Somewhere Only We Know - 27. Eighteen

Late autumn settled slowly over Riverbend, the kind of season that felt like a long inhale before winter exhaled across the town. The trees had already surrendered most of their leaves, leaving branches bare and delicate against a sky that softened from gray to a washed-out silver each morning. Kitt walked through that quiet as he made his way to the restaurant, hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets, the cold brushing his cheeks with a whisper of the winter that wasn’t far behind.

Inside Javier’s kitchen, warmth enveloped him instantly. The smell of fried tortillas, onions, peppers, and simmering broth clung to the air. Mateo was already at the counter, hair still damp from a rushed shower, flirting with the espresso machine like it might flirt back. Javier tossed a dish towel in Kitt’s direction without turning around.

“You’re on dishes,” Javier said, which was what he always said, no matter the day or hour.

“Morning to you too,” Kitt replied softly.

Mateo bumped his shoulder and grinned. “Cheer up, güero. You survived another night.”

Kitt shrugged, moving into his rhythm at the sink. The heat of the water seeped into his fingers, thawing the morning chill. Sometimes Mateo drifted by, tapping him on the shoulder or leaning on the counter to tell him some outrageous story from Lavender Light—stories full of neon lights, drunk bachelorettes, and regulars who flirted like it was a religion. The stories were always exaggerated, always too loud for the small kitchen, and always enough to make Kitt huff a quiet laugh he tried (and failed) to hide.

The morning passed quickly, swallowed by noise and movement, and when the lunch prep began, Javier waved them off with his usual combination of dismissal and affection.

“Lunch rush comes soon,” he said. “Get out before you annoy me. Mateo, I need you this afternoon.”

“What? Why?”

“Julius is running late. You’ll cover for him until he gets here.”

“You know I sleep in the afternoon, right?”

Javier grunted and waved them off.

They stepped outside into the crisp air. Mateo cracked open a can of soda and handed it to Kitt.

“You doing anything tonight?” Mateo asked.

“Working at the youth center,” Kitt said.

Mateo grinned. “Go entertain your fan club.”

Kitt rolled his eyes, but warmth bloomed somewhere soft inside him. He lifted a hand and crossed the street, making his way toward the center.

He didn’t expect the noise when he pushed open the door.

“KITT!!”

A chorus of tiny voices filled the room as half a dozen kids popped up from behind desks, chairs, and even the reading nook, throwing a chaotic spray of paper confetti into the air.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

Kitt froze, heart slamming against his ribs.

He had not told them. Not intentionally, anyway. Maybe one had overheard something; maybe Tom had mentioned it; maybe kids had a sixth sense for things that mattered.

But their smiles — bright, sincere, toothy — hit him with such force that something inside him cracked open just a little.

“You guys…” he whispered.

A girl with pigtails ran forward holding a handmade card — crooked, glitter-smudged, with a big uneven heart drawn in crayon.

“We all made it,” she said proudly. “Tom helped with the spelling. Harbor helped with the drool.”

Right on cue, Harbor bounded up to him, tail wagging so enthusiastically that his entire body shook. The dog nudged Kitt’s hand with his nose and let out a soft, happy huff.

Tom appeared behind the kids, smiling gently. “They insisted.”

Kitt swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he whispered — to the kids, to Harbor, to the whole room.

They spent the next three hours making popsicle-stick animals, painting leaves, and occasionally wiping confetti off high shelves when the kids found creative ways to toss more of it into the air. Kitt let himself laugh with them, bright and unguarded. Even Tom caught him smiling sometimes and didn’t comment on it, just tucked it away quietly like a small victory.

When the last kid had left with a sticky hand and a crooked craft project, Tom nodded toward the door.

“Before you go,” he said softly, “there’s something else.”

Kitt blinked. “What?”

“Dinner,” Tom said. “At my house. Nothing fancy. Just a meal with people who care about you.”

Kitt stared at him, stunned. “Tom, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” Tom said. “But I want to.”

He mentioned Leah would be there too, bringing something she called “the world’s least predictable casserole.” Kitt didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He didn’t know when he had become someone people planned meals for. He didn’t know when he had become someone who deserved a warm place to sit on his birthday.

But he followed Tom and Harbor down the block, heart thudding in a strange mixture of gratitude and fear.

. . .

A bit earlier, in Lakehurst, Matt Everett sat behind the wheel of his truck, parked on the far side of Riverbend’s main street. He had driven up before dawn, unable to sit still with the knowledge of what day it was. He didn’t know why he needed to be here — maybe because hope had always been the one thing he couldn't seem to put down.

He had a letter in his coat pocket. He had rewritten it three times.

He approached Javier’s restaurant with his hood up, trying not to look like someone who had no business being there. Inside, he could hear the clatter of pans and Javier’s unmistakable voice swearing in Spanish about flour shortages.

