The bitter truth crawls up my spine: I’ve been saving people my whole life, and not one of them ever thought I was worth saving back. Some nights I can tell myself it doesn’t matter. But in the small hours, when the world goes quiet, it gnaws. That maybe Cole didn’t either. That maybe all I ever was — to him, to anyone — was the boy strong enough to take the hits, keep secrets, shoulder the blame.
Strong enough to be leaned on. Never worth holding onto.
COLE
Cove Bay is packed today. Too packed. I can’t breathe here. The constant noise and the endless chatter hit me like the waves I wanted to enjoy but now can’t.
There are at least nine parents here from Noah’s class. Every one of them gave me a curious once-over when Noah and I walked over to Sammy and Jørgen.
Now they’re all talking at once with that certain parenting energy. Like they’re all competing to see whose kid will snatch the Nobel Prize for exceeding expectations on potty training.
Becky, for example, is showing off a spreadsheet of Avery’s developmental milestones. She mentions an app that not only collects daily data of your child’s growth but also offers tips for brain stimulation.
“I can also whole-heartedly recommend classical music first thing in the morning, like literally the first thing. I really think that was the key that got Rhodes to that super exclusive arts college in Greensboro,” she explains.
I exchange a look with Jørgen, glad that there’s someone else around who’s trying hard not to roll their eyes.
“Yes, but if Luca’s seriously aiming for the Olympics in 2038, we need to focus more on his paddling technique,” Luca’s dad, Michael, issaying to a harassed looking swim instructor. She looks like she’s going to blow her whistle for help any minute now.
I look at Noah and Sammy, who are building a sand volcano with great relish. After half an hour of eager shoveling it’s still a lopsided sand blob. But to them? It’s perfect. Both kids look so care-free and happy. I try to concentrate on them, but the parents around me are like a constant buzz, their voices drowning out everything else.
I can feel the suffocating weight of their expectations pressing down on me, on Noah. It's as if the sound is turning into pressure, pushing against my chest with each passing minute. And I hate it. I shouldn’t let it affect me, but it sounds like all the other children are on the verge of a scientific breakthrough whereas Noah is usually on the verge of running around butt naked, squealing with laughter.At home, I mean, not elsewhere. Thank God for small mercies.
I’m not good with crowds. I never have been. When I’m up on stage, it’s different. It’s music. It makes sense. And it’s my choice. Here, surrounded by people I don’t really know, but who think they know me, it’s like I’m unraveling piece by piece while they all keep talking and smiling and being competitive.
I just need a minute. To breathe.
“Snack break in five?” Jørgen calls out, looking up from his phone.
“Sure,” I answer, pulling my cap lower, hoping the brim will shield me from the relentless stares of the parents. They are curious, I get it. Most of the parents here either remember Xaden from school or are otherwise aware of our past.
But it’s none of their business.
I haven’t seen Xaden since karaoke night, and even then it was just a glimpse. But of course, the karaoke night was all anyone wanted to talk about at the farmer’s market yesterday. Apparently, singingSex on Firein front of the whole bar was enough to make half of Baywood think we’re secretly back together.
I lie back on my elbows and exhale slowly. The lake in front of me is calm. The water ripples gently, reflecting the sun in such a way that it almost looks like it’s alive. It’s peaceful. So much calmer than this ridiculous my-kid-is-smarter-than-yours game I don’t want to play.
Then Becky, talking loudly for everyone to hear, asks, “Cole, what does Noah do for fun?”
I blink, suddenly thrown out of the peace I was building. I freeze for a moment before I look up. Every eye is on me now, and it’s like I’ve completely forgotten every tiny detail about my son’s life.
“Um,” I stammer, panic rising in my chest. “He… he likes his dinosaurs. And, uh, looking at picture books.”
Becky smiles sweetly, but there’s something about her gaze, something pitying. I can almost feel it crawling over me.
“How cute,” she says, and I’m sure I see the slightest hint of a condescending smile. “Avery is into alphabets. She’ll be reading Hemingway soon!”
I almost laugh. Of course. Because who wouldn’t want a four-year-old reading Hemingway? I feel like pulling my hair in frustration. Growing up is challenging enough without your parents curating your Goodreads when you’re in preschool.
“Why Hemingway?” someone asks, their voice genuinely puzzled. Finally a voice of reason, I think, but my relief melts when the voice continues: “Why not start with something easier, like Steinbeck?” I glance at the man who’s talking. It’s Adam Hummel, Lottie’s dad.
“I readThe Grapes of Wrathwhen I was seven,” he adds, his voice all smug superiority.
“Luca’s been snorkeling since eighteen months,” Michael cuts in abruptly, his voice almost aggressive.
“Avery was floating at sixteen,” Becky shoots back without missing a beat.
Noah hasn’t done either.
