Somewhere Only We Know - 26. Unlearn and Learn Again

Kitt woke late the next morning, long after the weak winter sun had already crept across the cracked windowsill and settled into its unflattering position above the radiator. His eyes felt swollen, his throat sore, and his body heavy in a way that made it hard to tell where exhaustion ended and emotion began. For several seconds he simply lay still, staring at the ceiling and trying to locate himself in the world.

His room was quiet in that particular Riverbend way — distant traffic humming against the cold, the pipes in the walls ticking softly, the faint drifting sound of someone’s radio through thin floors. His blanket clung to him in a knot; his pillowcase was stiff where tears had dried. He didn’t remember how long he cried last night, only that it didn’t stop until his body forced him into sleep.

It had been a couple of days since he’d seen Matt in the alley — days that felt longer than the weeks that had come before them. The memory hadn’t faded at all. If anything, it had sharpened: Matt’s startled face, the way his lips parted like he was about to say something impossible, the anguish that flickered across his features when Kitt ran.

Kitt closed his eyes, pressing his forehead lightly into the pillow. Matt hadn’t said a single word before he fled. The only voice that had spoken that night was his own, breaking under the weight of fear.

I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I saw you and felt everything at once.

A knock tapped gently at his door before the thoughts could spin into panic.

“Blondie?” Mateo’s voice called through the wood, softer than usual. “You awake? I made you coffee. It’s either a peace offering or a threat.”

Kitt forced his voice to be steady. “Come in.”

Mateo pushed the door open with his hip, holding two mismatched mugs and a Tupperware container balanced on top of them. His hair was damp, a hoodie thrown on over his T-shirt so carelessly that the hood sat crooked on his shoulder. He looked at Kitt, took in the tired face, and softened.

“You look like you lost a fight with your pillow,” Mateo said.

“Probably did,” Kitt muttered.

Mateo set the mugs down and handed him the food. “Eat something. Javier’s gonna be in a mood.”

Kitt pushed himself upright, every muscle protesting. He took a slow sip of coffee, feeling the warmth fill his chest. It didn’t fix the ache there, but it made it bearable.

Mateo settled at the foot of the bed. “You sleep at all?”

“A little,” Kitt whispered.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not yet.”

Mateo nodded immediately, without offense. “Okay. Then just eat. You have about twenty minutes before my overwhelming charm is needed downstairs.”

Kitt let out a short, broken laugh.

When they finished, they stepped into the hallway together. The building felt colder than the outside air. As soon as they reached the staircase, a voice barked from below.

“There you are!”

The landlady stood halfway up the stairs, blocking the path like a troll perched on a bridge. Her wool cardigan sagged off one shoulder, and her bun looked ready to unravel.

“Rent’s due today,” she snapped, eyes flicking to Kitt. “Don’t make me chase you down. I hate chasing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kitt said quickly, his stomach twisting. “I’ll have it this evening.”

“And no more people stomping in and out at all hours,” she added, glaring at Mateo. “This isn’t a revolving door.”

“I live upstairs,” Mateo muttered under his breath. “I revolve nowhere.”

But he said it too softly for her to catch.

When she finally turned and clomped back into her apartment, Kitt felt heat rise in his face — embarrassment, frustration, shame all tightening inside his chest.

Mateo nudged him lightly. “Ignore her. If miserable were a sport, she’d have medals.”

Kitt huffed a small laugh, and they continued down.

The restaurant was already alive when they arrived. The kitchen hissed and clattered, Javier barked orders with the ferocity of someone convinced the world depended on perfectly diced onions, and the warm smell of frying tortillas drifted through the rooms.

Kitt washed his hands, tied on his apron, and slid into the familiar rhythm — scraping pans, stacking plates, letting the work pull him into something steady. Mateo passed him occasionally with trays of food, bumping shoulders or whispering dumb commentary about customers to make him smile.

It worked, at least a little.

Around noon, after a rush so intense Kitt barely had time to think, Javier dismissed them with a wave. “Go. Go. You two look like you’re melting.”

Outside, the air was cold but bright. Kitt unfastened his apron and rubbed the ache out of his wrists.

“You heading to the center now?” Mateo asked.

Kitt nodded. “Yeah. Tom said they’re short today.”

“Want me to walk with you?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Mateo said. “I will anyway.”

