I shouldn’t be here. Too many ghosts, too many eyes. The risk of running into Cole is too high.We arrived after his gig — thank God for small mercies — but he must be here somewhere. Just thethought of seeing him fills me with so much dread and pain that it takes every ounce of my self-control to stay.
The band playing now, Savage Amen, only fuels my angst. Their name is spot on as they really make me think savage thoughts, amen. Their lead singer is called Brett Morales. I know, because he’s shouted his name three times already. He’s shirtless, with something sparkling smeared across his chest like he tripped headfirst into a glitter glue tank. Mid-song he leans into the mic, panting like the weight of his own biceps might crush him. “Baywood,” he croons, “you are the loudest crowd we’ve ever had!” The baffled parents clutch their kids tighter, looking around like maybe he’s talking to another Baywood in another state. The busload of Florida pensioners adjust their sun hats, visibly disappointed this isn’t the robust gospel act they thought they were signing up for.
I look at all the people milling about, worry-free and relaxed. They believe in Baywood’s postcard fantasy. I know better. I’m here to remind them that their fantasy of living in a safe haven is just that: a fantasy.
Someone in Baywood killed my dad and dressed it up like an accident. It wasn’t shock or grief or guilt that made me see it. It was fact. Dad had stumbled onto something. He had been wary for months but he didn’t want to talk about it. And when he finally was ready to talk, I ignored him. Instead of heading home after school like he asked, I spent two blissful hours with Cole behind the bleachers.
I came home, lips swollen and heart bursting, and found Dad crushed under the car he had been fixing.
“He died immediately,” the coroner said, like that made it easier. The first officer on scene, a kid who kept fidgeting with his hat, called itrotten luck. It was rotten, all right. But luck had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t the kid’s fault. But I still told him to fuck all the way off because no way would my methodical, careful-to-a-fault dad have skipped a safety check.
“A tragedy,” Sheriff Willard had said, tone flat as day-old coffee.
That was when I knew. Baywood didn’t want me digging, and Cole’s family didn’t want me near their son. Between the whispers, the pity, and the stares that told me I’d never belong, I wasn’t just grieving, I was being pushed out. Staying meant putting Cole in the crosshairs of whatever killed my dad.
So I left Baywood soon after that. Not because I wanted to, but because every road pointed me out. I couldn’t stand the rot leaking from its every pore.
Now I’m back, but I’m not the same kid who believed in fairness and doing things the “right” way. That version of me died when I watched them zip Dad’s body into a bag.
Baywood killed him. And if I’m not careful, it’ll kill me the same way.
COLE
I thought I’d never make it, but eventually I spot Noah and Caspian. Noah’s nodding off on a picnic blanket, clutching his small plastic T-Rex. It’s survived both extinction and a four-year-old. Now that’s resilience.
“Sorry, so many people wanted to catch up,” I say, crouching to zip Noah’s hoodie. “And then, well… Earl.”
Caspian smiles, calm and reassuring like always. With his soft brown eyes, perfectly-behaved hair, and the tall, broad-shouldered build of an ex-quarterback, he looks like he was designed to be universally liked. If Baywood needed a poster boy for dependability, Caspian would be it. He’s the guy who shows up on time, remembers yourcoffee order, and folds Noah’s laundry when I forget. I’ve wished, more than once, that I could fall for someone like him. Someone easy-going. Safe. But I’ve only ever wanted Xaden. Even after he tossed me aside like a souvenir from a forgotten vacation.
“It was the same for us,” Caspian says. “By the way, Steve tried to give Noah a t-shirt that saysBan Harold. Noah told him, and I quote: ‘It looks much too vulgar for me.’ Any chance that came from your mom?”
“Oh, yeah. Just last week she asked if I only shop at Vulgar and Garish.”
I lift Noah while Caspian folds the blanket. Then he pulls us into a half-hug.
“You were so good tonight.One Last Kisssounded amazing live. The whole of Baywood must weep with envy that I get to drive you home.”
“As they should,” I say. “I have a laminated backstage pass.”
Caspian chuckles, and we start toward the car.
It’s easy with him. Always has been. He never pushes, never asks me to be more than I am. Sometimes I think he’s the only reason that’s kept me from unraveling completely. For a fleeting moment, I feel… okay. Tired, yes. Heart still aching, yes. But happy for the love and friendship I still have.
Then the happiness evaporates like mist off the lake.
Because standing in our path, impossibly real, is Xaden Bailey.
XADEN
We’ve been scanning the crowd for Mike for almost half an hour when I see him.
Not Mike.Cole.
The hit of emotion is instant vertigo. The world tilts; I stay rooted. Lean frame. Boyish features. Snug jeans. Still soft where it counts, sharp where it matters. The last of the golden sunlight makes him look almost unreal. A lake breeze stirs his curls, and my hands ache with the memory of holding them. Of touching him.
I force my eyes away, but they betray me, dragging back to him like gravity.
When the first shock fades, my brain starts connecting dots: the little boy must be Lizzie’s son that Cole adopted in a dramatic Hudson family plot twist. That story I’d heard. But Cole dating Caspian Stone? A goddamn wrecking ball. Stone, a polished former football hero, has never had to fight for anything in his life outside the field.And now he has Cole.My Cole.
