Older in reality, sure, and softer in the face, but the structure was there. The hint of a dimple. The familiar set to the brows. It wasn’t perfect—his fifteen-year-old skills hadn’t nailed every line—but it was close enough to make his throat tighten.
“Holy shit.”
The boy he’d drawn was Noah.
Noah Carter.
Noah with the flannel and the clipboard and the sawdust in his hair.
Noah who’d grabbed his hand in Home Depot.
Eli sank back against the bed, the sketchbook loose in his hands. Memories rose fast and sharp, of upperclassmen shouting in the halls, locker doors slamming, the smell of sweat and floor polish.
A glimpse across the cafeteria of that older boy laughing with his friends.
The way his hand had brushed a freshman’s shoulder in passing, reassuring, gentle.
The way he’d helped a teacher carry props for the winter concert, his arms full of fake snow and painted plywood.
The boy had been sunshine in human form. Everyone liked him. Eli had never spoken to him. He hadn’t even walked in the same hallway if he could help it, too afraid of being obvious, too terrified of what it meant to stare.
So he’d drawn him instead, pouring all that want into graphite, then hidden the evidence in the back of a closet.
And somehow, all these years later, that boy had reappeared in his life as Noah, with older eyes and the same stupidly charming smile, grabbing Eli’s hand and chattering about imaginary exes.
“What the hell?” Eli closed the sketchbook gently, as though it was something fragile. His fingers lingered on the cover.
I shouldn’t bring it.This was teenage nonsense, old crush residue, neither relevant nor helpful.
Dangerous, even.
He put the sketchbook in his duffel anyway, because apparently, he was that kind of idiot.
He stood, pulled the bag’s ties, and moved through the apartment on autopilot, watering plants while promising to pay them another visit before they died, unplugging things, checking the stove twice. The space felt even emptier now, like a stage after the actors have left. All the while, beneath the quiet and motion, one thought circled.
I had a crush on him before I even knew myself.
And now?
He locked the door behind him and walked out into the cold, his breath turning to mist.
Nowhe was driving back to Mapleford to spend a month in the same town as the boy he’d once drawn in secret.
Only this time, the boy knew his name.
By the time he reached Mapleford again, the sky was dimming toward late afternoon. Snow fell in soft, steady flakes, blurring the edges of houses and trees. The town looked as if it had been dusted with powdered sugar.
He parked behindThe Merry Crumband hauled his duffel inside.
“You’re back,” Aileen said, as if he’d just gone to the post office and not made a life choice.
“I said I would be,” he replied.
“Doesn’t make it less satisfying.” She wiped her hands on a towel and eyed the bag. “That looks like a month’s worth of commitment.”
“Don’t say the C-word.”
“Commitment?”