And he did — all the way to the youth center’s block, where they parted with a quick shoulder bump. “If you need company tonight,” Mateo said, “knock upstairs. I’ll pretend I wasn’t waiting.”

Kitt smiled faintly. “Okay.”

Inside the youth center, warmth hit him instantly — the kind made by too many bodies in one building and the steady hum of activities in every room. Kids ran past him, squealing, waving drawings in the air like victory flags. A volunteer he barely knew signed him in without question.

Tom found him within minutes.

He approached slowly, as he always did, giving Kitt space to either fold into him or stay standing on his own. Kitt managed a small smile.

“You made it,” Tom said quietly.

“Yeah,” Kitt murmured. “I didn’t want to miss the kids.”

Tom looked at him a moment longer, seeing more than Kitt said. “We’re doing art projects today. Milo has already demanded your presence.”

Kitt’s chest loosened just a little. “He always does.”

The afternoon slipped into gentle chaos — glue sticks everywhere, squeals when glitter spilled, arguments about who got the orange marker, the familiar comfort of tiny hands tugging at his sleeve.

For a while, Kitt didn’t think about the alley. Or Matt. Or Riverbend. Or Lakehurst. Or Stephen.

He only thought about the little boy building a paper house and insisting it needed “sparkle roofs because roofs are boring.”

After the last group left, Kitt stayed behind to wipe down tables. Tom joined him with a rag, moving slower than usual, waiting for the right moment to speak.

“Can I ask you something?” he said gently.

Kitt froze for half a second. “Yeah.”

“If Matt finds me again,” Tom said carefully, “do you want me to tell him anything?”

The cloth in Kitt’s hands stilled.

He didn’t answer immediately. The room suddenly felt too warm, too still.

Tom waited.

Kitt swallowed. “Tell him I’m… alive. And trying.”

Tom nodded. “I can do that.”

“But don’t tell him where I live,” Kitt added quickly. “Not yet. I can’t… I’m not ready.”

“I know,” Tom said softly. “You’re allowed to move slowly.”

Kitt’s breath shuddered. “I miss him.”

Tom didn’t flinch at the admission. “Missing someone doesn’t mean you’re ready to face them. Those things don’t happen at the same pace.”

Kitt stared at the table, tears burning hot behind his eyes. “But what if I lose him because of it?”

Tom shook his head. “Love doesn’t disappear that quickly.”

Kitt closed his eyes. He wasn’t ready to hear the word love yet, not even from someone who meant it in the gentlest possible way.

They finished cleaning in silence.

Tom walked him halfway home before turning back with Harbor, promising to check on him later. Kitt climbed the stairs to his apartment slowly, feeling wrung out but grateful for the steadiness of the day.

Inside, he set down his bag, peeled off his jacket, and collapsed onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, listening to footsteps upstairs — Mateo’s — and the hum of the old refrigerator.

A knock came at the door, sharp and familiar. When he opened it, the landlady stood there with her usual expectant look. Kitt didn’t speak. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled bills he had been holding onto all week, smoothing them with his thumb before placing them in her hand. It was almost everything he had earned. She counted quickly, nodded once, and left. The door shut with a dull click. Kitt stood there for a moment, something heavy settling in his chest—lost, ashamed—but still standing. Still here. He had survived another week.

His chest ached, but not with the same frantic panic as before. It was deeper now. Sadder. More patient.

. . .

In Lakehurst, Matt sat across the kitchen table from his mother, hands wrapped around a mug he wasn’t drinking from. The morning sun streamed in through the window, catching in his dark blond hair. He looked tired. Older. Like worry had sharpened him into someone halfway between a boy and a man.

His parents didn’t hover, but they watched him with quiet worry.

His mother reached across the table first. “You’re thinking about him.”

Matt nodded, jaw tight. “I can’t stop.”

“You found him,” she said softly. “But he ran because he’s scared, not because he doesn’t care.”

“I know,” Matt whispered. “I just… don’t know what to do.”

“You wait,” she said. “And you let him come to you when he can breathe again.”

Matt nodded, blinking hard.

His father cleared his throat, his voice gentle but firm. “We love you, son. And we’re proud of you. You’re handling this with more grace than most adults I know.”

Matt exhaled shakily. “Thanks, Dad. I just hope he knows I’m not going anywhere.”

. . .

