Caleb remembers these streets.
He drives the main road of the residential neighborhood, and he can see himself as he was ten years ago. Those long evenings when he would walk along the sidewalks and pass the rows of houses.
There are the quaint houses, with little front yards and little front porches. And there are the others—less quaint—tucked away in cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac, with heights that seem to tower over their neighbors and sprawling yards that threaten to fall into the streets. They would all walk these streets together.
Caleb. And Sarah. And Tiffany. And...
No—that was thirteen years ago.
Jeez.
In any case, nothing here has changed. It's late evening. Early September. The sun is going down, and the homes' shadows fall heavily along the road. The air conditioning wafts in the car. It cools Caleb's skin as he grips the steering wheel tightly. Only a few people are outside—all families. Kids gather their toys from the grass. Parents call to their kids from their porches. Doors close. Lights leak through blinds.
Thirteen years ago, they would have been wandering these roads at this hour. They would have just had dinner, and Caleb would be sipping what remained of his soda. Tiffany would be making jokes about a TV show Caleb didn't watch. And Sarah would be talking about a guy—yes, another one, already—that she had fallen for. And Caleb's shoulder would brush against Owen's as they walked, and Caleb would smile. He would look over at Owen.
Owen wouldn't look back.
*******
Caleb sits in his car, both hands on the steering wheel, staring ahead at nothing. He's parked on the side of the road. The car is still on, and the engine shakes like Caleb's nerves.
Caleb looks to his left.
Owen's house.
It's excessive, it's lavish. It proclaims its own affluence with its columns, and balconies, and spiraling driveway. Years ago, Caleb used to park in that driveway. Today, it seems more appropriate to park on the street.
Caleb stares at the home. He grasps the steering wheel tighter. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and turns off the engine.
*******
Caleb remembers this door. He used to push it open without a thought. He used to enter this house unannounced, Sarah and Tiffany trailing behind.
Owen! Sarah would yell up the staircase. What the fuck we're here come down already!
She'd look at Caleb and smile.
Did she know then what she knows now?
No.
Well—maybe.
This door. This brown slab of wood. Caleb remembers it, but tonight he doesn't push it open. He stands before it, ready to knock, but not knocking. These days, with Sarah or Tiffany, he texts them when he arrives at their apartments. With Owen, that seems strange. To text him. To arrive at all. They didn't text when they were friends—why would they text now that they are strangers?
Caleb raises a timid fist. His knuckles hang inches from the wood. Why can't he knock? Why the hesitation?
The door opens. Light floods onto the porch, onto Caleb, his fist raised and his breath gone. Wind rustles. Warm air percolates. Caleb's car remains where it's parked, too far away, alone and still. It's almost night now, and two men greet each other.
*******
"I've run into so many people, too. Just going to Target is like... Oh, I don't know—a fuckin' class reunion," Owen says.
He is in the kitchen making drinks. Preparing snacks.
Caleb is down the hall, looking at the many photos that hang on the walls. Family photos. Christmas photos. Moments with friends and pets. Adventures abroad.
"I know," Caleb says. Am I lost somewhere in these pictures? He wonders. "It can feel that way sometimes."
Caleb stops his gaze on a senior photo of Owen, in which he poses and smiles in front of a hazy blue background. He's wearing a suit. How odd to see him in a suit like that.
Owen continues talking to Caleb from the kitchen. He talks about his life on the east coast. His job, his friends. His trips around the country. The strangeness of being back in his hometown. Caleb gives curt replies. Yes, wow, uh-huh, oh really?
Sounds awesome, Owen.
Caleb's attention, though, is on the photos, and he follows the procession of them down the hall.
After passing the formal dining room, the living room, a smoking room, another living room, Caleb finds himself in the den. Owen is still talking to him from the kitchen, but his voice is distant and faint. Caleb stands still, relieved to be in the den, alone and away from Owen. He peruses his surroundings. There's a bookcase that stands floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with books stuffed into every crevice. They fall onto each other like crooked bricks that have been shoved into a mailbox.
There's a desk with a computer. The surrounding workspace is clean and devoid of the chaos of the bookshelf. Caleb sits in the leather chair. There's a photo next to the computer monitor. Caleb notices it and picks up the frame.
He doesn't know the photo, but he knows when it was taken.
Graduation. After the ceremony. The Owen in the photo makes a silly face, flashes a peace sign, holds a diploma.
Caleb's stomach stirs looking at the photo, and he doesn't know why.
"My mom says hi, by the way," Owen says. The sound of footsteps signal Owen is walking down the hallway. Caleb hurriedly places the photo in its original location. He fiddles with the positioning. Is it crooked now? Was it facing more to the left?
"I'm only in town for a week," Owen continues, now closer. "And she still has to fit in a night with her..."—he appears in the doorway, holding a glass in each hand—"Boyfriend? Fuck buddy? I don't know."
Caleb taps a rhythm on his thighs with his fingertips. He sits up straight and looks around, but at not at anything. Owen hands him a drink, and Caleb looks Owen in the eyes, and he feels butterflies.
Butterflies.
Again? Still?
He wonders if they're the same ones, still lingering after too many years.
Caleb smiles involuntarily, then darts his gaze elsewhere. Owen swigs a drink.
He says, "Spooky, huh?"
"Hm?" Caleb replies.