Matt stepped inside quietly.

Mateo saw him first.

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as he looked Matt up and down. Not hostile — assessing.

“You lost, man?” Mateo said, eyebrows lifting.

Matt hesitated. “No. I’m… looking for someone.”

Mateo crossed his arms, protective instinct flaring. “Okay. And who would that be?”

Matt swallowed. “His name is Kitt.”

Something flickered across Mateo’s expression — recognition, followed by something sharper, almost wary.

“He’s not here right now,” Mateo said, voice softer but not unguarded.

“I know,” Matt said. He pulled the folded letter from his coat. “Could you give him this? And tell him… happy birthday.”

Mateo stared at the letter, then at Matt’s face. A boy with brown eyes that held far more exhaustion and hope than any eighteen-year-old should have. Mateo’s posture eased, just slightly.

“You’re the guy from the other day,” Mateo murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. “The one Kitt saw. The reason he ran.”

Matt said nothing, but the answer was obvious.

Mateo nodded once. Slowly. As if making a decision he didn’t entirely expect himself to make.

“I’ll give it to him,” Mateo said. “I promise.”

Matt breathed out — relief mixed with fear. “Thank you.”

He didn’t ask to wait.
He didn’t ask to see him.
He didn’t even look toward the back where he imagined Kitt might usually be.

He turned to leave.

Mateo watched him, understanding more than Matt said.

As Matt reached the door, Mateo called out, “Hey.”

Matt paused.

“He’ll read it,” Mateo said gently. “And he’ll know it mattered.”

Matt nodded once and stepped back into the cold, choosing not to look back.

. . .

That evening, Kitt sat at Tom’s dining table, staring at a plate of homemade food like it was something sacred. Leah had brought the casserole — suspiciously green and strangely delicious — and Harbor rested his head on Kitt’s thigh throughout most of the meal, as if insisting he belonged there.

Leah asked him questions about the youth center. Tom told an embarrassing story about Harbor stealing muffins from the staff room. Kitt laughed, and each time he did, Tom’s eyes softened with something like pride.

Then Mateo arrived, knocking once before letting himself in. He carried a paper bag of empanadas and handed them to Leah without explanation.

“Kitt,” he said, nodding.

“Hey,” Kitt replied, surprised to see him. “I thought you were working tonight.”

“Got the night off,” Mateo said with a shrug. “Lucky you.” He sat beside Kitt, nudging his shoulder. “Got something for you.”

He pulled a folded envelope from his pocket and held it out carefully.

Kitt froze.

The handwriting on the front was unmistakable.

His breath hitched, chest tightening painfully.

Mateo gave him space, pretending to be fascinated by Harbor’s attempt to beg for food from Tom.

Hands trembling, Kitt opened the letter.

Matt’s handwriting spilled across the page, uneven in places, the ink darker where it had pressed too hard.

Kitt,
Happy birthday. I hope today is warm. I hope it’s safe. I hope someone is kind to you.
Things have changed at home. I won’t say much now, but I promise you this — when you’re ready, there will be a place you can come back to. A real place. A safe place. I’ll make sure of that.
You don’t have to rush.
Just promise me you won’t run from me again.
I’m not asking you to come home. I’m asking you to let yourself have one someday.
Take your time. I’m here.
— Matt

Kitt read it twice. Then a third time.

Tears blurred the ink.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, breath shaking.

Tom noticed but didn’t pry. Leah quietly set a glass of water near him. Mateo pretended not to watch, though he absolutely was.

Kitt folded the letter carefully, reverently, like something fragile and precious.

He whispered, “He came.”

Mateo nodded. “Yeah. After you left.”

Kitt swallowed hard, heart aching in a way that wasn’t entirely painful anymore — just overwhelming.

He didn’t feel pulled apart this time.
He felt… steadied.
As if the world had tilted, but not enough to knock him off his feet.

After dinner, Tom insisted on cake. Leah sang off-key. Mateo lit a candle that nearly ignited his sleeve. Harbor barked along for no reason at all.

And Kitt — turning eighteen in a place he never expected — felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Soft, cautious, trembling.
But hope all the same.

. . .

Matt didn’t look back as he stepped out of the restaurant. The door swung shut behind him with a soft clatter of glass and metal, swallowing the heat and noise of Javier’s kitchen. The cold hit him immediately, sharp enough to sting his eyes. He drew his jacket tighter around him and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The letter was gone. In someone else’s hands now. In the world.

He had done everything he could in that moment — without pushing, without forcing himself into Kitt’s fragile space, without getting in the way of whatever life Kitt had pieced together. The knowledge steadied him a little, but it didn’t make the hollow ache in his chest loosen.

