Somewhere Only We Know - 29. Steps Forward, Shadows Behind

Kitt wasn’t sure when the air in Riverbend had begun to taste different—lighter somehow, less sharp around the edges—but on the afternoon he sat at Tom’s dining table again, it felt real. November sunlight slipped through the windows in pale ribbons, catching on the papers Tom laid out between them. Harbor lay sprawled at Kitt’s feet, tail thumping lazily every now and then as if reminding him he wasn’t alone.

Tom pushed a packet closer. “Okay,” he said gently, “we’ll start with the science section. Biology’s usually the toughest for people.”

Kitt exhaled, rubbing his palms together. “There was one semester back in Lakehurst where my grade dipped. My dad… wasn’t thrilled.”

Tom looked up. “How far did it dip?”

“B+.”

Before Tom could respond, a voice drifted from behind them—dramatic, horrified, and entirely Mateo.

“A B+?” Mateo gasped, staggering into the room like he’d been mortally wounded. He pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh no. What a tragedy. Call the national guard. Kitt Wellington has committed a crime against academia.”

Kitt’s laugh came before he could stop it. Mateo plopped into the chair beside him and flicked one of the worksheets. “Biology? Please. You already know this. Tom’s just being a responsible adult.”

Tom sighed. “Which is apparently a crime now.”

“Big crime,” Mateo said, grinning. “Punishable by boredom.”

Kitt shook his head and skimmed the first page. The words didn’t intimidate him like he’d expected—they looked… familiar. Memorable. Manageable. “I think I remember most of this,” he murmured.

“Of course you do,” Mateo replied, nudging his shoulder. “You’re the smart one among us. I’m here for moral support. And to steal snacks.”

Tom laughed quietly and circled the first question on the sheet. “You don’t need rescuing, Kitt. You just need direction.”

Kitt flushed—a mix of embarrassment and relief. It had been a long time since someone believed in him simply, without conditions or disappointment trailing behind it like a shadow.

They worked for an hour, Tom guiding him through diagrams and processes, Mateo offering commentary so chaotic Tom occasionally threatened to ban him from the room entirely. But every time Kitt drifted to frustration, Mateo bumped him back to humor, and Tom pulled him back to clarity.

It wasn’t easy.
But it wasn’t impossible.
It felt like something he could actually do.

When they finally paused, Tom rose to refill his coffee. “You’re doing well,” he said over his shoulder. “Really well. If we keep this pace, you can test before winter break.”

Kitt’s heart stuttered. “That soon?”

“Yes,” Tom said simply. “You have the foundation. You just need to trust it.”

Mateo stretched, draping his arms behind his head. “See? Genius. Absolute genius. I keep telling you.”

Kitt rolled his eyes, but warmth curled unexpectedly in his chest. “Yeah, yeah.”

. . .

The sun had dipped lower by the time Kitt walked back to his apartment. The air carried the faint smell of burning leaves, and the sky had shifted to the soft blue-gray of early evening. His steps slowed at the sight of the small stationery store across the street—the one with postcards in the window, all faded edges and old photographs of Riverbend landmarks.

He wasn’t planning to stop.
But he did.

A bell chimed softly when he entered. He moved to the back aisle, letting his fingers trail over glossy cards of the town square, the river, the old bridge. He picked one without thinking—a quiet picture of the lake at dusk, the water dark and still.

Back at his desk that night, he stared at the blank space on the back of the card until his vision blurred. What was he supposed to say? What words could undo the ruin of February, the screaming, the cold, the shattered phone?

In the end, he kept it simple.

I’m safe.

I’m eating.

I’m trying.
Please don’t worry.
I just need more time.
—Kitt

No address.
No apology.
No promises.

Just… truth.

He sealed it before he could second-guess himself and slipped it into the mailbox down the block.

When he walked home, he felt both heavier and lighter—like he’d let go of something, but hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding it.

. . .

Two days later, Matt Everest stood under the bright white stadium lights of Lakehurst High, his breath fogging in the crisp evening air. The stands were full—parents bundled in scarves, students wrapped in school colors, the marching band thundering from the bleachers. Somewhere in the top row, a Northbridge University scout sat with a clipboard and a cup of hot chocolate.