Across the street, in a kitchen that had grown too quiet to feel like home, Stephen Wellington sat at the table with his phone in front of him.

For the past few weeks — months, now — guilt had sat on his shoulders like wet sand. Heavy. Suffocating. Impossible to shrug off. He’d tried ignoring it. Then justifying it. Then burying it in anger.

It hadn’t moved.

He looked at Susan, standing at the counter, her back stiff, shoulders tense.

She hadn’t forgiven him.

He doubted he had forgiven himself.

He picked up the phone and scrolled to the number John had given him at the hospital — the man who had saved his life, the man whose kindness he had met with fear and disgust.

His thumb hovered.

He pressed call.

When John answered, Stephen said, voice rough and shaking, “This is Stephen Wellington… the man whose life you saved. I— I was hoping we could talk. If you’re willing.”

John agreed without hesitation.

Fifteen minutes later, Stephen spotted John through the café window before stepping inside. The man sat alone at a corner table, jacket folded neatly beside him, hands wrapped around a warm mug. He looked calm — too calm — and for a moment Stephen nearly turned around and left.

But then John noticed him and stood with gentle politeness.

“Stephen,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m glad you reached out. Are you okay to walk around?”

Stephen’s breath wavered as he took the seat across from him. His palms were sweating.

“Yeah. I… thank you for meeting me,” he said. His voice came out rough, a scrape of gravel. “I know you don’t owe me anything.”

John shook his head lightly. “You don’t need to talk like you’re walking into court. We’re just two men having coffee.”

Stephen swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I deserve that kindness.”

John didn’t answer. He only waited.

After a long silence, Stephen managed, “I wanted to apologize. Properly. I owe you that.”

John sat back a little, attentive. “Go on.”

Stephen’s hands tightened around his cup. “When I was in the hospital, you saved my life. A stranger. A man with no obligation to me. You didn’t hesitate. You— you gave blood. You sat with my wife. You spoke to the doctors on her behalf when I couldn’t.”

He exhaled sharply, the breath almost shaking out of him.

“And then… when you came back with your partner, I…” He closed his eyes. Shame pooled in his stomach. “I recoiled. I judged you. I let everything I was taught… everything I feared… take over. I was rude. And ungrateful. And ignorant.”

John didn’t flinch. “And now?”

Stephen looked up, eyes raw. “Now I want to understand. Because if the man who saved me is gay, then maybe the world isn’t as simple as I thought. And maybe I’ve been wrong… in ways that hurt the people I love.”

John leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Stephen, I’ve had people react worse than you. Anger, disgust, slurs—none of that surprises me anymore. But you didn’t come here to defend yourself. You came here to learn. That tells me more about your character than your fear ever did.”

Stephen swallowed. “I’m afraid my fear has already cost me my son.”

John’s expression softened. “Tell me about him.”

Stephen hesitated, but the words came, halting and painful. “He’s… good. Quiet. Smart. Talented. Always tried to do the right thing. And I—” He stopped, rubbing a hand over his face. “I pushed him out. I didn’t ask if he was scared. I didn’t ask what he needed. I just reacted. Violently. Like some reflex I never questioned.”

John nodded slowly. “Because that’s what you were taught.”

“Yes,” Stephen whispered. “My whole life, I’ve heard that homosexuality is a sin. That it ruins families. That God condemns it. That good men don’t… feel that way.”

“And now?”

Stephen’s jaw tightened. “Now I know a good man saved my life. And he’s gay. And he didn’t seem sinful. Or broken. Or less of a man.”

John smiled faintly. “Mark — my partner — would laugh if he heard you say that. He likes being called a man’s man. Too much, actually.”

Despite himself, Stephen let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

John continued gently, “Stephen… being gay isn’t a corruption. It’s not a deviation. It’s simply who a person is. The way your son feels, the way he loves — it won’t make him less. It won’t make him dangerous. It won’t make him lost.”

Stephen’s eyes stung. “But I pushed him out. I told him—” His voice cracked. “I told him to leave. I let him go out into the cold. With nothing. I didn’t even think—”

John’s voice softened even more. “You regret it.”

“Every second I breathe,” Stephen whispered.

John leaned in. “Then start by becoming the kind of man he could come home to.”

Stephen shook his head, tears burning hot behind his eyes. “What if he never comes back?”

