Somewhere Only We Know - 23. After the Heat of Summer

Mid-October in Riverbend didn’t come with frost or breath-clouded mornings yet. Instead, it arrived in quiet, creeping shifts: the air a little sharper at dawn, the sun setting earlier each day, the river moving with a slow, thoughtful murmur as if the season itself were deciding how quickly to turn cold. The afternoons were still warm enough for kids to run outside in short sleeves, and the evenings still held a trace of leftover summer heat trapped in the pavement. But under it all, there was a subtle, unmistakable edge — a promise that real cold was coming soon.

Kitt felt that edge every day.

The mornings at the restaurant carried the thick, humid warmth of the kitchen, steam rising from the dishwasher vents to fog the windows as he clocked in. Outside, the air was cool but not biting; a light jacket was enough. By noon, sunlight spilled across the square and warmed the pavement, and for a few hours the world felt almost gentle again. But by late afternoon, the temperature dipped with a suddenness that made Kitt pull his sleeves down and rub his arms.

Even with the changing weather, his routines had settled into something steady—something that finally resembled a life rather than a long string of survival days stitched together with exhaustion.

He worked his morning shift at Javier’s, scrubbing dishes and prepping ingredients, listening to the steady rhythm of knives hitting cutting boards and the hiss of meat on the grill. Some days he forgot the outside world existed until he stepped into the alley and felt the cool breeze hit his face again.

Most afternoons, even when he didn’t have a shift, he headed to the youth center, where the rooms always smelled faintly of markers and fruit snacks, and where the warmth came not from an oven or stove but from the people inside. The center had a heartbeat of its own — laughter echoing down the halls, kids chasing each other between tables, volunteers discussing lesson plans and snack schedules.

Kitt loved it for reasons he still couldn’t name.

Maybe because it was noisy in a way that made him feel less alone.
Maybe because people smiled at him without expecting something in return.
Maybe because it was the first place since leaving home that felt… hopeful.

But even with that hope, even with warmth and routine and faces that cared about him, a part of him still drifted.

The drifting came in sudden moments — while rinsing a pot at the restaurant sink, or when a kid tugged on his sleeve to show him a crooked drawing, or when he stepped off the bus and smelled woodsmoke from someone’s backyard.

It hit him in flashes.
In breaths he couldn’t catch.
In emotions that came without warning, sharp as glass.

He missed Matt.

He missed him in a way that bent something inside him, made his chest ache and his vision blur for reasons he tried to ignore. He missed their lake. Their stupid inside jokes. The way Matt could pull a laugh out of him even when Kitt wanted to hide under a blanket and never come out again. He even missed Matt’s messiness — the way he ate chips too loudly or sprawled across Kitt’s bed without asking.

He missed Matt like someone missing a limb.

And now that he knew Matt had been looking for him…
Now that he knew Matt had driven all the way to Riverbend…
Now that he had sat in the diner they once visited together, searching for him…

The ache had sharpened into something deeper, something harder to swallow.

He told Mateo he couldn’t let Matt find him.
He still believed that.
But knowing Matt was out there, refusing to give up, made it both better and infinitely worse.

He tried not to think about it.
Most days he failed.

. . .

One afternoon, while Kitt was wiping paint off a table at the youth center, Tom walked up with Harbor trotting at his heels. The dog wagged his tail twice, then rested his head against Kitt’s knee as if greeting him were part of the daily routine.

“You’re good with them,” Tom said, nodding toward the hallway where a few kids were still packing up their art supplies.

“I just clean up after them,” Kitt said lightly.

Tom smiled. “That’s not what I meant.”

Kitt didn’t reply. He wiped at a streak of dried purple paint that refused to come off.

Tom watched him for a moment before speaking again.

“Have you ever heard of the GED?” he asked gently.

Kitt glanced up, frowning slightly. “The… GED?”

“It’s a test,” Tom said, his tone careful, never pushing too hard. “A high school equivalency exam. People who didn’t finish school can take it to earn a diploma equivalent.”

Kitt blinked, the rag still in his hand. “You mean… like finishing high school?”

