Somewhere Only We Know - 34. A Door Half-Open

Kitt woke slowly, drifting up from sleep like someone swimming through warm water. The first thing he felt was the heat — a body pressed along his back, an arm draped lazily over his waist, the steady rise and fall of breath against his neck. For a few seconds his mind stayed soft and unfocused. The bed was warm, the blankets soft, the world safe in a way he wasn’t used to anymore.

Then—mortifyingly—he felt the second thing.

His own body.
Pressed flush against Mateo’s hips.
Hard.

Kitt’s eyes flew open.

He froze so abruptly that Mateo grumbled into the pillow behind him, shifting only enough to tighten the arm around Kitt’s waist.

“Bro,” Mateo mumbled, half-asleep, “you’re stiff as a board.”

Kitt’s face ignited. “I—I didn’t mean— It’s morning— I—”

Mateo cracked one eye open, expression flattening with dramatic disappointment. “Kitt, cariño… you think this is the first time someone’s poked me awake? Please.”

Kitt buried his face in the pillow. “I’m going to jump out the window.”

Mateo snorted and rolled onto his back, stretching like a cat. “Relax. It’s biology. And honestly? I’m flattered yours is apparently magnetically attracted to my ass.”

“Mateo!”

“What?” He grinned. “I’ve been told it’s my best feature.”

Kitt groaned, covering his face with both hands. But despite the embarrassment, a small, reluctant laugh escaped him. Mateo always knew how to pull him out of the darker corners of his own mind — even if it meant making him want to die from embarrassment.

Mateo flopped back down beside him, one arm tucked behind his head. “Sleep okay?”

Kitt swallowed. “Yeah. Better than I thought I would.”

“Good,” Mateo said softly. “You needed it. Yesterday was… a lot.”

Kitt nodded, staring at the ceiling. His parents’ faces flashed behind his eyes — his mother’s trembling voice, his father’s apology cracking in the cold air. A part of him still couldn’t believe he had heard it. A part of him still flinched at the memory.

Mateo nudged him with his shoulder. “You thinking about it again?”

“Always,” Kitt whispered.

“Yeah.” Mateo’s voice softened. “But you’re not there anymore.”

Kitt turned his head toward him. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”

Mateo reached over and flicked Kitt on the forehead. “Obviously you’re supposed to get your shit together and take the GED so you can go to college.”

Kitt blinked. “I— You think I can?”

Mateo gave him an exaggerated look of offense. “You? The kid who got a B-plus in biology and cried because his dad wasn’t happy? Sweetheart, you’re going to obliterate that test.”

Kitt’s lips twitched despite himself. “Tom said the same thing.”

“Because Tom is smart,” Mateo declared. “And handsome. And has great taste in project kids.”

Kitt rolled his eyes. “You two are the same person sometimes.”

“Please. He wishes he had my ass.”

“Mateo…”

“What? Facts.”

Kitt laughed, the sound small but real, floating between them in the dusty morning light filtering through the broken blinds. A moment later, Mateo shifted off the bed and stood, stretching.

“Anyway. You work at Javier’s this morning, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ll walk with you. I need coffee or I’ll die.”

Kitt sat up slowly, pulling his shirt over his head, the weight of everything gathering quietly inside him. “I just… I want to do something. Move forward. Not stay stuck.”

“And you will,” Mateo said simply, tugging on his jeans. “GED. College. Tom’s gonna help. I’ll help too — emotionally, because I’m useless academically. But emotionally? I am excellent.”

Kitt’s chest warmed. “You really think I can do it?”

“Kitt,” Mateo said, turning to face him, “you survived getting kicked out. You built a whole life here from nothing. You found work. Friends. Support. You found your way back to Matt.”
He tapped Kitt’s chest gently. “Of course you can do a test.”

Kitt swallowed hard. “I’m scared.”

Mateo’s voice gentled. “Being scared means you care. That’s good.”

He grabbed his jacket, held the door open, and jerked his chin toward the stairs.

“Come on. Let’s go make Javier scream at us.”

Kitt followed him into the hallway, still blinking sleep from his eyes. The building smelled like old carpet and burnt toast. Someone’s radio played faintly from another floor. Life in Riverbend wasn’t glamorous, but it was his.

And as he stepped out into the crisp morning air, heading toward the restaurant with Mateo’s chatter bouncing beside him, Kitt felt something small and steady take root in his chest:

A future.

Not fully formed.
Not guaranteed.
But possible.

