She points a finger at me now. “You were never the bad kid. And for the record? I always knew when you whispered the right answers to Cole. Those were the only times he looked even remotely confident.”
All those times I whispered the answers, just to keep him from sinking into himself. And now? I’m the one dragging him under. Maybe Cole would have figured things out eventually, maybe he would’ve believed in himself more, if I hadn’t made him believe in me instead. What if all I ever gave him was distraction, when what he needed was strength?
I glance down, overwhelmed. The emotion’s too big to hold.
Mrs. Kirkland presses a paper bag into my hand. “I think you need this more than I do,” she says. “It’s egg salad, I’m afraid. Not the most glamorous lunch.”
“It’s perfect,” I murmur. “Thank you.”
“It’s just a sandwich,” she replies. Then, after a beat: “But I hope you remember not everyone in this town has forgotten who you were. And not everyone believes what they hear.”
I nod, afraid if I try to speak, I’ll fall apart.
She gives me one last look, part exasperation, part parental fondness, and walks away.
It’s just a sandwich.
But for a second, it feels like something else entirely.
Like being remembered. Like being seen.Like being accepted.
COLE
I wasn’t ready for this dinner. I was barely ready to look at myself in the mirror after crying half the afternoon. Now I’m supposed to sit through salmon and small talk like nothing happened.
“What on earth is that?” Mom asks, looking at my jacket. She peers behind me like a better-dressed son might be hiding there.
“This old thing? Just something I found abandoned on the curb,” I say, just to annoy her. If Mom doesn’t like my clothes, fine. I’ll just wear an extra layer of sarcasm.
Mom presses her lips together, but somehow doesn’t comment further. She leans down to hug Noah. “You suit up nicely,” she says, as he bolts toward the kitchen in his dinosaur tee and overalls. Double standards, but okay.
“The others are already here,” she adds, heels clicking like warning shots. She pauses. “The Willards stopped by earlier. Invited themselves to stay.”
It’s hard to tell if she’s more upset about the company or the lack of etiquette.
We step into the living room, dread settling in my stomach like it’s unpacking for the week.
Caspian’s parents are here, and they’re horrible.
Sheriff Willard and his wife, Sarah, sit rigidly on thebrocade loveseat, formal as funeral chairs. Willard’s wearing his usual smug menace; Sarah just looks subdued.
By the fireplace, swirling red wine, is James Lexington III.
Baywood’s “most eligible gay bachelor,” according to Mom.
According to me? Pompous ass.
“Cole!” James beams, teeth so white they could guide ships to shore. “You look cozy.”
What is it with these people and my clothes? I’m wearing a perfectly nice guitar-print jacket from Etsy.
“And you look pressed,” I reply. His blazer probably ironed itself out of fear.
“Let’s sit,” Mom announces like she’s hosting NATO. “We’re having poached salmon with an herbed lentil crust.”
That makes me wonder if Noah would eat his greens if I gave them a proper intro: “Tonight, we’re serving a leaf of lettuce and a slice of cucumber!” Probably wouldn’t help.
James claims the seat beside me, clearly a fan of cozy.
