I grin, wipe my mouth. “Earl brought you pie?”
“He sure did. Came with a hefty serving of drama. A disturbance at the bakery, something so bad it made his cinnamon rolls shake.”
“Is there something that doesn’t make them shake?” I joke, but after seeing Frankie’s face, I add, careful: “Did he elaborate?”
“Your friends paid him a visit.”
My voice stays even. “Did they do something?”
“Knocked over the tip jar. Shouted at each other.”
“Arguing?”
“Solitaire. Versus Mahjong.”
I almost don’t laugh. Almost. “And Earl?”
“Suggested they try Candy Crush.”
The humor fades quickly. JJ and Ronnie aren’t just killing time anymore. They’re testing boundaries. Keeping me out of it.
Frankie’s voice drops. “JJ also made a crude comment about the ‘pretty singer boy.’ Said golden boys don’t stay clean forever. I think Cole rubs them the wrong way.”
The words stick like barbed wire. I can take their shit aimed at me, but Cole? He doesn’t deserve to be a target. Yet here we are. My jaw tightens.
I toss the empty box and mutter something about going for a run.
Because if I don’t move, I’ll drag JJ out by the throat and blow the whole operation.
Soon, I’m running past the bakery, cinnamon still in the air, past tidy lawns and too-bright porches.
Suddenly Lisa Clancy, née Melville, gives me a hesitant wave. She’s holding a stroller in front of her like a shield. Reluctantly I stop.
“Wow. Heard you were back. I wasn’t sure it’s true,” she says with a small smile.
“It’s true.”
“This is June,” she says, gesturing at the baby. “She’s one.”
“Cute.”
She fumbles. “Anyway… the Pumpkin Dance. The rumors, I… I started them. Well, you know that already. But I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I had the biggest crush on you, and I was jealous. I didn’t think about what it would do to you. Or him,” Lisa gabbles.
“You outed me,” I say coldly. “Turned me into gossip. And it hit Cole too. You had no right.”
She flinches. “I know. I really am sorry.”
I kind of believe her. She looks tired, a bit worn, but sincere. I let the silence sit heavy before I finally mutter, “Thanks for saying it. Doesn’t make it fine. But we were kids.”
She nods, small. I move on before the past drags me under.
The trail cuts behind Oak Lane. There’s a shortcut I often used with Cole when we went back to his after school.
But now I stop dead. Sheriff Willard and Andrew Hudson stand under the oaks, heads bent close.
It’s not neighborly talk. Their postures are too tight, voices low, eyes flicking like men rehearsing lies.
I change direction, pulse hammering. Not from the run — from instinct. That wasn’t small talk. That looked like damage control.