He didn’t know when he would go home.
He didn’t know what his father would be like in a month, or a year.
He didn’t know how everything would end.

But he knew two things with absolute certainty:

Matt loved him.
And he had people here — Mateo, Tom, the kids at the youth center — who cared enough to help him stand.

For the first time in months, Kitt let himself believe that maybe, just maybe…

Tomorrow could be something soft. Something safe.
Something his.

. . .

The afternoon sun slanted low through the youth center windows by the time Kitt arrived, its warmth already fading into the crisp November air. The laughter of kids echoed from the gym; somewhere down the hall, Leah was reading to a group of younger children, her voice soft and patient. Kitt tied on an apron, filled a pitcher with water for snack time, and let himself settle into the familiar rhythm of the place.

He always felt quieter here, more rooted. Maybe because the kids didn’t know anything about his past. Maybe because they trusted him without question. Maybe because the building itself felt like a place built on second chances — and he’d needed that more than anyone.

As the last of the kids were signed out for the evening, the sky turning lavender behind the windows, Tom appeared at the doorway with Harbor trotting happily at his side.

“You ready?” he asked.

Kitt nodded, untied his apron, and grabbed his jacket. The two of them stepped onto Maple Street, the sharp scent of cold woodsmoke drifting from a chimney nearby.

They walked in comfortable silence for half a block before Tom glanced over.

“You look… different today,” Tom said gently. “Not bad. Just… full of something.”

Kitt exhaled slowly. “A lot happened yesterday.”

Tom didn’t push. He just waited.

Kitt’s voice felt small at first. “I went to Matt’s game.”

Tom’s brows lifted in quiet surprise. “Did he know you’d be there?”

“No,” Kitt said, rubbing his thumb along the zipper of his jacket. “He didn’t. I didn’t plan to talk to him. I just wanted to see him play. He always talked about me being there for his games…” His breath caught, the memory still too large. “And I sat in the bleachers. I tried to blend in. But he looked for me. He always looks.”

Tom’s steps slowed. “Did he see you?”

“Yeah.” A small, fragile smile tugged at Kitt’s mouth. “He saw me. And he… he played like his life depended on it.”

“That sounds like Matt.”

“Yeah.”

They turned the corner, frost glittering faintly on the grass. Kitt took a shaky breath.

“And after the game,” he said softly, “I ran into my parents in the parking lot.”

Tom’s expression tightened, but he didn’t speak — letting Kitt choose the pace.

“My mom cried,” Kitt whispered. “My dad… apologized.”

Tom blinked. “Your dad apologized to you?”

Kitt nodded, staring hard at the pavement. “He said he was sorry. That he never should’ve done what he did.”

“And how did that feel?”

Kitt’s throat tightened. “I… didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run. I almost did. But then he said ‘I’m sorry’ again, and I don’t… I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say that before. Not to me.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.” He swallowed. “I want them to know I’m okay. But going back? I… I’m still scared.”

Tom hummed thoughtfully. “Fear doesn’t mean wrong. It just means you’re still healing.”

Kitt tucked his hands into his pockets. “I just don’t know what the right timing is.”

“Then we take it slow,” Tom said.

They reached Tom’s porch. Warm light spilled from the windows, Harbor’s tail thumping eagerly as the dog waited for the door to be opened.

“Stay for dinner?” Tom asked.

Kitt hesitated — not because he didn’t want to, but because he always felt like bringing himself into someone else’s house was asking too much.

Tom seemed to read that immediately.

“Kitt,” he said gently, “you’re not imposing. Come inside.”

Kitt nodded, stepping in after him. Tom made pasta — simple but warm, filling the kitchen with the comforting smell of garlic and butter. Harbor napped by Kitt’s feet, snoring softly. Halfway through eating, Tom set his fork down.

“So,” Tom said, tone purposely casual, “are you still thinking about the GED?”

Kitt’s heart kicked. “Yeah. I… I think I want to do it.”

“Good. Then we should start.”

Kitt blinked. “Start… now?”

Tom smiled, standing. “Why not? No better time.”

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a thin binder, a laptop, and a printed packet. Mateo must’ve been right — Tom did prepare too much for everything.

“The GED tests four main subjects,” Tom explained as he spread everything out: Math, Science, English Language Arts, and Social Studies. “Most students struggle with math. Some need help with essay structure. But you’re strong across the board, especially reading comprehension.”

Kitt looked down at the packet. The words practice test and sample questions stared back at him.

A strange, excited flutter moved through his chest.

“What do I have to do?” he asked quietly.

