Ethan woke early to the sound of squirrels climbing up the old copper downspout.
The room was gray, the kind of thin morning light that made everything look like it was waiting. The air through the cracked window felt fresher than it had in days, carrying the faint smell of cut grass from the quad. Somewhere distant, a lawn mower grumbled to life too early, then cut off again.
Tyler was still asleep beside him, one arm thrown across his face, the sheet twisted around his waist. For a moment Ethan just lay there, listening—to the slow, even rise and fall of Tyler’s chest, to the building’s old bones settling, to the low murmur of voices floating up from outside as early-arrival parents staked out parking.
He eased out of bed, careful not to jostle Tyler, and pulled on khakis and a T-shirt. Mark’s bed was still empty, his grandmother’s insistence on “everyone under one roof” winning out over convenience. The Coke-can ashtray sat on the sill, the quarter beside it catching the weak light.
Tyler blinked awake as Ethan laced his shoes.
“What time is it?” Tyler mumbled.
“Too early.”
“So… graduation time.”
“Pretty much.”
Tyler pushed himself upright. “You okay?”
Ethan thought about it, the way he’d answered that question so many times that year with a lie he almost believed himself. “Yeah. I think I am.”
“Good.” Tyler yawned. “Go watch the circus. I’ll find coffee and try not to let Clay assign me to ice duty.”
They continued the joke even though Clay was finally graduating this year, ready to hand his clipboard off to someone else.
“See you out there.”
Tyler reached over, hooked two fingers lightly around Ethan’s wrist, and tugged him down for a quick kiss—simple and unhurried, like they’d been doing it for years.
“Don’t cry when they throw their caps,” Tyler said. “I don’t want to have to console you in public.”
“I’ll keep it together.”
By ten, the campus was dressed for ceremony.
White folding chairs stretched across the quad in rigid rows, legs biting into damp grass. A temporary stage had been built over the slate path, draped in bunting and the college seal. The fountain ran again, spraying mist that caught in the sun whenever the clouds cooperated.
Parents arrived in clusters, clutching program booklets and Ukrop’s bags of snacks. Professors in unflattering robes floated toward the faculty section, adjusting their hoods as if the fabric weighed more than pride. A brass ensemble warmed up under a canopy; thin scales drifted into the morning air.
Ethan stood near the fountain with a paper cup of bad coffee, watching the water fall in steady arcs. His body felt loose, lighter than the day deserved.
Jason found him first. His robe was zipped; his mortarboard dangled from two fingers.
“You look like a man waiting for a verdict,” Jason said.
“Just waiting.”
Jason handed him another cup. “Enjoy it. This is the one day we’re allowed to be sentimental and blame it on tradition.”
“You think you won’t be?”
“I already have a job in Richmond,” Jason said. “Pretending’s practically in the job description.”
A voice on the PA began calling seniors into alphabetical lines. Jason glanced over his shoulder.
“That’s my cue.” He clapped Ethan’s shoulder, the gesture softer than it looked. “See you on the other side, Harris.”
Ethan watched him jog up the walkway, robe flapping, swallowed easily by the long black line of seniors.
He found a spot near the back of the quad, where the rows of chairs met the heat of the sidewalk. The sun pressed down; the stones warmed beneath his shoes.
The bell rang—abrupt, unceremonious.
The brass band lurched into “Pomp and Circumstance.” The line of seniors began to move, robes whispering as they shuffled towards the stage.
From where he stood, Ethan could pick out familiar frames: Jason’s tall silhouette, Clay’s stiff shoulders, Luke’s lazy swagger, Tyler’s wave from across the crowd. And Eli—of course Eli—marked by height, posture, and that unshakable aura Westmore had built around him.
Eli’s tassel was angled just so. Even from a distance, Ethan could see the precision. The performance. The cracks he’d learned to read anyway.
He tried not to stare. He failed.
The speeches washed over the quad: duty, leadership, opportunity, tradition. The usual script, the only relief being the steady pop of champagne corks as the graduates began their celebrations prematurely. Half the crowd wilted in the sun. Someone fanned themselves with a program. A grandmother dabbed her eyes every few minutes, leaving trails of white lint on her cheeks.
One by one, the seniors crossed the stage—shook hands, accepted empty cases, posed for a picture, smiled for their mothers, blinked into the bright future everyone promised them.