Matt bounced lightly on his feet, helmet tucked under his arm. He didn’t scan the crowd anymore; he knew Kitt wasn’t here. But the ache of that knowledge had shifted. Instead of feeling like an open wound, it felt like a reason to try harder.

The whistle blew.
The game exploded around him.

He moved like someone who had learned to breathe again. His passes cut through the cold air with precision, his footwork sharp, his patience calm. When he ran the ball in for a touchdown, the stadium roared loud enough to shake the turf beneath him.

At halftime, as he toweled sweat from his face, his phone buzzed.

Lindsay: Proud of you. You played incredible tonight. I hope you’re doing okay.

Matt stared at the screen for a moment, then typed:

Matt: Thanks. Means a lot. Hope you’re doing well too.

He meant every word.

But as the stadium lights flickered overhead and the band resumed their rehearsals, Matt kept glancing at the screen—not for scouts, not for friends, not even for Lindsay.

The only message he wanted was the one that never came.

Kitt’s.

. . .

In Lakehurst, at the same hour the crowd screamed Matt’s name, Susan Wellington stepped onto their front porch with a cup of tea. The mailbox sat at the end of the walkway, frosted around the edges. She pulled her cardigan tighter and trudged down, expecting bills, advertisements, holiday catalogs.

She was not expecting a postcard.

Her breath caught in her chest as she turned it over, her fingers trembling before she even recognized the handwriting.

“Kitt…” she whispered.

Inside, Stephen sat at the kitchen table with his Bible open in front of him, though he hadn’t been reading for a long time. When Susan entered, he looked up—slowly, cautiously.

She held up the postcard with shaking hands.

His chair scraped back. “Is that—?”

She nodded, tears spilling over. “He’s alive. He’s alive, Stephen.”

He reached for the card as if it might vanish. His eyes scanned the message. He pressed a fist against his mouth, shoulders bowing, breath breaking in a disbelieving sob.

He whispered it like a prayer.

“Thank God… thank God…”

Susan wrapped her arms around him as he leaned forward, trembling in her arms.

He had imagined every possibility—accident, injury, freezing to death in the woods—and now here was his son’s handwriting, steady and real.

Alive.
Trying.

And still, painfully far away.

Susan brushed his hair back gently. “He needs time. We have to give him that.”

Stephen nodded, tears dripping onto the kitchen table.

He did not ask where Kitt was.
He did not demand a return.
He did not insist the postcard meant forgiveness.

He just held the card to his chest like something sacred and whispered, “I’m sorry,” over and over again.

. . .

Back in Riverbend, in the soft hum of his small room, Kitt sat on the edge of his bed with Tom’s biology packet open in his lap. Mateo had scribbled a ridiculous doodle in the corner earlier—something vaguely resembling a mitochondrion wearing sunglasses—and every time Kitt glanced at it, the weight in his chest loosened.

He wasn’t fixed.
He wasn’t whole.
He wasn’t ready.

But he was moving.
Slowly.
Clumsily.
Forward.

He closed his eyes, pulling Matt’s letter from his nightstand drawer, fingers brushing over the familiar handwriting.

When you’re ready, there will be a place you can come back to.
A real place.
A safe place.

Kitt pressed the paper to his chest.

“I’m trying,” he whispered into the quiet.

Far away, beneath the stadium lights of Lakehurst, Matt Everest stood at the fifty-yard line after the game, cooling breath rising around him like smoke. He watched his teammates celebrate but didn’t join. Instead, he looked up at the stars, the ache in his chest familiar, steady.

“I’m waiting,” he murmured into the night.

Different towns.
Different lives.
Same longing.

The steps forward had begun.
But the shadows behind them were not done whispering yet.

. . .

One day, Kitt hadn’t meant to wander toward the town square after studying, but his feet carried him there anyway. Maybe it was the cold dusk wind brushing against his jacket, or the way the holiday lights were beginning to appear in shop windows even though it was only early November. Maybe it was the soft ache inside him that had been getting louder with every passing day.