“First,” Tom said, “we’ll set up your account and testing plan. You can take each subject one at a time — or space them out over weeks. There’s no rush. The test center is right at the community college.”

Kitt pressed his palms to the edge of the table. “I want to do this right.”

“And you will,” Tom said. “It’s like training for a swim meet — only with essays and algebra.” He gave Kitt a small smile. “We’ll practice a little each day. No pressure. Just progress.”

Kitt’s eyes prickled unexpectedly. He blinked it back.

Tom reached over and squeezed his hand once. “You’re building a life,” he said. “A real one. Not running. Just choosing.”

Kitt swallowed hard, nodding.

They worked for nearly an hour — registration, practice questions, reviewing what would be expected. Every few minutes, Tom paused to check whether Kitt needed a break. Kitt didn’t. For once, he felt like forward motion wasn’t terrifying.

It felt… good.

Later, after dinner and dog cuddles and a promise to study again tomorrow, Kitt walked home under a sky full of thin, cold stars. His breath came in soft puffs, white clouds drifting upward. The world felt sharper now — more real — and for the first time since the night he ran away, Kitt felt something like hope rise fully in his chest.

He wasn’t done.
He wasn’t healed.
He wasn’t ready to go back yet.
He was still sacred that his father might hurt him again.

But he wasn’t lost anymore.

He had a plan.
He had people.
He had a future he could reach for — one test, one day, one small brave choice at a time.

And somewhere a hundred miles away, Matt Everest was making choices too.

Kitt pulled his jacket closer, tucked his chin into his scarf, and stepped inside his building.

Tomorrow would come.
And he would meet it.

. . .

The week settled into a rhythm that was almost too steady, too fragile—like something that could crumble if Kitt breathed too deeply. Morning shifts at Javier’s blurred into the constant hiss of dishwater, the clatter of pans, and Javier’s voice barking reminders over the roar of the kitchen. By the time he left the restaurant each day, his clothes clung to him with the warm scent of tortillas and fried peppers, and his shoulders ached from hours of scrubbing.

But every afternoon, when he stepped into the bright hum of the youth center—voices rising, basketballs thudding, kids tugging at his sleeves—a different part of him woke up. It grounded him. Gave him the strange sense that he wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was becoming someone.

And in the evenings, when he dragged himself to Tom’s kitchen table, dropping into a chair with a groan as Harbor thumped his tail against Kitt’s shin, that’s when the real work began.

Tom set down two mugs of tea, his sleeves pushed up, glasses perched halfway down his nose. “Ready?” he asked softly.

Kitt wasn’t—but he nodded anyway.

The binder Tom made him was thick already, full of notes and worksheets and color-coded tabs. Math. Science. Reading comp. Social studies. Test samples. Practice answers. All the things Kitt had once done easily, almost without thinking.

Now, after months working himself to exhaustion, after running away and waking up every day trying to hold himself together—his brain always felt half a step behind.

He stared at the first page. Numbers swam a little.

Tom watched him, patient as always. “Take a breath,” he murmured.

Kitt inhaled slowly. “Sorry. I just… my head’s not fully here yet.”

“It’s okay,” Tom said. “You’re doing two jobs, taking care of yourself, rebuilding your life. Anyone would be tired.” Then, with a small smile: “This isn’t about perfection. It’s about progress.”

Kitt let his shoulders relax a little. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still catching up to everything I lost.”

Tom rested a hand lightly on the table between them—not touching, just there. “You didn’t lose everything,” he said gently. “You gained something too. Strength. Perspective. And now you’re gaining a future.”

A future.

The word buzzed in Kitt’s chest, terrifying and bright.

He worked through the first problem slowly, pencil trembling a bit. Tom didn’t rush him, didn’t correct him too quickly, didn’t point out the tiny mistakes he made in his hurry to be good enough. The silence grew warm. Calming.

After twenty minutes, Kitt leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Why does it feel so hard?” he whispered. “I used to be good at this.”

“You still are,” Tom said. “But you’re learning again how to trust yourself. Trauma steals more than peace—it steals confidence.”

Kitt blinked down at the binder. That word—trauma—felt too big, too heavy, but Tom said it like it wasn’t shameful. Like it was simply truth.

Tom flipped to another tab. “Let’s check your writing sample.”

Kitt watched as Tom read the prompt he’d answered the night before. Something simple—compare and contrast two short passages. He held his breath while Tom scanned the page.

Finally Tom looked up. “This,” he said, tapping the last paragraph, “is university-level writing.”

