Now it’s almost noon, and my phone is a quiet, accusing thing beside the register. I’ve checked it so many times that the screen’s greasy with thumbprints. Still no unread messages. No call.
He said it was just a quick meeting. Forty-eight hours, tops. But Crew Wright isn’t the kind of man who goes quiet. When he’s upset, you hear it—in his voice, in his body, in the way he exhales before he says something honest.
I stare at the display of bookmarks near the register. Lila made them for the fall festival last month—pressed flowers sealed under resin, each one a little world frozen in place. I pickone up, trace the stem of a daisy, and pretend I don’t feel like that’s what I’m doing too. Waiting for time to melt.
The bell over the door jingles, and Ivy steps in carrying two coffees and a smile that’s too bright to be real. “You look like you’re trying to murder that bookmark,” she says, handing me a cup.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” She leans against the counter, hip cocked, hair escaping her braid. “You heard from him?”
I shake my head. “Not since last night.”
Her voice softens. “He’s probably buried in meetings. You know how those guys love to hear themselves talk.”
“Yeah,” I say, wrapping my hands around the cup. The warmth seeps into my fingers but doesn’t reach anything that matters. “Just… it’s not like him.”
Ivy’s eyes search mine. “You’re doing that thing where you tell yourself it’s fine while your insides are setting fires.”
“I’m not—” I start, then stop, because she’s right. I’m exactly that.
She nudges me gently. “You want to come by the studio later? I’m dropping off that set list for the charity event. We’re pretending to be organized.”
“I can’t. The new shipment’s still in boxes, and the book drive paperwork’s due tonight.”
“Bailey…”
I give her the look that saysplease don’t make me talk about this right now. She reads it, sighs, and lets me have my silence. “Okay. But call if you need to vent or… break something.”
“I’m not breaking anything,” I say, voice too steady.
She grins. “Then I’ll do it for you.”
When she leaves, the quiet rushes back in like a tide. The lighthouse creaks, the breeze drags another breath acrossthe windows, and I wonder when home started feeling like a question.
By three, the sky’s cleared to a pale gray that smells like salt and second chances. I close up early and walk down Main Street, hoping movement will trick my body into thinking I’m fine.
Coral Bell Cove moves at its own rhythm—kids chasing each other past the bakery, Mr. Daniels setting out pumpkins in front of the hardware store, the chatter of tourists who think they’ve found something untouched. Every person I pass smiles, waves, asks about the book drive. Normal things. Simple things.
But every sound feels half a second too slow, every color dimmer than it should be. Like the world forgot to plug itself in when Crew left.
I stop at the café window, watching Ivy inside talking to a group of women. Her laugh carries even through the glass, soft and unguarded. She looks up, catches my reflection, and lifts a brow that sayscome in.
I shake my head. Not today.
My stomach twists. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s envy of ease—the way she’s learned how to live loud again after being dragged through the tabloids, the way she can trust that love stays.
I walk on, past the docks, where the water laps lazy against the boats. Crew’s truck isn’t there, of course, but I still look for it. Habit’s cruel that way.
The air tastes like brine and metal. Somewhere, a gull screams like it knows things don’t end quietly.
When I get back to the lighthouse, dusk is already bleeding into the edges of the sky. I flip the porch light on before I even unlock the door. He always teases me for that—calls it my “welcome mat for ghosts.”
Inside, the shop glows soft, golden. Cozy. It should feel safe. Instead, it feels like pretending.
I sink onto the stool behind the counter, phone in my lap. I tell myself not to check it again. Then I do.
Nothing.
