picture of Kitt against his chest for a long, steady moment, and whispered into the steering wheel, “I’m coming, Kitt. I swear to God I’ll find you.”

And he drove home with a flicker of light he hadn’t felt since the night Kitt disappeared — small but burning, fragile but fierce.

Hope.

. . .

Across the street from the diner Matt had just left—so close he could have seen the back of Matt’s truck if he’d stepped outside at the right moment—Kitt stood in the cramped kitchen of the restaurant, sleeves rolled past his elbows, hands plunged into the sink. The water was lukewarm, the soap film stinging the raw cracks near his knuckles. He scrubbed plates mechanically, gaze unfocused, mind drifting somewhere far beyond the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights.

He didn’t know why today felt heavier than the others.
Maybe it was the cold that seeped through every window.
Maybe it was the thin envelope of cash he’d placed on the counter that morning for rent, leaving him with almost nothing.
Maybe it was the ache behind his ribs growing harder to ignore.

He rinsed another plate, set it gently on the rack, and let his hands rest on the counter for a moment, breathing slow so he wouldn’t cry in front of the prep cooks. His mind raced through numbers—food left in his fridge, hours on next week’s schedule, how many shifts Mateo might be able to talk Javier into giving him.

He wondered how he’d make it through another week.
He wondered how long he could keep going like this.
He wondered if anyone still cared he was gone.

Snow tapped against the back door. The same snow that landed on Matt’s truck windshield as he pulled onto the highway, hope blooming fragile and warm in his chest for the first time since Kitt disappeared.

Kitt shifted the dishes, water splashing against his wrists. He glanced toward the front of the restaurant without knowing why, as if something tugged at him—some invisible thread pulling from just beyond the glass door. A strange, sudden ache pressed beneath his ribs. He lifted a hand to his chest, confused by the sharpness of it.

On the other side of the street, the diner sign flickered red and white in the dusk, unaware of the boy who had walked out moments earlier with a scrap of hope clutched tight in his fist.

If Kitt had stepped outside even one minute earlier—
If Matt had stayed at the booth a minute longer—
If either of them had looked out the window at the same time—

They would have seen each other.
Close enough to call a name.
Close enough to cross the street.

Close enough to stop hurting.

But they didn’t.

Matt drove east, back toward Lakehurst, whispering Kitt’s name under his breath with renewed conviction.
And Kitt stood in the kitchen, shoulders shaking with quiet breath, wondering how to survive another week and why the world felt colder than it should.

Two boys, separated by nothing more than a single street and a few cruel minutes of timing.

Two hearts missing the other without knowing how close they had just been.

And Riverbend—steady, indifferent—held the secret between them, letting the moment slip away into the winter air.