“I understand.” I don’t, really. But what else can I say? “Thanks for letting me know.”
“If we do rebuild, you’ll be first on my list to call. I mean that.”
“I appreciate it.”
After he hangs up, I sit on the kitchen floor and let myself feel the full weight of it.
No job. No prospects. No idea when the café might reopen or if it ever will.
I’m twenty-eight years old, living in my childhood bedroom, and apparently, the entire town thinks I’m either a charity case or a criminal.
The doorbell rings at eight o’clock.
I’ve been sitting in the dark kitchen for the past hour, which I realize is dramatic, but sometimes you need to sit in the dark and feel sorry for yourself.
I drag myself to the door and pull it open.
Cole stands on the porch, holding a toolbox.
“Hey.” His smile fades the second he sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” My voice cracks on the last word, which really undermines the whole ‘fine’ claim.
He sets the toolbox down. “Jake asked me to fix the loose railing on the back deck. But that can wait.” He steps closer, eyes scanning my face. “Rachel. What happened?”
“Bad day. That’s all.”
“You’ve been crying.”
“I’m allowed to cry.”
“You are. Absolutely.” His voice is gentle. “But you don’t usually cry. Which means it was a terrible day.”
The kindness in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. Fresh tears spill over, and I hate it. Hate that I’m falling apart in front of him. Hate that I can’t seem to hold it together.
Cole doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me into his arms.
I bury my face in his chest and let myself cry for real this time. Not the three-minute sob in my car. The ugly kind where you can’t breathe right, your nose runs, and you make embarrassing sounds.
He holds me. One hand rubbing slow circles on my back, the other cradling my head against his shoulder. He smells like soap and something woodsy—no, that’s not right. He smells clean like laundry detergent and summer air.
“Sorry,” I mumble into his shirt. “I’m getting your shirt wet.”
“Don’t care.” His voice rumbles through his chest. “Talk to me. What happened?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” I pull back slightly, wiping my face. “I had a job interview today, and this woman basically called me a charity case and a suspect in the fire. Then the café owners called and said they can’t afford to reopen anytime soon. And I’m just… I’m tired, Cole. I’m so tired of starting over and failing.”
“You’re not failing.”
“I’m twenty-eight and living with my brother. That’s pretty much the definition of failing at adult life.”
“That’s the definition of being smart enough to accept help when you need it.” He tips my chin up, making me look at him. “You left a bad relationship. You kept your son safe. You worked your ass off at that café. None of that is failing.”
“Then why does it feel like it?”
“Because you’re human. And because some people in this town are judgmental assholes.” His jaw tightens. “What did this woman say to you?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