Ethan clapped with everyone else, but not for the stage. For the year that had somehow not ruined him.
After the recessional, the quad fractured into its usual chaos.
Families gathered under magnolias. Professors posed stiffly for photos. Younger siblings ran between chairs. Alumni tried to pretend they remembered each other’s names.
Jason found him again, robe unzipped, cigar tucked in his shirt pocket.
“You made it,” Jason said.
“So did you.”
Jason grinned. “They didn’t revoke my degree, which is more than I expected.”
He flicked a lighter, lit the cigar, then handed the lighter to Ethan without thinking. “Hold that.”
Just an old Zippo. But Ethan felt its weight anyway.
“Where you headed?” Jason asked.
“Home. Then back in August.”
Jason nodded as if he’d already known. “Good. This place needs people who see it clearly and stay.”
“And you?”
“Richmond. Beige conference rooms. Middle management. Glamour.”
Ethan huffed out a small laugh. “You’ll survive.”
“Barely,” Jason said. “But barely counts.”
He clapped Ethan’s shoulder again, that gentle older-brother weight. Then his family called him, and he went.
Ethan drifted toward the shade.
That’s where Eli found him.
He’d ditched his robe, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, hair damp at the temples. He held the silver lighter from Bid Night—more nicked now, the shine dulled—but unmistakable.
“Guess this belongs to you,” Eli said.
Ethan looked at it but didn’t take it. “I never asked for it.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You sure you don’t need it where you’re going?”
“No,” Eli said. “I’m done lighting things on fire.”
Catherine’s voice carried across the crowd, calling his name like it was a performance. Eli glanced back.
“Take care of yourself,” he said.
“You too.”
He pressed the lighter into Ethan’s palm. Their fingers brushed—just enough to register—and then Eli stepped away, swallowed by the blur of pastel dresses and camera flashes.
Ethan stood there a long moment, the lighter cool and heavy in his hand.
The Delta Chi house after graduation smelled like beer and barbecue and every cologne someone’s grandmother thought “a young man should wear.”
Parents spilled across the porch. Alumni leaned on railings with cigars, retelling old stories. The music inside was low and safe: Eagles, Springsteen, Hootie when they ran out of ideas.
Ethan moved through it on autopilot—refilling ice, answering questions, nodding at praise he didn’t want.
Tyler found him in the kitchen, leaning over a tray of sweating cheese cubes.
“You look like you’re planning a heist,” Tyler said.
“Just contemplating food safety,” Ethan replied.
“You want to get out of here?”
“Clay caught me trying. Said I’m ‘part of the decor.’”
“Human centerpiece. Rough.”
Tyler straightened Ethan’s tie, the gesture small, familiar.
“Later,” Tyler said. “I’ll rescue you.”
Ethan nodded, already breathing easier.
He lasted another half hour before Mark appeared in the doorway of the den, eyes too clear, tie crooked. He jerked his head toward the hall.
Ethan followed.
The den was half-dark, curtains half-closed, noise from the porch smothered to a hum.
“I’m not ambushing you,” Mark said. “Just didn’t want to do this with Nana listening.”
“Okay.”
“I saw you with him,” Mark said. “Under the tree.”
“With Eli,” Ethan said.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “Him.”
He let the curtain fall. “He gave you that lighter?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. One less thing for Mom to cry over.”
Mark ran a hand through his hair. “Look—I’m still mad. But I’m done pretending you corrupted my sweet, innocent brother. Reality is… he’s been lying to himself longer than any of this has been happening.”
Ethan stayed quiet.
“I still feel like an idiot,” Mark said. “For not knowing. For not seeing it. For living in the same room as you and missing the whole damn thing.”
“You weren’t supposed to figure me out,” Ethan said. “Or him.”
“Maybe not,” Mark said. “But I thought I knew the people closest to me.”
He exhaled, long and tired. “I’m not ready to be okay about it. But I’m also not cutting you out of my life. I think… one day… this won’t hurt like it does now.”
“That’s enough,” Ethan said.
“Yeah,” Mark said softly. “I think it is.”
Someone called his name from outside—his mother, stretching it too long.
Mark stepped back. “You staying next year?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Somebody’s gotta keep Clay from turning the whole house into a boot camp.”