He walked down the street slowly, boots scraping over frost-dusted pavement. Riverbend felt smaller than he remembered — narrow storefronts, flickering signs, the smell of coffee drifting from a corner bakery, the sound of a bus groaning around a turn. He tried to picture Kitt somewhere in this town: rounding a corner, tying his apron behind his back, laughing at something someone said, brushing flour off his hands, standing in the doorway of a place that wasn’t home.

He tried not to picture him crying.

After a few minutes, Matt reached his truck. He sat in the cab without turning on the engine, fingers curled loosely around the steering wheel. The sky was pale, the faint suggestion of sunlight trying to cut through clouds but not quite succeeding. He looked down at his hands.

“Happy birthday, love” he whispered again, to no one and someone at once.

He turned the key, gently this time. The engine hummed to life. He pulled away from the curb, resisting the urge to look in the rearview mirror — not because he didn’t want to, but because looking back had never brought Kitt closer.

The road home felt longer than the road there.

. . .

The Wellington house had become unrecognizable since the night Kitt left. The silence was no longer the heavy, angry kind that Stephen used to enforce with his presence. It was a hollow silence, emptied of certainty, stripped of self-righteousness—filled instead with something small and fragile and frighteningly unfamiliar.

Guilt.

Not the kind that came with being caught or challenged, but the kind that sank into his bones and stayed there. The kind that woke him at night with a knot in his chest, tightening until he had to sit up and press a hand to his heart just to breathe.

Susan moved quietly through the house that morning, as though afraid any sudden movement might tip Stephen further into whatever grief he was barely holding together. She made coffee but forgot to drink it. She folded towels and set them down only to realize she’d folded them twice. She paused often—at the staircase, the hallway, the window overlooking the yard—as if expecting to see her son walk past with his backpack slung over one shoulder and an apologetic smile on his face.

Eighteen years old today.

The thought kept catching in her throat like a sharp stone.

She found Stephen in the living room, seated on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His Bible lay open beside him—not at a passage he planned to read, just left there earlier this morning after he’d flipped through pages without seeing a single word.

He looked older than she had ever seen him.
Not stern.
Not stubborn.
Not righteous.

Just… afraid.

She approached him slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve been up since before dawn.”

He didn’t look at her. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“You haven’t slept much lately.”

He exhaled shakily, fingers interlacing and tightening until his knuckles blanched. “I… I keep thinking about him. About that night. About the things I said. The things I…” His voice cracked, and he lowered his head further. “I told myself I was protecting him, but all I did was push him away.”

She sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. “I know.”

He swallowed hard. “He should be here today. Eating breakfast. Complaining about the cold. Teasing me about getting older.” He laughed once—short, broken. “I can’t even remember the last thing he said before he walked out that door.”

“You told him to leave,” she whispered gently, no cruelty in the words—just truth. “And then he did.”

Stephen winced as though she’d pressed a bruise. His breath trembled. “You were right. What kind of father does that?”

“A scared one,” she said softly. “A confused one. But not a lost cause.”

He wiped at his eyes, surprised to find them wet. He hadn’t cried in front of anyone since he was a boy. “I don’t deserve forgiveness,” he whispered.

“Maybe not,” Susan said, voice warm but firm. “But that’s not the question. The question is whether you can be someone worth forgiving.”

He let out a long, uneven breath.

She took his hand gently. “Stephen, repentance isn’t a thought. It’s a direction. You’re walking it now.”

His shoulders sagged, relief and grief folding together. “I just want my son back,” he whispered—raw, stripped bare. “I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to tell him I was wrong.”

“I hope you get the chance,” she murmured. “I hope we get that chance.”

“But what if we don’t?” His voice broke again. “What if I ruined everything?”

Susan’s eyes softened as she squeezed his hand. “Then you keep changing. You keep trying. You become the kind of man he deserved all along.”

A knock at the door startled them both.

Stephen looked up instantly, hope flaring painfully and dying just as quickly. It couldn’t be him. He knew that. But hope was cruel.

Susan rose to answer it.

When she opened the door, Matt stood on the porch—shoulders tense, eyes tired, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. The cold reddened his cheeks, but it was the ache beneath his eyes that struck her most.

“Matt,” she breathed. “Oh, sweetheart…”

Stephen stood behind her, uncertain, remorse written plainly across his face. For a moment, Matt didn’t know where to look.

“I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Matt said quietly.

“You didn’t,” Susan said. Her voice was gentle. She stepped aside slightly, though he didn’t move to enter.

Stephen cleared his throat, voice low. “Matthew… thank you for coming.”

Matt didn’t respond right away. He looked at both of them—really looked—and something in his expression softened. He had expected denial. Or defensiveness. Or coldness.

He hadn’t expected… this.

How heavy guilt looked on Stephen.
How worry looked on Susan.
How grief lived between them like a shared shadow.

“I just wanted to check in,” Matt said finally. “I—I know what day it is.”

Stephen closed his eyes briefly, the words slicing through him.