“In a way, yes.” Tom nodded. “It opens doors. College. Training programs. Jobs that require a diploma.”

Kitt swallowed, suddenly aware of the heat creeping into his face. “I don’t know if I’m… ready for something like that.”

“That’s okay,” Tom said gently. “No one expects you to be ready all at once. I’m only mentioning it so you know it exists. You’re patient. You’re smart. You pay attention. Those things matter more than people think. A whole world opens when you finish school.”

The words lingered in the quiet room.

Kitt wasn’t even sure he could afford a whole week of groceries.

Still, the thought lodged somewhere deep.

After Tom walked away to help Leah with the snack drawer, Mateo came up beside him, tossing a marker between his hands. His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp.

“You should do it,” Mateo said. “I mean… if you want. You don’t have to be stuck in this town forever.”

Kitt raised an eyebrow. “And you do?”

“Nah. I’m working my way out. Lavender Light, the restaurant—it's all for that. But… you could have a future too, Kitt. A real one. You don’t have to be stuck like this.”

Kitt didn’t argue. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. But for the first time since running away, “wanting” anything felt possible.

. . .

That evening, the warmth of the day lingered just a bit longer than usual. Kitt walked home slower than he needed to, savoring the mild air before the night cooled everything again. He reached the stairwell of his building and climbed the steps, listening to the faint sounds of Mateo above him — a door closing, footsteps moving across the floorboards, muffled music.

When he reached his own room, he dropped onto his bed with the comforting exhaustion of someone who had earned it. The streetlight outside cast soft shadows against the ceiling. His eyes drifted shut almost immediately.

But before sleep pulled him under completely, his mind drifted — as it always did — to Matt.

To the lake.
To their laughter echoing across the water.
To the way Matt had looked at him sometimes, as if searching for something he was too afraid to ask for.

He whispered Matt’s name without meaning to.

And somewhere in Lakehurst, Matt paused mid-step in the hallway of his home as if something unseen had brushed past him, leaving him breathless.

. . .

Matt woke earlier than usual now, the October mornings pulling in light slower, softer, as if the sun were reluctant to climb above the rooftops. He sat on the edge of his bed most days, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped as he waited for the world to catch up with him. The house was always quiet at this hour — his mother moving in the kitchen downstairs, his father already gone to open the hardware store, his sister asleep behind a closed door.

There was a stillness to fall that made him ache in a way he didn’t want to name.

He grabbed his backpack and shoved in his binder and practice sheets. His scholarship applications were spread across his desk, half-filled, dates circled in bright ink. He pretended the deadlines didn’t scare him, but every time he looked at them, he felt the same sharp twist of urgency. He had to get into Northbridge. He and Kitt had promised each other. Even if they’d never spoken it out loud, even if Kitt was gone, that dream still felt like something they owned together.

Most mornings, Matt pulled on his jacket, slipped his feet into worn sneakers, and headed out early enough that he could walk past the Wellington house without anyone seeing him. The lawn was covered in the first real scatter of fall leaves now. The red porch light wasn’t on anymore — they had turned it off after Stephen came home from the hospital — but Matt could still see the faint outline of the shattered world left behind. The silence around that house felt deeper than the weather.

Sometimes he paused at the mailbox, pretending to check something on his phone just so he could look at the front door a little longer. Sometimes he imagined it opening. Sometimes he imagined Kitt stepping onto the porch.

He knew it wouldn’t happen.
But he looked anyway.

At school, life pressed on at a pace he couldn’t always follow. His teammates had settled into the rhythm of fall practices, the steady grind of drills, weight sessions, game planning. Coach Harding watched him closely now, a quiet watchfulness beneath his usual gruff bark. Matt pushed himself hard — maybe too hard — but not recklessly. When the adrenaline surged and the ache in his chest grew too tight, he slammed it into the ground with every rep, every sprint, every throw. It was the only way he knew to keep moving without breaking.