Kitt flushed. “I just… wrote.”

“That’s the point.” Tom’s eyes softened. “Kitt, listen to me. You’re going to pass the GED. Not barely. Easily. And once you do, you can apply anywhere. Even Northbridge.”

Kitt felt his lungs tighten. “You really think I could get in?”

“I know you can,” Tom said simply.

Kitt’s throat burned. He looked down at his hands. “But what if my dad…”
He swallowed. “What if he’s still the same? What if he changes his mind again later? What if going home ruins everything all over again? Or what if he doesn’t want to pay for my tuition? I can’t afford that.”

Tom’s voice softened but didn’t waver. “You are eighteen,” he said. “Your future belongs to you, not to him. No one gets to take this from you, not anymore. Let’s take one step at a time.”

Kitt blinked hard, vision blurring. He wanted to believe that. God, he wanted to. But years of swallowing fear didn’t disappear in a month.

Tom continued, gentle but firm, “Kitt, you’re allowed to want more than survival.”

Something inside Kitt cracked. And somewhere deeper, something else opened.

He wiped the corner of his eye and whispered, “I want to pass the test.”

“You will.”

“And I want to go to Northbridge.”

“You will.”

“And I want to catch up to Matt.”

Tom smiled faintly. “You already are.”

Kitt’s cheeks warmed. “He… he’s waiting for me.”

“And you’re working to meet him there,” Tom said. “That’s brave.”

Brave.

Kitt wasn’t sure he’d ever been called that before.

He exhaled shakily. “So the GED… once I pass, I can apply right away? Even without a diploma?”

“You’ll have the equivalent of one,” Tom said. “Northbridge accepts GEDs. Many colleges do.” He nudged the binder toward him. “But you have to let yourself believe you deserve it.”

Silence hung between them for a long moment. Outside, a car passed on Maple Street, its headlights sweeping across the window. Harbor pressed his chin on Kitt’s knee, warm and solid, grounding him.

Kitt whispered, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Tom said. “Do it anyway.”

So Kitt inhaled slowly, opened the next page, and tried again.

. . .

That night, when he finally walked back to his apartment, exhaustion dragged at him like lead—but under it, something else simmered.

Possibility.

Dreams he wasn’t ready to say out loud yet.

Dreams of Northbridge.

Dreams of Matt.

He couldn’t see the future clearly, not yet. But for the first time since running away, it didn’t feel impossible.

It felt near.

The days that followed blurred into a tightrope walk—one Kitt balanced on with white-knuckled determination.

Every morning started the same: the alarm buzzing far too early, cold air biting at his bare feet, Mateo swearing softly through the thin ceiling as he rolled out of bed above him. Then the walk to Javier’s, scarf pulled up to his nose, the sky still pale and bruised with dawn.

Inside the restaurant, the air was warmer but heavier. Greasy. Loud. Javier shouted orders before Kitt even reached the kitchen.

“Niño! Bread bowls! And wash the sheet pan yourself this time—Julio burned it!”

Kitt didn’t complain. Didn’t sigh. Just tied his apron tighter and started scrubbing like the pan had personally offended him. His fingers were raw most days. His back ached. But he worked. He always worked.

And when the shift finally ended, when he stepped into the cold again, he had barely forty-five minutes to eat something cheap, wash the smell of onions from his hands, and walk to the youth center.

Afternoons there soothed him, even when he was bone-tired. Kids tugged at him, begging him to watch them shoot hoops, asking him to help with homework, or demanding he join a soccer scrimmage behind the building. Their laughter filled the hollow places inside him.

And then came the evenings.

The part that drained him most and saved him most—simultaneously.

Tom kept the lights warm and low. Harbor always greeted him with a soft thump of a tail. And the binder… the binder waited.

Some nights Kitt could barely focus. He misread questions, added numbers wrong, lost track of sentences. His eyes drooped. His head bobbed. The exhaustion clung to every syllable he tried to absorb.

But Tom never pushed. He’d simply say, “One more page,” or “Let’s take five,” or “Try this differently.”

Some nights, Mateo stopped by just to sit at the table with them, eating chips loudly until Tom snapped, “Outside with that!” And Mateo would grin and stay anyway, tossing peanuts to Harbor when he thought Tom wasn’t looking.

Kitt would laugh even when he was too tired to think straight. Those were the good nights.

The hard nights came too.

The ones where Kitt stared at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, fingers trembling with frustration.

The ones where his father’s voice haunted him—You’re not thinking straight, you’re being influenced, you’re ruining yourself.