He hesitated, then offered the barest, most honest smile Ethan had seen from him in months.
“See you around, Harris.”
“See you around, Bennett.”
They didn’t hug. They never needed to.
By Monday, the Row looked stripped.
Tents gone. Banners down. Lawns flattened by foot traffic and coolers. McClintock hallways smelled like bleach and dust. Doors gaped open, rooms at various stages of evacuation. Someone left a milk crate of mixtapes in the lounge with a paper sign that just said TAKE.
Ethan’s side of the room fit into three boxes and a duffel. His white-coat brochure sat folded on top, more question mark than plan.
Mark’s half was already empty. Only the Coke-can ashtray and the quarter remained on the sill.
Ethan picked up the quarter, felt the familiar weight, then set it back down.
Some things could stay.
He carried the last box down the stairs. Tyler was by the Jeep, wrestling with a bungee cord.
“That the last of it?” Tyler asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Any longer and I’d have thrown your stuff out the window.”
They loaded the last box. Tyler slammed the hatch and tested the cord.
Ethan turned. Mark stood with his family beside their car—mother hugging too hard, father shaking hands, grandmother issuing instructions from her folding chair.
“You ready?” Tyler asked.
“I think so.”
“Go say your curtain call. I’ll warm up the Jeep.”
Ethan walked over, traded the necessary goodbyes—Mark’s mother with too much perfume, Mr. Bennett with a firm handshake, Nana with a pointed order to “take care of my boys.”
When the adults stepped away, Mark stayed behind.
“I’m not saying ‘have a great summer,’” Mark said. “Feels cheap.”
“Okay.”
“I will say this,” Mark added. “I’m glad you’re coming back. Even if I still want to punch you half the time.”
“That’s fair.”
Mark nodded once. “See you around, Harris.”
“See you around, Bennett.”
Ethan walked back to the Jeep.
Tyler had the windows down, arm slung casually over the wheel. “All clear?”
“Yeah.”
They pulled away from the lot. As they turned onto the main road, the bell rang once—deep, low, final.
Ethan glanced back only when they reached the curve. McClintock’s windows flashed. The quarter glinted once on the sill, then disappeared.
“Leave it,” Ethan murmured.
“Already did,” Tyler said.
The highway straightened. The sky widened. The warm air whipped through the open windows, carrying dust and sunlight and the faintest smell of summer.
“So,” Tyler said. “Year two.”
“Year two,” Ethan echoed.
“Think we’ll survive it?”
Ethan smiled. “Barely.”
Tyler’s answering grin was soft and certain. “Barely counts.”
The road unspooled ahead of them—bright, open, theirs.
Epilogue — Move-In Day
August Second Year.
The heat had sharpened, the sky hard blue. A new set of freshmen spilled across the quad, shoulders pink from orientation. Someone was already handing out rush flyers near the fountain.
Ethan parked behind the Delta Chi house, the tires crunching gravel in the same rhythm they had last fall. The porch looked new—fresh paint, cleaned columns, the ghosts sanded off. He laughed under his breath. Every house on campus had learned to look reborn by the start of term.
Tyler climbed out from the passenger side, stretching.
“We’re really doing this,” he said.
“Looks that way.”
They carried boxes up the side stairs to the second floor. The hall smelled faintly of Pine-Sol and old smoke, familiar in a way that didn’t sting anymore. Eli’s old room waited at the end, door open, sunlight falling in a perfect rectangle across the bare floor.
Ethan set the lamp on the desk, the framed photo of the creek beside it. Tyler dropped the last box and leaned against the wall.
“Can you believe it’s the same place?” he asked.
“It’s not,” Ethan said.
Tyler smiled. “Good.”
Outside, the bell rang for convocation, the sound bright and almost kind. Ethan looked out the window—students crossing the quad, the fountain catching light. On the sill sat a coin someone had left behind, edge dulled by time. He turned it once between his fingers, then let it fall back into place.
“Ready?” Tyler asked.
“Yeah. Coffee?”
“Always.”
They walked down the stairs and out into the heat. The door swung shut behind them, not a bang this time but a simple click.
From the window, sunlight stretched across the empty floor, catching the edge of the coin, flaring bright.
The same light, finally theirs.
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