I still have that book. It’s on the passenger seat now, beside my phone, buzzing with messages I don’t answer.
By the time the “Welcome to Virginia” sign flashes by, dawn’s threatening the horizon. The air smells like salt and earth—like home.
I stop at a diner just past the state line, order black coffee, and sit in the corner booth watching the rain taper off. No one recognizes me here. Just another tired guy in a hoodie, staring out the window like he’s waiting for something to shift.
The server fills my cup again without asking. “Long night?”
“Long life,” I say, and she laughs softly, patting my shoulder before walking away.
I think about Bailey’s face when she used to laugh like that—unrestrained, head tilted back, eyes crinkled. The kind of laugh that hit you in the chest and made everything make sense.
I wonder if she laughed after the press conference. Or if she just turned off the TV and let the silence do what I didn’t have the guts to.
That thought twists something inside me, sharp and deep.
I throw down some bills, grab my keys, and head back to the truck. The air’s cold now, clean. It cuts straight through the haze.
The drive to Coral Bell Cove is muscle memory. The roads narrow, the pine trees crowd close, and the world gets quieter. Every curve feels like peeling back time.
When I hit the first stretch of coastline, I roll down the window. The smell of brine and sea grass fills the cab. I breathe it in like it’s medicine.
The sign at the edge of town still reads:Welcome to Coral Bell Cove—Population 4,817
Someone’s painted a tiny seashell above the “C.” Bailey, probably. She always said details mattered.
Main Street’s asleep when I roll through. The bakery is dark except for the faint glow of the ovens. The lamppost by the dock flickers like it’s thinking about quitting. Everything is the same, and everything is different.
Otter Creek Farm sits quiet on the hill, the barns still and silver in the early light. I pass it, heading straight for the water.
The lighthouse appears through the fog like it always does—solid, defiant, impossible to ignore. The bookstore’s porch light glows, soft and golden, a beacon for the lost and the stupid. I pull over, kill the engine, and sit for a long time.
Every muscle in my body wants to run to her door, but fear keeps me still. Not the big, life-and-death kind. The smaller, crueler one—the fear of watching her eyes shutter when she sees me.
I close my hands around the steering wheel until the leather creaks.
She deserves better than half-apologies. She deserves the truth.
When I finally get out, the night air hits like salt on an open wound. The wind off the bay carries the faintest trace of her—vanilla, old paper, and something uniquely Bailey.
The porch steps creak under my boots. The CLOSED sign sways in the window. The place smells like rain and ink and second chances.
I knock once. Twice.
No answer.
I should leave. Let her sleep. Let her choose when to see me. But before I can turn away, I hear the soft tread of bare feet. The lock clicks. The door opens, and there she is.
Bailey.
Her hair is in a tangle, her eyes rimmed red, but she’s never looked more like home. She’s wearing my old Stallions hoodie—gray, frayed at the cuffs, the one she used to sleep in when she thought I didn’t notice.
Her breath catches when she sees me. “Crew.”
“Yeah.” My voice scrapes out low, rough. “It’s me.”
She blinks, like her brain’s fighting to catch up. “You—how did you—”
“Drove,” I say simply.