After practice, he’d walk to the empty bleachers and sit for a few minutes, letting the field lights hum above him. He didn’t cry — not anymore. He had cried himself out in August. Now the ache lived in him like a second heartbeat, familiar enough that it no longer took him by surprise.

He checked his phone even though he knew there would be nothing there.

He checked anyway.

These moments — the quiet pauses between everything — were when he felt Kitt’s absence like a physical thing. As if the universe had a hollow carved out exactly in the shape of one boy.

He rubbed at his forehead, pressing down against the tension behind his eyes.
“I’m going to find you,” he whispered, not sure who he was talking to — Kitt, the air, or himself.

When he finally biked home in the cooling afternoon air, the sky was streaked pink, the kind of soft sunset that made the edges of the world feel gentle for a moment. He tucked his bike against the house, stepped inside, and smelled something like cinnamon and apples.

His mother was baking. That meant she was worried again.

She turned as he entered the kitchen. “Long day?”

“Practice,” he said simply, dropping his bag on a chair.

She studied him for a moment. She rarely pushed — she understood his silences better than most — but today her eyes lingered on him longer than usual. “There’s news,” she said softly. “About Stephen.”

Matt’s chest tightened. “What kind of news?”

She wiped her hands on a towel, her expression complicated. “Your father spoke with Susan at the grocery store. Stephen’s… home now. Recovering. But things aren’t settling easily.”

Matt swallowed hard. “Are they fighting?”

There was a pause — not the kind that hesitates, but the kind that chooses its words carefully.

“They’re struggling,” she said quietly. “She’s angry. Rightfully so. And he’s… he’s realizing things he should’ve realized a long time ago.”

Matt looked down.

His mother stepped closer. “I know you’re worried about Kitt. I know you think about him every day.” Her voice softened. “But this is his family’s battle to work through. You can’t fight it for him.”

Matt let out a sharp breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I’m not trying to fight them. I just want to know he’s okay.”

She touched his arm gently. “If he’s out there, he’s breathing. He’s making choices. He’s finding his way. Just like you.”

He nodded once, even though the reassurance barely touched the rawness inside him.

Later that evening, after dinner and homework and another futile attempt to sleep, Matt lay on his back staring at the ceiling, the glow of his phone screen dimming beside him. He scrolled through his gallery until he reached the picture he’d set as his lock screen weeks ago — the two of them at the lake, sun blazing in the background, their faces pressed close, eyes squinting from the light. It wasn’t a dramatic photo. It wasn’t even a good one. But it had captured something — a brightness in both of them that Matt hadn’t seen since.

He touched the screen lightly, tracing Kitt’s smile.

“Where are you?” he whispered into the dark.

Outside his window, a breeze rustled the leaves. The world was cooling bit by bit, night by night, inching toward winter.

Meanwhile, in Riverbend, Kitt finished washing dishes at the youth center’s tiny sink and dried his hands on a paper towel. The afternoon warmth still clung faintly to the glass windows, the day having held onto its heat longer than expected — a soft, lingering warmth that felt almost out of place after so many cold nights. When he stepped outside, the air met him not with chill but a gentle, leftover heat that brushed his cheeks like a memory of summer refusing to let go.

Tom waited near the door, Harbor sitting politely at his heel, tail thumping once against the pavement when he saw Kitt. They fell into step together as they often did. The sunset made long shadows on the sidewalk, the sky dimming at the edges but not yet cold.

After half a block, Tom cleared his throat softly — the kind of gentle sound meant to give Kitt time to prepare for something heavier.

“Kitt,” he said, his voice low, “can I ask you something? And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

Kitt glanced over, wary but listening. “Okay.”

Tom hesitated, then continued, “Do you… want me to contact him? Matt. Just to tell him you’re safe.”

Kitt’s steps faltered.

He didn’t speak at first. Tom waited.

The streetlights blinked to life, one by one, washing the sidewalk in pale orange. A group of teens shouted at the basketball court nearby, laughter echoing across the park. A mother pushed a stroller past them, humming under her breath.

The world kept moving, blissfully unaware of how still Kitt felt inside.

“I don’t know,” Kitt whispered finally.

