2. GHOSTS ON THE BATTERY

The Charleston humidity hit me the second the sliding doors parted—warm, dense, carrying that faint salt tang from the harbor. It wrapped around me like an old, unwelcome memory.

I adjusted the strap on my carry-on and scanned the pickup lane until I spotted the rideshare sign. The air smelled faintly of jet fuel and magnolia, and somewhere beyond the terminal, a cicada’s high-pitched whine carried in from the trees.

It had been a month since the invitation showed up in my mailbox. The panic it sparked had simmered down after a few days—enough for me to RSVP, book the flights, and tell myself it was fine. But the closer I got to today, the more that knot had started twisting again.

Now, standing on the curb with the heat pressing into my skin, I could feel it tightening all over again.

I thumbed open my phone, mostly to distract myself, and tapped the Grindr icon. The familiar grid appeared—torsos, smirks, suggestive glances—all within a few miles. Different city, same game.

The profiles loaded fast—a mix of college kids from the peninsula, older guys with boat tans, and more than a few married men whose photos were cropped just below the chin.

First thumbnail—Hunter, 33. Blond, sunburnt shoulders, a smirk that said he’d had a few too many beach beers before taking the pic. The bio was short: “Top. Hung. Hosting.” I pictured him in some Mount Pleasant condo with ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead, the kind of guy who’d fuck you slow and then ask if you wanted sweet tea.

Second—Robbie, 27. Baseball cap, wide grin, tank top showing off ink down both arms. “Vers, 7”—love a guy who knows what he’s doing.” The kind of energy that would have him pressing you up against the first available surface, all enthusiasm and very little patience.

Third—Evan, 39. Salt-and-pepper beard, sharp eyes, collared shirt unbuttoned enough to hint at the hair on his chest. “Discreet, into control, looking for someone who can keep up.” My pulse kicked up a notch at that one.

Fourth—Ty, 25. Young enough to still think an ab selfie was the best way to sell himself, but the tan lines and white compression shorts were doing him favors. I imagined him bent over the hood of his car in some back lot, not caring who drove by.

Fifth—Caleb, 36. No face pic, just a tight shot of his ass in gray briefs. The curve filled the frame perfectly, the fabric pulled snug enough to leave no mystery about what was underneath.

A shadow crossed my peripheral vision—my driver pulling up, window down.

“Rhys?”

I pocketed the phone. “Yeah.”

The car was a black Camry, the interior smelling faintly of lemon air freshener and something fried—maybe from the driver’s last food stop. I slid into the back seat, the AC blasting cold across my arms.

“Hot one today,” the driver said as we pulled away from the curb.

“Feels like it.”

He merged into the flow of traffic, past rows of palmettos and low brick buildings with wide verandas. “In town for business or pleasure?”

I hesitated. “Neither, really. High school reunion.”

That got a laugh. “Those things still happen? Figured Facebook killed all that.”

“Apparently not,” I said, watching the landscape shift from chain restaurants to historic streets lined with live oaks.

“You from here?” he asked.

“Was. Left after graduation. Haven’t been back much since.”

“Bet it’s changed.”

I nodded, but kept my eyes on the window. Changed, maybe—but some things didn’t.

We crossed the Ashley River, the late-afternoon light bouncing off the water, and the closer we got to the peninsula, the tighter that knot in my chest pulled. The driver kept talking about traffic patterns and new hotels, but I only caught half of it. My thoughts were already skipping ahead—to the hotel ballroom, to the faces I hadn’t seen in twenty years, and to the one face I couldn’t stop picturing.

The Uber turned onto a wide, tree-lined avenue and slowed in front of the Hotel St. Claire, one of those restored prewar properties that looked like it had been plucked from a postcard. Four stories of pale stucco with black-shuttered windows, wrought iron balconies on the second floor, and striped awnings shading the entrance. The American and South Carolina flags flanked the doorway, stirring lazily in the heat.

Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of polished wood and citrus cleaner, the kind of scent that felt expensive on purpose. The floors were checkered marble, worn smooth in places, and the ceiling stretched high above with a crystal chandelier that looked original to the building. A pair of deep leather armchairs sat near the fireplace—unlit this time of year—and to the right, a roped-off double doorway led to the ballroom.

A sign stood just inside the ropes, all gold script and crimson background:

Welcome James Madison High School Class of 2005—20-Year Reunion

My chest tightened. This was it—ground zero. At some point in the next forty-eight hours, every name I remembered for the wrong reasons would walk through those doors. And maybe… maybe one name I hadn’t been able to forget for the right ones.

I crossed to the front desk. The woman behind it wore a navy blazer and a professional smile.

“Checking in?”

“Yes. Rhys Calloway.”

She tapped at her keyboard, slid a key card into a paper sleeve. “You’re on the third floor. King room, elevator’s to your left.”

