Page 1 of Back in the Bay

cole

. . .

Vivian has perfect teeth,and that's the problem.

They're too white, too straight, too eager when she smiles at me across the checkered tablecloth of Romano's. Everything about her screams "good choice"—the kind of woman my mother would love, the kind Rowan and Fox keep insisting I need to find. She teaches third grade, volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends, and laughs at all my jokes, even the bad ones.

But her laugh isn't Mabel's laugh.

"So you really built that whole community center from the ground up?" Vivian asks, leaning forward with genuine interest. Her eyes are brown and warm, the color of coffee with cream. Not the deep green that used to make my chest tight every time I looked across a room.

"The three of us did, yeah." I cut into my chicken parmesan, trying to focus on the conversation instead of the way Vivian tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. Mabel used to do that too, except her hair was black as midnight and twice as wild. "Rowan handles most of the client relations, and Fox does the heavy planning, and I?—"

"You're the detail guy," she finishes, smiling again. Those damn perfect teeth. "Sarah told me you're meticulous about everything."

Sarah. Right. Fox's cousin, who set this whole thing up, was convinced that what I needed was a "nice girl who'll appreciate a steady man." What I need is to stop comparing every woman I meet to a ghost who walked out of my life thirteen years ago.

Vivian reaches across the table and touches my hand. Her fingers are soft and manicured. "You seem distracted tonight. Everything okay?"

I should lie. I should tell Vivian I'm fine, ask about her students, and make it through dessert like a decent human being. Instead, I pull my hand back and signal for the check.

"I'm sorry, Vivian. You're wonderful, but I should call it a night.

The disappointment in her coffee-brown eyes makes me feel like the bastard I probably am.

She doesn't argue, which somehow makes it worse. A woman like Mabel would have called me out, demanded to know what my problem was, and maybe thrown her napkin at me for good measure. Vivian nods with the kind of grace that makes my guilt sit heavier in my stomach.

"Of course," she says, already reaching for her purse. "I understand."

No, she doesn't. She thinks it's her, thinks she did something wrong when the truth is she did everything right. That's precisely the problem.

I pay the check while she freshens up in the bathroom, and we walk to our cars in the kind of silence that feels like a funeral. The November air bites at my skin, carrying the scent of salt from the bay and dying leaves. It's the same smell that used to cling to Mabel's hair after we'd spend hours walking the shoreline, planning a future that never came.

"Cole?" Vivian's voice is soft and uncertain. She's standing by her Honda Civic, keys in hand, looking like she wants to say something that might salvage this disaster.

"Yeah?"

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut because I already found it. Found her. And let her walk away.

I watch her taillights disappear down Main Street before I can bring myself to get in my truck. My phone buzzes with a text from

Rowan: How'd it go, Romeo?

I don't answer. Instead, I drive the long way home, past the old pier where Mabel and I used to sneak out to meet, past the bookstore where she'd drag me to read poetry I pretended not to understand, past the house where she used to live before she decided Cedar Bay wasn't big enough for her dreams.

Thirteen years, and I'm still stuck in the same place, waiting for a woman who's probably forgotten I exist.

My house feels too quiet when I finally walk through the front door. The same house I bought with the money I should have used to follow her to Portland, the same house I've been rattling around in like a marble in a coffee can ever since. I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and head straight for the closet in my spare room, the one I avoid most nights because I know what's waiting for me in there.

The cardboard box sits exactly where I left it, shoved behind my old baseball equipment and a stack of tax returns. My hands shake a little as I pull it down, which is ridiculous. I'm thirty-two years old, not some lovesick teenager.

But that's precisely what I become the moment I lift the lid.

There she is, seventeen years old and radiant in her emerald green prom dress, and my arm wrapped around her waist like I own the world. Her dark hair is swept up in some elaborate stylethat probably took hours, and she's laughing at something I said, her head thrown back, eyes sparkling with mischief. I remember that moment—I'd just whispered something inappropriate about what I wanted to do to her after the dance, and she'd swatted my chest while trying not to snort with laughter.

"Look at you, you idiot," I mutter to myself, running my thumb over her face in the photograph. "You had everything right here."

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