“Then you still become that man,” John said simply. “Because love isn’t a bargain. It’s a direction.”

Stephen covered his mouth with one hand, shoulders trembling. “I don’t know where he is. God, I don’t even know if he’s warm. Or fed. Or safe.”

“Then you keep unlearning the fear,” John said. “And when the chance comes — and it will — you won’t fail him again.”

Stephen nodded, a slow, aching motion. “Will you… help me? I don’t know what I need to unlearn. I don’t know what steps to take.”

John offered a sad, kind smile. “You just took the hardest step already.”

Stephen couldn’t speak for a moment. He only nodded again, eyes wet.

John reached across the table and gently touched his arm. “You are not a lost cause, Stephen. And your son… I promise you he’s not lost forever. And if he’s as smart as you said, I’m sure he is surviving somewhere.”

Stephen closed his eyes, letting those words settle into the space inside him where guilt had been sitting heavy for weeks.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For saving my life. And for this.”

John’s expression warmed. “For what?”

“For giving me a way back,” Stephen said. “Even if my son isn’t ready to take it.”

The drive home felt longer than usual, though the roads were clear and the sky a pale stretch of late-morning blue. Stephen kept both hands tight on the wheel, knuckles white, John’s words turning over and over in his mind like stones polished in a river.

Become the kind of man he could come home to.
Love is not a bargain.
Unlearn the fear.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, his chest felt tight with something he hadn’t allowed himself in weeks — hope, trembling and fragile, like a flame cupped between shaking hands.

He sat there for a long minute, engine ticking as it cooled, staring across the quiet suburban street. The Everest house stood steady and sunlit, a familiar anchor in the neighborhood. He had known Michael and Eva for years — neighborhood meetings, quick hellos in the grocery store. They had always been kind, warm, decent.

And their son…
Stephen closed his eyes briefly.

What he did remember — what he couldn’t forget — was the look on Matt’s face the night everything fell apart. Matt had been standing on the sidewalk across the street, pale with fear and worry, his breath clouding in the freezing air as he stared at the Wellington house like something terrible was happening inside.

Stephen remembered that expression.
The desperation in it.
The helplessness.
The way the boy had stood there, fists half-clenched, looking like he wanted to tear the front door off its hinges to get to Kitt.

And later, in the days that followed, Stephen had noticed how often Matt paced the street, how he watched the sidewalk, how he lingered near the mailbox like a boy bracing for news he feared would never come.

Stephen hadn’t missed those things.

They haunted him now. He couldn’t forget it.

With a tightening in his throat, he shut off the engine, stepped out into the cold air, and crossed the street.

Every step felt heavier than the last, but he didn’t turn back. He climbed the Everest porch and knocked, fingers trembling.

The door opened to Eva, her warm, brown eyes lifting in surprise before softening into something gentler.

“Stephen?” she murmured. “Are you all right?”

He opened his mouth, but the answer stuck. He shook his head once, helpless. “I… need to speak with you. And Michael. And Matt, if he’s here.”

Eva seemed to understand instantly — not the details, but the weight. “Come in.”

The house smelled like coffee and cinnamon waffles. Michael appeared from the hallway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, concern etching lines into his forehead.

“Stephen,” he said slowly. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Stephen answered, voice ragged. “No. Not even close.”

Eva guided him to the couch. She sat beside him; Michael took the armchair opposite. The room was quiet, steadying. A space that felt safe even to someone who did not feel safe inside himself.

After a moment, Matt stepped in from the kitchen, still in his Lakehurst High hoodie, hair damp from a shower. The moment he saw Stephen, his expression shifted — guarded, wary, but not cruel.

“Mr. Wellington?” he said carefully.

Stephen swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet the boy’s eyes.

“Matt,” he whispered. “I owe you an apology.”

Matt blinked, startled.

Stephen’s voice broke. “I blamed you for something that was never your fault. I said things that were cruel. Wrong. I thought… I thought if I pushed hard enough, I could force the world to stay the way I understood it.” He looked down at his hands. “But I hurt my son. And I hurt you.”

Silence pressed around them, thick and warm.

Eva reached for Michael’s hand.

Stephen continued, barely holding himself together. “I went to speak with someone today — a man who… who saved my life. And I realized I’ve been wrong. About so many things. About people. About my son. About love.” He looked at Matt again, eyes glassy. “I want to find him. I want to bring him home. Or… at least let him know that home is here if he wants it.”

