Page 19 of Back in the Bay

When he lifts his glass in my direction, I lift mine back, a silent acknowledgment of everything that passed between us and everything that didn't. For a moment, I let myself imagine walking over to him, allowing our conversation to pick up as if thirteen years hadn't stretched between us. I imagine his laugh, the way his hand would find the small of my back, and how easily we might fall back into our old rhythm.

It would be so simple to try again. To see if what we had was just teenage love or something that could withstand seasons, years, and decades.

I take another sip of champagne and wonder if he's thinking the same thing.

The reception moves into full swing around us, but I remain rooted to my spot by the garden wall, nursing my champagne and stealing glances at Cole. He's talking to Fox now, gesturing with his hands the way he always did when he got animated about something. Some things never change.

"Mabel Maxwell, as I live and breathe."

I turn to find Mrs. Thurmond, my old high school English teacher, beaming at me with the same warm smile that got me through Shakespeare and Steinbeck. "Mrs. T! You look the same."

"Flatterer." She squeezes my arm. "I heard you're some hotshot lawyer up in Portland now. I always knew you'd make something of yourself."

"Thank you. That means a lot coming from you." I glance over her shoulder and catch Cole watching me again. This time, he doesn't look away when our eyes meet. Instead, he excuses himself from Fox and starts walking in our direction.

My pulse quickens. "Mrs. T, would you excuse me for just a moment?"

But it's too late. Cole is already here, close enough that I can smell his cologne.

"Mabel." His voice is deeper, roughened by years and experience.

"Cole." I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds.

Mrs. Thurmond looks between us with knowing eyes. "Well, I think I'll go find some of that wedding cake before it's all gone." She pats my arm again and disappears into the crowd, leaving us alone.

"You look..." Cole starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. The gesture is so familiar it makes my chest ache. "You look incredible."

"So do you." The words slip out before I can stop them.

We stand there for a moment, the weight of unspoken history settling between us like dust in the afternoon sunlight. Around us, laughter and music create a bubble of intimacy that feels both dangerous and intoxicating.

"Dance with me?" he asks, extending his hand.

I stare at his palm, remembering how perfectly my hand used to fit there. How many times have we slow danced at school functions, prom, and parties by the bay? One dance couldn't hurt, could it?

"Just one dance," I say, placing my hand in his.

His fingers close around mine, and the familiar warmth shoots up my arm. It's like muscle memory, the way we move to the dance floor, the way his hand finds the small of myback, exactly where it used to rest when we were seventeen and thought we knew everything about love.

The band plays something slow and nostalgic, and we sway together as if we've been practicing for this moment all along. I try not to notice how perfectly we still fit, how my head tucks just under his chin, how his heartbeat feels steady against my cheek.

"How is Portland treating you?" he says, his breath stirring my hair. "How does it feel to be a big city lawyer just like you always wanted?"

"Yeah." I pull back slightly to look at him. "Does Cedar Bay still hold its charm?"

"Someone had to stay and keep the place running." Cole's smile is soft, teasing. "We can't all abandon ship for high-rises and designer coffee."

I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling too. "I'll have you know that I make my coffee now. French press. Very sophisticated."

"Wow, Portland did change you."

We laugh, and it feels so easy, so right, that for a second, I forget why I left in the first place. I forget about the scholarship I couldn't turn down, the opportunities that seemed impossible to find in a town where the most significant legal dispute was usually about property lines or noise complaints. I forget about our final fight, the tears, the ultimatums.

"How's the firm?" he asks, twirling me gently before pulling me back.

"Busy. Competitive. Sometimes soul-crushing." I surprise myself with the honesty. "But I'm good at it."

"I never doubted that for a second."

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