Tom nodded as if he had expected that answer.

“I mean,” Kitt added, swallowing hard, “a part of me… wants him to know. I—I hate thinking he’s worried. I hate thinking he’s hurting because of me.”

He rubbed his thumb against his palm, nervous.

“But?” Tom asked gently.

Kitt exhaled shakily. “But if Matt knows I’m here, he’ll come. He’ll drive here the second he hears. He’d… he’d look for me nonstop. And I…” His voice caught. “I can’t see him yet, Tom. Not like this. Not when I can’t even go home. Not when I don’t know what I’d say. I’m not ready.”

Tom listened quietly, his expression warm, steady, unjudging.

“And my dad…” Kitt said, the words smaller now, “I keep hearing him. All the things he said. All the things he thinks. I can’t let Matt be dragged into that again. I can’t be the reason he fights his own family. I just… can’t.”

Harbor nudged Kitt’s hand with his nose, as if sensing the tremble in him.

Tom slowed to a stop. Kitt did too.

“I won’t tell him a thing without your permission,” Tom said softly. “Not a word. You have control over that. But you don’t have to carry this alone, Kitt. You don’t have to disappear forever.”

Kitt’s eyes burned.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know that. I just… I don’t know how to be someone he can come back to.”

Tom’s hand landed on his shoulder, steady and warm. “You don’t need to be anything except alive, kid.”

Kitt looked away quickly, blinking the sting from his vision.

Tom and Harbor turned down their street, and Kitt continued toward his building alone, the dusk deepening around him. The remaining warmth of the day brushed his skin, fading slowly but not yet gone — like a promise held in the air, waiting for its moment to return.

Kitt reached his building just as the streetlights hummed fully to life. The stairwell carried the faint scent of someone’s cooking — onions, peppers, something warm that reminded him briefly of home in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. He climbed the stairs at a slow pace, the conversation with Tom still pulsing in his chest like a bruise pressed too often.

He kept hearing Tom’s voice.

You don’t need to be anything except alive, kid.

Alive felt like such a small thing to offer someone like Matt.
Matt, who had always given everything — attention, warmth, loyalty, belief.

Kitt swallowed against the tightness in his throat and kept climbing.

When he reached the second-floor landing, he paused. Mateo’s door upstairs was cracked open — as it often was — the music drifting faintly through the building’s thin walls. Something with a slow beat tonight, mellow enough to sway to. Kitt wasn’t sure if Mateo played music because he liked it or because it kept the silence from getting too heavy.

He slipped into his own apartment, kicked off his shoes, and sank onto the edge of the bed. The room was warm from the afternoon sun, but now that darkness had settled, the air cooled quickly. He rubbed at his arms, not sure if the chill came from the room or from somewhere inside him.

He lay back on the mattress for a moment, staring at the cracks on the ceiling. Tom’s question replayed again and again.

Do you want me to tell him you’re safe?

His first instinct — the deepest part of him — wanted to scream yes.
He wanted Matt to know he was alive.
He wanted Matt to stop looking, to stop hurting, to stop thinking he’d abandoned him.

But then he imagined Matt showing up here.
He imagined the knock on the door.
He imagined facing those eyes — warm, bright, endlessly loyal — and having nothing to offer except the pieces of himself he hadn’t figured out how to put back together.

He imagined the worst part too:
the shadow of his dad’s voice creeping back into his head, staining everything he touched.

He covered his face with both hands.

He wasn’t ready.
He hated that he wasn’t ready.

A soft tap interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

“Kitt?” Mateo’s voice drifted from outside. “You awake?”

Kitt sat up quickly and rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah. Come in.”

The door eased open and Mateo stepped in, wearing sweatpants and a loose T-shirt that hung off one shoulder. His hair was slightly damp, curls falling over his forehead, and he carried a small container in his hands.

“I made arroz con leche,” he said, holding it up. “Figured you probably didn’t eat enough again.”

Kitt blinked. “Mateo… you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” Mateo cut in. “I wanted to.”