The ones where the fear crept up his spine—What if I fail? What if I’m not smart enough? What if I’m fooling myself?

Those nights Tom would stop him, close the binder, set a hand on his forearm, and say simply, “Kitt. You can do this. You will do this. Trust the work.”

And slowly, painfully, Kitt learned to trust himself again.

. . .

He took the GED on a Friday morning.

The bus ride to the Riverbend Community College Testing Center felt unreal—like floating toward something too important to grasp. His hands shook the entire time. His stomach twisted itself in knots.

Tom had insisted on coming with him as far as the door. Mateo had insisted on packing him a snack (which he forgot to eat). Javier had grunted and shoved twenty dollars into his hand “for luck,” which was as affectionate as Javier ever got.

The testing center smelled like disinfectant and old carpet. People of all ages waited in plastic chairs. Some looked confident. Some terrified. One girl cried quietly into her sleeve.

Kitt couldn’t feel his fingertips.

When his number was called, he walked into the room feeling like he’d left his body behind. The computer screen glowed too brightly. His breath came too fast.

But then the first question loaded.

Something in his chest loosened.

He knew this.

He knew how to do this.

Hours passed—slow at first, then fast, then not at all. He wrote, he solved, he read, he rechecked. His back ached. His eyes burned. His pulse thudded like a drum.

But he didn’t stop.

He finished.

When he stepped outside, Tom was waiting on a bench with two coffees and Harbor’s leash. The dog trotted up to him instantly, pressing a warm head against his thigh.

Kitt let out a breath—long, shaky, disbelieving.

“It’s done,” he whispered.

Tom smiled. “Now you wait.”

Kitt nodded, breath white in the cold air. His bones trembled.

Waiting suddenly felt harder than the test itself.

. . .

Across the state line, about a hundred miles away, Matt Everest pulled his jersey over his shoulder pads, heart pounding so loudly he barely heard the locker room noise around him.

Today was one of the biggest games of the season.

And one of the biggest days of his future.

Coach Harding had told him that a Northbridge scout would be in the stands—someone from the athletics department who would finalize whether Matt’s performance matched the grades, the recommendations, the tape.

Matt wiped a hand over his mouth, trying to breathe.

He had waited for this for years.

He’d trained for this through injuries and exhaustion, through sleepless nights, through the months Kitt was gone when football was the only thing that kept him upright.

And now…

Now Kitt was back in his life.

Now Kitt had come to his game.

Now Kitt had kissed him—God, kissed him—and told him he loved him.

Now everything mattered more than ever.

As he stepped onto the field, the roar of the crowd hit him like a wave. His helmet felt too tight. His chest felt too full.

His eyes wandered automatically—habit—toward the bleachers.

Kitt wasn’t here today.

But Matt didn’t need him to be.

He carried him like a heartbeat.

When the whistle blew and the game began, Matt played like a boy on fire. Sharp. Controlled. Fierce. Every pass clean. Every read perfect. Every throw slicing the air like instinct.

He wasn’t playing for scouts, or scholarships, or headlines.

He was playing for the future he wanted with someone who finally wanted him back.

By the time the final whistle blew, the score was a blowout. Students swarmed the field. His teammates slapped his helmet. Coach hugged him so hard his ribs hurt.

But the only thing Matt wanted—needed—was to check his phone anyway.

Not because he expected a message from Kitt.
He knew Kitt didn’t have a phone.
He knew there would be nothing waiting for him.

He checked anyway.

Out of habit.
Out of hope.
Out of the same instinct that still made his eyes flick toward the bleachers before every game.

The screen was empty, of course.

But somehow, instead of crushing him, it steadied him.
Because somewhere out there—somewhere in this state, in that small town he’d glimpsed—Kitt was breathing the same cold air. Living. Surviving. Trying.

Matt didn’t know what Kitt was doing today.
Didn’t know if he was working, or walking home from the youth center, or sitting in that cramped little apartment he imagined too vividly.

He didn’t know—but he hoped.

He hoped Kitt was okay.
He hoped Kitt was taking steps toward something better.
He hoped Kitt still wanted him in his future.

And that hope was enough to lift him as he walked off the field, helmet dangling loosely in his hand, heart full in a way victory alone could never give him.

They were both fighting.

Both reaching.

Both on the cusp of something life-changing.

Matt stepped off the field, chest heaving, and whispered into the cold air, “I hope you’re okay.”

Across the river, in Tom’s car, with Harbor asleep against his thigh, Kitt whispered, “I hope he won.”