“I wanted you to know,” Matt continued, voice steadier now, “I’m still looking for him. I never stopped.”

Stephen’s chin trembled. “And I’m grateful,” he whispered, the words thick with emotion he could no longer hide.

Matt hesitated, then added quietly, “When he’s ready… I’ll bring him home.”

He didn’t say whose home.
He didn’t need to.

Susan’s eyes shimmered. She reached out, touching his arm. “Matt… honey… thank you.”

Stephen looked at him with a kind of broken sincerity. “I want to make things right,” he said softly. “If he ever… if he ever wants to see me again, I’ll be here. Changed. Trying.” He swallowed. “I won’t fail him again.”

Matt nodded slowly. “I’ll… let him know that. When he’s ready.”

He took a small step back, breath ghosting in the cold air. “I should go. I just… didn’t want you to spend today alone.”

Susan’s voice trembled when she said, “You’re a good boy, Matt.”

“And a loyal friend,” Stephen added quietly, meaning every word.

Matt nodded once, turned, and walked down the steps toward his truck.

He didn’t look back.

But inside the Wellington house, both parents watched him go—Susan with quiet gratitude, Stephen with a heart cracked open for the first time, finally soft enough to change.

The chair at the kitchen table was still empty.

But for the first time since that night, there was room—real, trembling room—for hope.

. . .

Matt didn’t go far when he left the Wellington house — only across the quiet street to his own front porch, where the afternoon light had already thinned to early dusk. His breath fogged gently in the chill, his hands still trembling from the conversation he’d just had. He let himself into the house, barely registering his mother’s soft questions from the living room. He needed air, movement, something to burn the ache in his chest into something he could hold.

So after dropping his jacket upstairs, he grabbed his keys again and slid back outside — not to go anywhere specific, but simply to drive, to think, to breathe.

He didn’t head toward Riverbend, not this time. Not tonight.
Just the long, looping roads outside of Lakehurst, the ones that wound past bare trees and fading cornfields and old barns that had seen better years. The kind of roads that let him replay the afternoon without interruption, without expectation.

He rolled the window down halfway. Cold air rushed in.
It helped.
A little.

He could still hear Stephen’s voice trembling.
He could still see Susan’s eyes shining with gratitude and grief.
He could still feel the weight of the empty chair at their kitchen table.

“Happy birthday, Kitt,” he whispered into the dark. “Wherever you are.”

He drove until the first stars blinked awake in the sky.
Then he turned the truck around and headed home, hope — thin but painfully real — thrumming beneath his ribs.

. . .

Meanwhile, in Riverbend…

Tom’s house glowed softly in lamplight as evening settled around it. The birthday meal had dwindled to crumbs and empty plates. Leah had slipped home after hugging Kitt tightly, telling him to take it easy, make a wish, and that she expected “at least eighty more birthdays with better cake.”

Mateo lounged across from Kitt on the living room rug, legs stretched out, half a cookie in hand. He watched Kitt staring at the folded letter again, brows drawn, expression soft in a way Mateo rarely saw.

“So,” Mateo said, breaking the quiet. “That’s Matt?”

Kitt blinked, startled. “Huh?”

“You’ve said his name maybe twelve times tonight without realizing it.” Mateo smirked. “So yeah. That’s Matt.”

Kitt’s ears warmed, and he set the letter down slowly. “He’s… he turned eighteen a couple months ago,” Kitt whispered. “I didn’t even get to say anything to him.”

“Older guy. Nice,” Mateo teased lightly.

Kitt ducked his head, but Mateo’s tone stayed gentle. He wasn’t teasing to provoke — only to let Kitt talk.

“He’s a quarterback,” Kitt murmured. “A really good one. One of the best in the region, actually.”

Mateo raised an eyebrow. “A jock and he cares about you like that? Damn, okay.”

Kitt managed a tiny smile. “He’s not like… the stereotype. He’s loud and goofy and so stupidly brave sometimes it scares me.”

“Sounds like you’re in love with him,” Mateo said — not accusing, just observing.

Kitt didn’t deny it. He just swallowed hard and kept going.

“We have this lake,” he whispered. “Back in Lakehurst. It’s kind of… ours. We used to go there all the time. Swim in summer. Talk in winter. When things got hard, that’s always where we ended up.”

Mateo softened. “You had a whole world with him.”

Kitt’s voice cracked faintly. “Yeah.”

Mateo picked at a thread on his sleeve, thinking. “He must’ve really meant it when he said he loved you. To show up here on your birthday like that? To write you things like that?”

Kitt didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight.

Mateo let the quiet settle around them before nudging his foot against Kitt’s. “You’re allowed to miss him, you know. You’re allowed to want him.”

Kitt blinked down at his hands. “It hurts.”

“Yeah,” Mateo said softly. “That’s how you know it was real.”