The ride up was smooth and silent, the mirrored walls reflecting back a version of me I barely recognized from the one who’d walked these streets two decades ago.

Room 314 opened onto a space that was all neutral tones and soft lighting—king bed with crisp white linens, tufted headboard, a writing desk positioned under a tall window that looked out over the street. A pair of framed sepia photographs hung above the dresser—old Charleston harbor scenes. The AC hummed steadily, cool air wrapping around me as I dropped my bag onto the luggage rack.

Through the wall, faint voices carried—maybe another early arrival, maybe someone from my graduating class. The reminder landed sharp: I was going to be sleeping under the same roof as every person from back then. And the only one I cared about seeing might not even show.

I unzipped my carry-on and started unpacking—shirts on hangers in the small closet, toiletries lined up on the bathroom counter. The mirror in there was ringed with soft lighting, flattering enough to make you forget the travel fatigue for a second.

Back in the bedroom, I toed off my sneakers, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled out my phone. I wasn’t telling myself I was looking for Maddox—not exactly. Just… curious.

Grindr opened to a new grid of faces. I scrolled slowly, scanning for something familiar—the set of a jaw I’d memorized, the shape of a smile I’d thought about more than I’d admit. But there was nothing.

What I did find was Derek, 35. Profile pic: dark hair, sharp stubble, tight black tee that clung to his chest. The bio was simple: “Vers, nearby, can host or travel. Into connection and making you forget your name.”

I smirked. That last part wasn’t far off from what I needed.

In town for a couple days, I typed. Hotel on Meeting Street. You free?

The reply was almost instant. Give me the room number.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find him leaning casually against the frame, jeans hanging low on his hips, a grin that said he already knew why he was here.

“You Rhys?”

“Yeah. Come in.”

He stepped inside, his eyes sweeping the room before coming back to me. “Nice place.”

“Let’s make it a little messier.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

The morning light spilled in thin, pale strips through the slats of the blinds, cutting across the bed in neat angles. I stood at the sink, toothbrush in hand, watching my reflection over the foam. My hair was still damp from the shower, the steam curling faintly in the cooler air of the room.

Derek had left around midnight, after a couple of lazy rounds and a shared bottle of water from the minibar. He’d kissed me once at the door—warm, easy, no strings—and vanished down the hallway like he hadn’t been here at all.

The sex had been good. Better than good, really. He’d kept pace with me, pushed back when I pushed, grinned when I had him pinned under me. The kind of encounter that should’ve knocked me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But it hadn’t.

By the time I’d closed my eyes, the knot was still there, tucked somewhere behind my ribs. I knew what it was, even if I didn’t want to name it. No amount of sweat, skin, or release was going to touch the part of me wound tight about tonight—about who might walk into that ballroom.

I spat, rinsed, and pulled on a pale-blue button-down, leaving the top two buttons open. Dark jeans. Casual enough for the morning but sharp enough that if I happened to run into anyone, I wouldn’t look like I’d rolled straight out of bed.

The hotel breakfast didn’t tempt me—even in a place like the St. Claire, it was bound to be limp eggs and a sad buffet of pastries. Charleston had better options.

I grabbed my wallet and phone, slid on my sunglasses, and stepped into the hallway.

I opted to walk.

Charleston in the morning was softer than I remembered—the light pale and clean, bouncing off pastel facades and cobblestone streets still damp from someone’s hose. The air already carried that low hum of heat, but it wasn’t oppressive yet.

I’d grown up about twenty minutes from here, in a neighborhood where the biggest drama was who got to be quarterback for the homecoming game. Downtown was where you came for special occasions—birthday dinners, prom night, the kind of things that made you put on your nicest clothes and pretend you belonged among the tourists and the money.

Back then, Charleston had felt like an entirely different country. Gas lamps flickering against centuries-old brick, horse-drawn carriages rolling past storefronts that had been there longer than my family had been in the state. I used to think it was all perfect—romantic, even. Then I learned how easily charm could hide ugliness underneath.

King Street was already waking up—shop owners propping open doors, the smell of coffee curling out onto the sidewalk. I passed the corner where my mom used to drag me into Ben Silver to “look around,” which meant touching exactly nothing. Passed the candy store Maddox and I had once raided before a matinee, stuffing our pockets with taffy we barely tasted.

I ducked into The Copper Spoon, a narrow café with exposed brick walls, brass fixtures, and a chalkboard menu hung over the counter. A couple of businessmen were hunched over laptops, and a pair of college girls shared a plate of avocado toast at the window. The place smelled like espresso and cinnamon.

I ordered an iced coffee and a breakfast sandwich—fried egg, pimento cheese, thick slices of tomato on a biscuit so big it could’ve been a meal for two. Sliding into a corner booth, I watched the city move through the glass.