Matt’s breath shook, just once.

Stephen leaned forward slightly, voice smaller than Matt had ever heard it. “You’ve… always cared about him. I can see that now. You were a good friend to him. Better than I allowed myself to believe.” His voice cracked. “Please. Help me find him. Help me make this right.”

Matt’s jaw tightened, not with anger, but with something close to grief. He took a long breath before answering.

“I’ve been looking for him since the night he left,” he said softly.

Stephen’s head snapped up. “You have?”

“Almost every day. Every weekend,” Matt whispered. “Every chance I get. I’ve searched this town in every nook and cranny. I’ve talked to people who might’ve seen him. I’ve searched online — checked shelters, emergency rooms, missing persons lists. I’ve—” His voice faltered. “I never stopped.”

Eva pressed a hand over her mouth.

Michael looked down at his lap, heartbroken.

Stephen felt the world tilt around him. “I… didn’t know.”

Matt’s chin trembled, but he lifted it. “I’m not giving up on him. I never will.”

“And have you gotten any clues? Anything?”

The room went very still.

Matt felt his mother’s gaze before he saw it — a gentle, steady look, full of quiet question. Eva’s eyes flicked to him, soft but searching. She knew her son better than anyone. She could read the tightness in his shoulders, the way his thumb pressed against his palm, the slight tremor at the corner of his mouth.

Do you know where he is? her eyes asked.
Do you want to tell him?

Michael noticed it too, his breath catching just enough to betray that he understood the silent conversation happening in front of him.

Matt didn’t look away.
Didn’t blink.

He gave the smallest, sharpest shake of his head.

His mother’s brows drew together, worry deepening — but she accepted it without a word.

Then Matt spoke aloud, his voice low but unwavering.

“I don’t know where he is.”

Stephen let out a shuddering breath that sagged his entire frame, exhausted by hope and fear colliding inside him. He didn’t notice the subtle exchange across the room — the quiet vow Matt and Eva shared. But Matt’s parents did. They saw the truth behind their son’s words, buried beneath the gentle lie meant to protect Kitt from being rushed or cornered too soon.

Eva laid a hand over Matt’s — not to push, not to persuade, but simply to steady him — her thumb brushing once, mother-soft.

Matt didn’t look away from Stephen.
He held his ground.

His heart hurt.
His chest burned.
But his voice stayed firm.

“I don’t know,” he repeated softly.

Stephen inhaled, slow and shaking. “And when—when you find him… will you tell me?”

Matt hesitated.

Only a second.

But Stephen noticed.

“Matt,” he said softly, “please.”

Matt swallowed, eyes shining. He looked down at his hands, then back up.

“I’ll tell you,” he said at last. “But not before I know he’s safe. And not before he’s ready.” His voice grew firmer. “I’m not putting him back into anything that hurts him. Not again.”

Stephen stiffened — not insulted, but wounded by his own history. He nodded, slow and pained.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “I… I lost the right to ask anything more.”

“No,” Eva murmured gently, stepping closer. “You didn’t lose the right to hope. You lost the right to rush him. That’s different.”

Stephen closed his eyes, tears slipping down silently.

After a long minute, he stood, straightened himself, and looked at Matt with raw sincerity.

“Thank you,” he said. “For loving him. For looking for him. For being the kind of friend I wasn’t.”

Matt’s breath hitched. “He deserves—” His voice cracked. “He deserves everything good.”

Stephen nodded, stepped back toward the door, and paused one last time.

“When the moment comes,” he said softly, “I’ll be ready to listen. To change. To be his father again.”

He left with the weight of both regret and hope sitting heavy in his chest — and for the first time since Kitt ran into the snow, that hope felt real.

. . .

That night, back in Riverbend, Kitt lay curled on his bed, blanket pulled high over his chest. The room felt small, but not suffocating. His thoughts drifted — to the kids, to Tom, to the tray he dropped, to the look on Matt’s face.

He whispered into the dark, barely breathing the words.

“When I’m ready… please still be there.”

Miles away in Lakehurst, Matt stared at his lock screen — the picture of him and Kitt at the lake — and whispered back as if the distance between them were only a few inches.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And somewhere between those two whispers, something began — not healed, not fixed, but shifted enough to become hope.