He placed the container on the tiny table by the window, then leaned against the wall, arms folded. The music from his room upstairs thumped faintly through the floorboards.

“You okay?” Mateo asked.

Kitt hesitated. The conversation with Tom still clung to him, tender and raw.

“I talked to Tom,” he said softly.

Mateo’s eyebrows lifted a little. “Yeah?”

“He asked if I wanted him to… contact Matt.”

Mateo’s posture changed — not dramatically, but enough for Kitt to notice the way his arms uncrossed, the way his expression softened with understanding rather than surprise.

“And what did you say?” Mateo asked quietly.

Kitt exhaled. “I told him I don’t know.”

Mateo nodded slowly, as if that answer made perfect sense. “That’s fair.”

“You’re not going to tell me what you think I should do?” Kitt asked, voice thin.

“Nope.” Mateo pushed off the wall and moved closer, leaning his hip against the table. “Because it has to be your choice. And because… I’ve seen what you’ve been through these past months. You’re allowed to take your time, Kitt. You don’t owe anyone your healing.”

Kitt swallowed hard. “But he’s been looking for me. All this time.”

“And you’ve been surviving,” Mateo said simply. “That counts too.”

Kitt’s eyes burned, the emotion threatening to spill over again. He looked down at the floorboards, blinking fast.

Mateo’s voice softened. “You don’t have to rush. When you’re ready — and only when you’re ready — you’ll know what to do.”

Kitt nodded, even though the knot in his chest didn’t loosen.

Mateo opened the container and handed him a spoon. “Eat. Before I start feeding you like a toddler.”

Kitt let out a small laugh — thin but real — and took the spoon. The rice pudding was warm, sweet with cinnamon, comfort in a form he hadn’t tasted in months.

Mateo watched him for a moment, then asked quietly, “You want company tonight?”

Kitt hesitated. Not because he didn’t want company — but because he feared taking too much from people who had already given him so much.

But Mateo smiled in that easy, familiar way.

“It’s not pity,” he said softly. “It’s just… I don’t like the thought of you sitting here alone with all that noise in your head.”

Kitt’s throat tightened.
He nodded.

Mateo disappeared upstairs for a minute and returned with his pillow tucked under his arm. He dropped it on the floor beside Kitt’s bed and stretched out with the ease of someone who didn’t need permission to stay.

“You stay in your lane,” Mateo warned lightly. “No trying to steal my blanket.”

Kitt huffed a soft laugh. “You don’t even have a blanket.”

“Then no stealing my virginity.”

“You don’t have that either.”

Mateo snorted. “Wow. Okay. Hurtful.”

Kitt lay back on the bed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. The soft hum of music from upstairs had stopped; the silence felt gentler now, shared instead of suffocating.

“Thank you, Mateo. You have been a great friend.”

“Don’t sweat it. Just sleep.”

Outside, the October air cooled the windows, but the warmth inside the tiny room grew quietly — not from the radiator or the fading sunlight, but from the presence of someone who refused to let him drown alone.

Kitt closed his eyes.

He didn’t know when he’d be ready to see Matt again.
He didn’t know how long the fear would hold him back.
He didn’t know how to rebuild what had been broken.

But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, he didn’t feel completely untethered.

Somewhere across the miles, Matt still searched.
Here in Riverbend, Kitt still ached.
But tonight, he didn’t ache alone.

. . .

Back in Lakehurst, the Wellington house felt wrong in a way that unsettled even Susan. It wasn’t merely the absence of Kitt’s footsteps or the hollow quiet of his empty room. It was the heaviness that settled over Stephen like a shadow he refused to acknowledge. He sat in his recliner every night with the TV flickering muted light across his face, a blanket over his knees, his injured arm stiff, his eyes haunted.

Susan placed a mug of tea beside him. He didn’t look at it.

He hadn’t looked at anything she brought him in days.

She sat on the sofa, hands folded tightly in her lap. “Stephen,” she said, steady but soft, “we need to talk.”

He didn’t turn his head. “If this is about the pastor—”

“It is,” she said. “And it’s about Kitt.”