Or maybe—if he was honest—it was because the diner felt like a piece of Matt he could still touch.

He had enough money saved that he didn’t need to ration every dollar now. Not that he had a lot, but he had enough. Enough for something warm. Enough for something real. Enough to pretend, just for an hour, that he was someone who didn’t need to count every coin before deciding if he could eat.

He pushed open the diner door and the small bell chimed above him. The smell hit first—fried batter, warm syrup, old coffee—and something inside him cracked quietly. This was the same place he had stood on his very first night in Riverbend, shoulders shaking, hands freezing, too ashamed to ask for anything except water.

The same place he and Matt had once shared pancakes and laughed over a spilled milkshake.

He slid into that same booth.

A waitress approached, pad in hand, her expression warm but tired. When she opened her mouth to greet him, she stopped instead, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in recognition.

“…Have you been here before?” she asked.

Kitt’s breath hitched. His voice came out soft. “Yeah. A long time ago.”

“Hm.” She tilted her head, studying him longer than necessary. “What can I get you?”

He swallowed. “Pancakes. The big stack. And a vanilla milkshake.”

Her pen paused mid-stroke. Slowly, she smiled. “Haven’t heard that order in a while.”

His heart stumbled. He didn’t ask what she meant. He couldn’t.

When she returned with the plate and glass, she set something else down too—a folded slip of paper. Not a receipt. Not a promotion. A note.

She nudged it toward him. “For you.”

Kitt blinked. “For me?”

She lowered her voice. “I’ve been holding onto that for months.”

His hand trembled as he picked it up. The paper was warm from her fingers, soft at the edges from being carried too long. He unfolded it slowly, breath shallow.

A phone number.
Just a phone number.
But he would have known that handwriting anywhere.

Matt.

Kitt’s entire body went weightless.

“When…?” he whispered. “When did someone leave this?”

The waitress slid into the booth across from him as if she could tell he needed grounding.

“If you’re the boy who came in here one morning, sat at this booth, didn’t order a thing… then it was a few weeks after that.” She nodded toward the seat Kitt sat in. “He sat right there. Looked like the world was ending. Kept asking if anyone had seen a blond kid around his age. A lost kid.”

Kitt’s lips parted, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

“He didn’t even order anything,” she continued softly. “Just a coffee he barely drank. He left that note with me in case you came back.”

Kitt looked down at the number again, the ink slightly smudged. His vision blurred.

Matt.
Matt had been here.

Matt had been looking for him from the very beginning.

The waitress reached into her apron, pulling out a small rag to wipe down the counter but lingered instead. “He cared,” she said simply. “Still does, I’m guessing.”

Kitt couldn’t speak.

He gripped the piece of paper like it was something holy.

His throat tightened until it hurt, until he thought it might close entirely. He blinked hard, but a tear still slipped down his cheek, catching the light beneath the hanging fixture.

He bowed his head over the pancakes, the milkshake untouched. His chest shook with a breath that was almost a sob.

Matt had been searching from the start.
Not just recently.
Not just after the diner.
From the very beginning.

From the moment he disappeared into the snow.

The weight of it overwhelmed him—soft but crushing, warm but unbearable. He pressed the note to his forehead, breath trembling.

He wanted to run.
Right now.
Right this minute.

He wanted to catch the next bus to Lakehurst, cross the street, run up Matt Everest’s front steps and collapse into his arms the way he had imagined a hundred times in the dark.

He wanted to whisper “I’m sorry” until the words lost meaning and became something else entirely.

He wanted to bury his face in Matt’s neck and breathe again.

But—

The shadows behind him still held claws.
His father’s voice still lived under his skin.
The terror of being seen—fully, truthfully—still shook his bones.

Even so…

He had the note.
He had proof.
He had something he could carry close.

For a long time, he just sat there, fingers curled around the paper, tears drying on his cheeks.

And for the first time since he ran away, Kitt allowed himself to believe something he had not let himself even imagine:

Matt had never stopped loving him.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to run forever.