The place is comfortably unchanged: tools lined up in order, half-repaired bikes in corners, the jukebox that only plays Springsteen. A dusty black-and-white TV tuned to baseball. Above it, a ten-year-old calendar with two faded photos taped on: his ex-fiancée, and his late dog.
Frankie’s the reason I know how to fix a carburetor. The reason I don’t trust men with too-friendly smiles. The reason I know loyalty can be quiet and constant. He and my dad weren’t just work buddies; they fixed each other’s problems. Friends from the day my dad walked in after trade school and offered everything he had in a handshake.
He squints at me through cigarette smoke. “You careful?”
“Careful’s my middle name.”
Frankie barks a laugh. “Just checking. You still carrying that folder?”
“Always.” We share a look, the kind built over years of shared grief.
Then tires crunch on gravel.
A cruiser pulls up.
Sheriff Hugh Willard steps out like the whole world’s his stage. Boots shined, badge gleaming, even his belt buckle polished. The Glock on his hip looks less like regulation and more like intimidation.
“Bailey,” he booms, touching the brim of his hat like he invented Southern charm. “Helping Frankie?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just scans the place like it’s hiding state secrets instead of mufflers.
“Heard you’re on parole,” he adds, smile thin as fishing wire. “Staying out of trouble?”
I nod. Slow. Not giving him anything. He lets the silence stretch, waiting for me to say sir. He’ll be waiting a while.
“Good,” he says at last. “You can stay if that’s what you’re planning. But the trouble stays outside Baywood. Got it?”
I don’t remember asking for his permission.
Beside me, Frankie wipes his hands on a rag, slow and deliberate. Doesn’t speak. But he’s not smiling either. Something’s off between these two, and it isn’t just old grudges.
Willard’s eyes flick back to me. “Seen any of the Hudsons?” he asks, too casually.
My gut tightens. I blink, all innocence. “Should I have?”
“Figured you and Cole might’ve bumped into each other,” he says, smooth as grease. The way he says Cole’s name makes my skin crawl. “Given your… history.”
“You mean when he was my boyfriend?” I say brightly. Willard’s jaw twitches. He clears his throat like he’s swallowing something bitter.
Probably wasn’t a Pride parade invite.
Baywood’s mostly welcoming, but there are some people like Hugh Willard. The kind who’ll never say it out loud where it costs them, but you can feel it in the twist of their mouths.
I’ve felt it plenty. Poor kid, wrong side of town, and queer on top of it? People like him never let me forget.
“Well. Keep things quiet. Peaceful.” Sheriff gives Frankie a stiff nod, turns on his heel, and drives off.
Soon after, Frankie calls it a night, but I’m too wired. I need to walk this day off.
Baywood’s always been a patchwork of weird and wonderful. Most small towns are, I guess. I pass the statue of Mayor Billings holding a squirrel — nobody knows why, but we still celebrate Billings Day with squirrel cookies. Then Fenton’s Books, where the window sign says Shadow Daddies Welcome. Ann-Sabrina’s imagination is still a hazard. Town hall’s bulletin board has Harold Bramble’s latest flyer about Baywood history lectures. Somebody slapped a post-it on it: NOBODY CARES, HAROLD.
I snort. Baywood’s loud, nosy, alive. I’ve missed it.
Have I forgiven it for killing my dad? Not a chance. But I’m here to settle that debt.
The church’s cracked bell tower looms. The alley behind the florist shop stops me cold. The first time Cole kissed me; when it was him making the move. Grinning shy, grabbing my collar, pressing me into the wall like it was urgent.
His hand on my shirt. My heart in my throat, on my sleeve. His mouth on mine.