His jaw clenched. “I won’t be lectured again.”

“I’m not lecturing you,” she said, voice quivering despite her resolve. “But I need you to hear me.”

He huffed through his nose, annoyed and defensive. Susan took a breath and continued anyway.

“When you were in the hospital,” she said gently, “you couldn’t stop talking about the man who saved you. John. You said you owed him your life.”

Stephen’s mouth tightened. “I thanked him.”

“You did,” Susan agreed. “Back when you thought he was just a good man who happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

He stiffened.

“And then,” Susan continued, softer now, “when he visited again — when he came back with his partner — you recoiled. Not because he’d done anything wrong. Not because he stopped being the man who saved you.” Her voice thinned. “But because learning he was gay made you see him differently.”

Stephen drew in a sharp breath, the truth hitting him cleanly.

Stephen’s face hardened in an instant, as if the memory itself offended him. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Susan asked. “Is kindness different? Is saving your life different?” Her voice tightened. “Is it a sin to be the reason you are still breathing?”

He flinched.

She pressed on before he shut down again. “You talk about sin, Stephen. But tell me—” Her eyes filled, but she forced the words out. “Is driving your own son out into the cold night not a sin?”

The words hung in the air, sharp and merciless.

Stephen looked away, face stiffening with anger or pain—Susan couldn’t tell which.

“I did what was right,” he muttered.

“If it was right,” she whispered, “why are you so unhappy, Stephen? Why are you like this? Why can’t you sleep? Why do you look like you’re losing pieces of yourself every day?”

He said nothing.

“You’re miserable,” Susan said, her voice breaking, “because you know what you did wasn’t righteous. It was cruel. And it broke all of us.”

His injured hand twitched, fingers curling into the blanket. “He chose this path,” he said stubbornly, voice cold. “A hard path. A wrong path. I didn’t want him to ruin his life.”

“A wrong path?” Susan echoed. “Because he’s gay?”

Stephen’s breath shuddered. “Being gay—” He swallowed, searching for words that sounded smaller now than they ever had. “It leads to hardship. To judgment. To sickness. To danger. To a life without… without normalcy. I didn’t want that for him.”

“And hurting him was better?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.

“John is gay,” Susan continued. “The man who saved your life. The man whose blood runs in your veins. Is his life ruined? Is he unworthy? Does his goodness mean nothing because of who he loves?”

Stephen’s eyes widened, panic flickering beneath the surface. “This is different. That man—”

“That man is someone’s son too,” she cut in sharply. “Just like Kitt. And you didn’t ask his sexuality when you needed him. You didn’t question who he loved when his blood kept you alive. You thanked him. You prayed in gratitude. You looked him in the eye and called him a blessing.”

He trembled, shoulders rigid.

“So tell me again,” she whispered, voice cracking, “why our boy is any different.”

He covered his eyes with one hand, breathing unevenly.

Susan knelt beside him, touching his cold fingers. “You pushed him away because you were afraid. Not because he was wrong. Not because he sinned. Because you were afraid. You still are.”

Stephen’s voice came out hoarse, barely audible. “I’m scared he’ll suffer. I’m scared he’ll be hurt. I’m scared the world will chew him up and spit him out. And if I accept it… if I let him walk this path… then everything I believed—everything I built myself on—becomes unstable.”

Susan squeezed his hand. “Your beliefs don’t need to crumble for you to love your child.”

He inhaled sharply.

“You can have your faith,” she murmured, “and still keep your son.”

Silence. Long. Heavy. Nearly unbearable.

Finally, Stephen whispered, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You don’t have to fix everything today,” she said. “You just have to stop pretending you didn’t break it.”

He bowed his head.

Susan rested her forehead against his hand, tears slipping down her cheeks. For a long time, neither of them moved.

Stephen Wellington wasn’t healed.
He wasn’t redeemed.
He wasn’t forgiven.

But for the first time since the night he shattered their home, he admitted he was lost.

And that admission — painful, small, terrifying — was the first step toward something bigger.

Something like change.