“Good for her,” I mutter.
I finish breakfast, grab a thermos of coffee, and escape before they can orchestrate my social calendar. Outside, the air’s warmer now, sun climbing higher. The fields glow gold and green. Somewhere, a tractor backfires; somewhere else, a horse snorts in protest.
I head toward my truck, keys spinning around my finger. The shoulder aches, the dull kind of pain that saysnot yet but almost.
The problem is,almostdoesn’t pay the bills.
My phone buzzes, and my agent David’s name flashes across the screen.
I sigh and answer. “Yeah.”
“Crew, buddy! How’s the golden arm?”
“Rusty.”
“Don’t say that. Reporters hear you talk like that, they’ll run it as gospel.”
“Maybe they should. At least it’d be accurate.”
He sighs dramatically. “Look, rehab videos perform better than silence. You’ve got sponsors waiting to see proof of progress. Post something. Smile. Pretend you’re optimistic.”
“Pass.”
“You want a career or not?”
“I want to lift my damn arm without it shaking.”
There’s a sigh. “You’ll get there. Just don’t disappear. The public forgets fast.”
I hang up before he can start another pep talk.
Silence again, broken only by the hum of cicadas and the faint echo of the bay. I look toward the road that leads down to town, where the lighthouse stands tall against the horizon.
Bailey’s world.
Mine, once.
The image flashes again—her standing behind the counter, arms crossed, eyes like a storm she’s holding back on purpose. The way her laugh still sounds like summer. The way guilt tastes sour every time I think of that stupid, stolen note.
I open the truck door, set the hammer on the passenger seat, and grab the thermos of coffee from the holder.
I could drive anywhere. Back to Nashville. Richmond. Hell, the next county. But my hands don’t turn the wheel that way.
The road bends toward Coral Bell Cove, and I follow it like I’m in a daze.
The closer I get to town, the more everything starts to look the same and completely different all at once.
The bait shop still leans like it’s had one too many, but the windows are new. Mrs. Hollister’s bakery smells like cinnamon and salt. Even the “Welcome to Coral Bell Cove” sign has been repainted—same pelican, brighter blue.
People wave when they recognize the truck. I wave back out of habit, pretending not to notice the quick double takes.
The fallen quarterback is back on his old turf. Cue the headlines.
If they hadn’t been convinced yesterday that I was back for longer than a weekend, they are now.
I make a quick trip into the bakery to grab the muffins I know are one of Bailey’s favorites. I may stalk her social media page in my downtime, and she’s always posting her favorite books with these particular treats.
By the time I pull into the gravel lot by the lighthouse, the wind off the bay has picked up, bringing the taste of brine and rain. Yesterday, I was too eager to see Bailey and didn’t pay attention to the building. The place still looks like something out of a postcard: white stone, black iron rail around the lantern room, and the little attached house that’s nowA Page in Time.The porch light is on even though it’s midmorning, the kind of faint, cozy glow that hits somewhere beneath my ribs.