It was strange, being back. Everything looked the same on the surface—the colors, the smells, the sounds—but I was the one who’d changed. And no matter how far I’d gone or how much I’d built, I still felt that faint, familiar buzz in my chest just from being here.

Part of it was nostalgia.

The rest was the possibility that somewhere in this city, Maddox was already awake, maybe having his own breakfast, completely unaware that in less than twelve hours we might be standing face-to-face again.

I’d just stepped out of The Copper Spoon, still nursing the last of my iced coffee, when I heard my name.

“Rhys? Rhys Calloway?”

I turned, and there she was—Candace Miller. A name I hadn’t said out loud in two decades but one I hadn’t forgotten. She looked good, I’ll give her that—blonde hair cropped stylishly at her shoulders, oversized sunglasses perched on her head, a sundress that probably came with its own dry-cleaning schedule.

“Candace,” I said, keeping my voice polite.

“I knew it was you!” She smiled wide, tilting her head just enough to size me up. “You look… wow. Different.”

I offered a faint smile. “People change.”

She launched into small talk about the weather, the city, the reunion tonight, all while her eyes kept drifting over the cut of my shirt, the watch on my wrist. Then she tossed her keys in the air and caught them like she’d been waiting for her cue.

“I was just about to take the convertible out for a spin,” she said. “You should come. Ride around, catch up… maybe grab lunch on the water.”

I didn’t even have to see the key fob to know it wasn’t hers. Her voice had that tenor—a little too bright, a little too rehearsed. I’d bet good money the car belonged to her father.

I took a step closer, letting her get a good look at the man I’d become—the one who wasn’t the goofy kid she and her friends used to shove into lockers. “You know, Candace, I remember when you wouldn’t even be caught dead talking to me in public. In fact, I remember you leading the charge more than once.”

Her smile faltered. “That was a long time ago. We were kids.”

“Yeah,” I said, “kids who knew exactly what they were doing.”

I took a step back, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her to shift uncomfortably in her sandals. “Enjoy your ride.” I turned and started walking, the heat of her gaze burning between my shoulder blades.

About four strides in, I stopped, turned, and called back, “And by the way—I wouldn’t get in that car even if it was the last ride out of hell.”

Her jaw tightened. I kept walking.

The Battery was exactly as I remembered—the seawall stretching along the harbor, the white-columned mansions lined up like they were competing for a magazine cover, and the slow churn of water against stone. A breeze carried the faint tang of salt and marsh, cooling the sweat at the back of my neck.

I walked the length of it, past joggers, tourists with cameras, and a couple of kids daring each other to climb up onto the cannons. Live oaks arched overhead in parts, their branches knotted and heavy, the Spanish moss swaying like something half-asleep.

This was where you came in Charleston to think—or to get away without really leaving. But today, the quiet didn’t feel like a reprieve. It just gave my thoughts more room to stretch out.

I kept asking myself if this had been a good idea. Coming back. Walking into that ballroom tonight. Seeing faces I’d spent half my life trying to forget.

And then there was Maddox.

The last time I’d spent any real time with him was senior year, a Friday night when neither of us had plans. We ended up in his car, parked down by the river just outside town, talking about college, the future, the things we weren’t telling anyone else. At some point, the conversation had shifted—the air between us heavier, charged.

He’d reached for my hand first. We’d leaned toward each other, slow enough that I could’ve stopped it, but I didn’t want to. My fingers were in his hair when headlights swept across the water. A police cruiser, rolling slow. We’d yanked apart, my heart slamming against my ribs as the car passed without stopping.

Nothing happened after that. Not really. We’d laughed it off, but the moment was still there, suspended in my memory like it never ended.

And I kept thinking… what if.

What if we’d gone to the same college? What if we’d ignored the headlights? What if that night had changed everything instead of nothing?

The “what ifs” stacked up like dominos in my head, and no matter how I arranged them, they all ended in the same place—me wondering what Maddox would see when he looked at me now.

By the time I turned back toward the hotel, the sun was higher, the air thicker. The streets hummed with weekend traffic, the clip of heels on pavement, the murmur of conversations spilling from open shop doors.

The St. Claire rose into view like a stage set waiting for the curtain to go up. Same roped-off ballroom. Same sign with its gold script and navy background. A reminder that the clock was ticking down.

In the elevator, I caught my reflection again—hair a little mussed from the wind off the harbor, a faint sheen of sweat along my jaw. I didn’t look nervous. But my pulse told a different story.

Inside my room, I dropped onto the edge of the bed, staring at the neat row of clothes I’d hung earlier. Tonight was coming whether I was ready or not.

Somewhere in this city, Maddox was living his own day, maybe thinking about me, maybe not. But soon, the “what ifs” would have to give way to whatever actually happened when we were face-to-face again.

For the first time all day, I let myself picture it—him across the room, that half-smile I remembered, and all the space between us finally gone.

I leaned back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and let the thought settle:

Tonight, I’ll know.

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