Outside, the lantern beam sweeps over the water, slow and steady, the same as always. But it feels like it’s searching this time.
Searching for him.
And maybe for me, too.
The next day starts with fog.
The kind that blurs the horizon until sky and water forget which one is supposed to be blue.
I open the shop anyway. Habit wins over sense.
The bell jingles, the cat yawns, and the smell of ground beans from the café next door slides under the door like an invitation to act normal.
I make it until ten. Ten whole minutes before checking my phone again.
Nothing.
There’s a hollow space where his name should be.
Every hour that passes stretches it thinner, like silence can actually tear.
By eleven, I give up pretending and take the box of donation forms down to the café. Mrs. Lopez will want the paperwork for the town fundraiser anyway, and I can’t keep pacing the aisles of the shop without going insane.
The bell above the café door rings when I step in, warm air kissing my face. The smell hits—sugar, espresso, cinnamon—and for a second I almost remember what peace feels like.The place hums with low chatter, spoons against mugs, a guitar humming from the radio.
“Bailey!” Mrs. Lopez waves from behind the counter, hair pinned up, lipstick smudged from smiling too much. “You working or hiding?”
“Maybe both,” I say, sliding the box onto the counter. “Book drive totals. Coral Bell Elementary hit their goal.”
“That’s my readers!” she beams, already flipping open the folder. “You staying for coffee? You look like you need it.”
I manage a half smile. “Do I?”
“Like a woman holding back the tide with a paper cup,” she says, and doesn’t wait for an answer before calling to the back, “Jessica, two lattes!”
I sit at the counter, twisting the paper napkin in my hands.
The TV in the corner plays muted news—sports recap, scrolling headlines, some anchor mouthing excitement that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s background noise, like usual.
Mrs. Lopez slides a mug toward me. “How’s your fella? He’s still in Nashville, right? That quarterback?”
The napkin tears in half in my fingers. “Yeah. Just meetings.”
She nods, satisfied, then moves on to the next customer, leaving me with steam and caffeine and a silence that feels anything but quiet.
I sip, burn my tongue, and glance up, just as the screen cuts to a press conference.
I don’t register the words at first. Just the image. A long table, team banners, microphones lined up like a firing squad. Harris at the center, smiling. David on the far right, pretending he belongs. And Crew—
Crew looks like someone I almost recognize.
He’s in a tailored suit, hair pushed back too neat, eyes shadowed. His smile is the kind that hurts to look at—half a muscle too tight.
The anchor’s voice rises, clear over the café hum: “…and the Tennessee Stallions are proud to welcome back quarterback Crew Wright, officially returning for next season after successful rehabilitation and a renewed partnership with our sponsors…”
My heart stops.
The words fall wrong.
