October 11, 1977

Maplebrooke always turned red before it turned cold. The kind of red that clung to the trees like fire refusing to die out.

I was sitting on the porch steps, jacket zipped up to my chin, sketching the neighbours’ chimney smoke in the corner of my notebook, when I saw her.

A girl. Brown curls, red scarf. She walked up Caleb’s porch steps like she knew exactly what she was doing.

And she had a letter in her hand.

I stopped sketching.

From my porch, I could see everything. Maplebrooke was quiet that afternoon. The kind of quiet you only get on Sundays when most people are either napping or watching football. But I watched her knock. And I watched Caleb open the door, still in his hoodie and basketball shorts, like it was nothing.

She handed him the letter. Said something. Smiled.

He looked surprised.

They talked for maybe thirty seconds. Then Caleb closed the door behind him, followed her down the steps, and they started walking.

I didn’t think. I just grabbed my jacket, left my notebook behind, and followed. Quiet like a shadow, hugging fences and hedges. Caleb never looked back.

They cut across Briarwood Lane, past the convenience store and the empty lot behind the church. Then, through the side gate of Fallview Middle School, where he and that girl used to go.

I stopped at the corner of the gym building. Watched them walk to the old tree behind the basketball court, the one with the twisted roots and the patch of earth that never grew grass. 

Now it was just them.

She stood under the tree. Caleb leaned on his bike. The letter was still in his hand.

I held my breath.

She said something. Her voice was muffled, but it had that rhythm — like a speech someone had rehearsed in front of a mirror.
She kept her eyes on the ground. Then looked up.

And smiled.

The wind kicked up a flurry of red and gold leaves around them. They didn’t move.

Then, Caleb opened his mouth, but I didn’t stay.

I turned.
I ran.

Through the soccer field, over the chain-link fence, all the way down to the gravel path that led to Lake Rosedale.

I didn’t stop until I reached the pier.

The lake was already half-covered in mist, the kind that drifted low and cold and never quite settled.

I sat at the edge, knees pulled to my chest. The cold bit through my jeans, but I didn’t care.

I didn’t know why I felt so heavy.

He didn’t even say yes. Maybe he was going to say no.
Maybe he was going to laugh. Maybe it wasn’t even a confession.

But it felt like something had cracked in me.

And all I could do was sit there and watch the water turn red with the falling leaves.

The sky had gone dim by the time I stopped crying. I don’t know how long I sat there, knees to my chest, sleeves damp from wiping my face over and over. The wind off Lake Rosedale was colder than I thought it’d be. It smelled like wet leaves and something sharp, like the season was peeling open.

I didn’t mean to run.

I just couldn’t stay.

The image of Caleb standing under that tree with her—her—still burned behind my eyes. I didn’t even wait to hear what he said back. I just ran. Like some stupid kid who couldn’t handle the truth. Maybe that’s exactly what I was.

The pier creaked behind me, and I froze.

Then...
A hand landed gently on my head.

“There you are,” Caleb said, his voice full of breath and relief. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just stared at the water and hoped the dark would swallow me whole.

He sat down beside me, close but not touching. The wood dipped under his weight.

“I checked the school, the park… even your backyard. I figured you’d be here.” He gave a little laugh, like he was trying to keep things light. “Your mom’s gonna think I kidnapped you or something.”

Still, I said nothing.

“I saw you,” I finally muttered. My voice came out thin. “Behind the school.”

There was a pause. Then he sighed. “Yeah… I figured.”

“She gave you a letter.”

“She did.”

I swallowed hard. “What did you say?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking out at the lake like I was.

“I told her I wasn’t really into that kind of thing. At least not right now.”

I blinked. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right. She’s nice and all, but…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

He turned to me then, and I felt the weight of his gaze. Not heavy—just there, like he was checking to make sure I was real.

“You okay?” he asked.

I wanted to lie. Say yes. But all I could do was shrug.

He reached over and tugged my jacket tighter around me. His hand lingered on my shoulder for a second longer than it needed to.

“You’re freezing, dummy,” he said. “Let’s go. My mom’s got the fireplace going and there’s leftover cider.”

I hesitated, but when he stood, I followed. He didn’t say anything else. Just walked beside me, hands stuffed in his jacket, our steps falling into rhythm.

And even though I was still heartbroken…
Even though I hadn’t said what I really wanted to say…

I was warm.

We walked back in silence. The leaves crunched under our shoes, dry and loud in the quiet. Caleb didn’t try to say anything, and I was glad. I wasn’t ready to talk yet—not about the letter, not about her, not about the way my chest had cracked open like thin glass.

He kept pace with me, though. Never walked ahead. Never behind. Just there, like always.

The streetlamps had flickered on by the time we turned onto Maplebrooke Lane. The houses glowed softly—windows lit with warm yellows and flickering TVs behind curtains. When mine came into view, I could see the porch light still on. Still waiting.

The moment I stepped onto the porch, the door flew open.

“Noah James Bennet,” my mother’s voice cut through the air, sharp with worry, “where have you been?!”

Before I could answer, she pulled me into a tight hug. Her arms were strong, secure, the way they always were—but there was frustration in the way her hand gripped my shoulder.

“Do you know what time it is? Curfew was hours ago! You can’t just disappear like that—not without telling someone!” Her voice cracked slightly, though she tried to hide it.

I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, arms limp, cheek pressed to her shoulder. I could smell her hand lotion—lavender, like always.

“I was with Caleb,” I finally said, voice low.

Her eyes flicked past me. “Is that right?” she said, a little softer now.

Caleb raised his hand awkwardly from behind me. “Evenin’, Mrs. Bennet.”

My mom gave him a look, somewhere between exasperated and grateful. Then she sighed and stepped aside.

“Come in, both of you. Supper’s still warm. And you—” she looked at me again, “we’re talking later.”

I nodded.

As we stepped into the warm light of the house, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the hallway—eyes red, hair messy from the wind. Caleb looked fine, like none of this had touched him. But I knew better.

My mom headed toward the kitchen. “Caleb, would you like to stay for dinner?”

He looked at me, maybe for permission.

I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t look away either.

He smiled a little. “Sure. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” she said, already pulling plates from the cupboard. “You boys wash your hands first.”

We went to the sink in the hallway. The water was cold at first, then hot. Caleb bumped my shoulder slightly with his as he reached for the towel, like it was nothing. Like we were okay.

I didn’t bump him back.

But I didn’t move away either.