Page 2 of Back in the Bay

I spread more pictures across my coffee table. Homecoming junior year. The beach party after graduation. That random Tuesday, when we skipped the last period to drive to the lighthouse, she insisted on taking a picture of us kissing against the sunset because she said she wanted to remember the way I looked at her forever.

Forever. Right.

"You should have gone with her," I tell the empty room, my voice echoing off the walls. "Should have packed your bags and followed her to Portland State instead of sitting here like some pathetic fool, waiting for her to come running back."

But I didn't. I stayed in Cedar Bay, convinced that what we had was strong enough to survive anything, that she'd finish law school and come home where she belonged––with me. I was so damn sure of myself, so certain that love was enough.

I pick up another photo—this one of her in her cap and gown at our high school graduation, her diploma in one hand and her acceptance letter to Portland State in the other. She's beaming, and I'm standing next to her, looking proud but clueless, having no idea that I'm watching my entire future walk away.

"Stubborn bastard," I whisper. "She told you she was scared to go alone. She practically begged you to come with her, and what did you do? You told her Cedar Bay would always be here waiting."

Cedar Bay. Not me. The town.

What kind of man lets the love of his life disappear because he's too chickenshit to leave his comfort zone?

The kind who builds a successful construction business as a consolation prize. The kind who dates a string of perfectly nice women and sabotages every relationship because none of them can measure up to a memory.

I lean back against the couch cushions, clutching a photo of Mabel and me at the Fourth of July carnival our senior year. She's holding cotton candy, and there's a streak of pink sugar on her cheek that I'm kissing away. We look so damn young, so sure that forever was a given instead of something you had to fight for.

"Where are you now, Mabel?" I ask the silence. "Some fancy Portland law firm? Married to some hotshot attorney who was smart enough to follow you anywhere?"

The thought makes my chest burn. Of course, Mabel's married. Women like her don't stay single—they're too vibrant, too alive, too everything. Some other man is coming home to her every night, listening to her talk about her cases over dinner, watching her tuck that wild hair behind her ear while she reads in bed.

I should have been that man.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it's Fox:

Fox: Rowan says you bailed early. Are you okay, man?

I stare at the text for a long moment before typing back:

Me: Ever wonder what would've happened if you'd made different choices?

His response is immediate:

Fox: Every damn day. Why?

I don't answer. Instead, I gather up the photographs and shove them back in the box, but not before I slip one into my wallet—the lighthouse picture, the one where Mabel's looking atme like I hung the moon. Perhaps I need a reminder of what I've lost. Or maybe I'm just a masochist.

"Thirteen years too late," I tell myself as I head to bed. "But maybe it's time to stop waiting for the past to come back and start figuring out how to live with it."

But even as I say the words, I know I'm lying. Because somewhere deep down, in the part of my heart that never learned how to let go, I'm still that eighteen-year-old kid who thinks love conquers all.

And I'm still waiting for Mabel Maxwell to come home.

mabel

. . .

There'snothing quite like the taste of victory mixed with someone else's marital disaster to make a girl question her life choices.

"And that, Aidan, is why I will never, ever get married," I announce, dropping the freshly signed divorce papers onto my desk with a satisfying thud. "The Halloran case is officially closed, and so is my interest in holy matrimony."

Aidan leans against the doorframe of my office, his perfectly tailored suit making my sensible pencil skirt and blouse look like I dressed in the dark. He sips his coffee with an infuriating smirk.

"Mabel Maxwell, relationship cynic extraordinaire," he says, shaking his head. "You know not all marriages end with someone throwing the other's clothing into the swimming pool while screaming about hidden OnlyFans accounts."

I snort, organizing the Halloran file for archiving. "No, sometimes they end with someone's vintage record collection being used as frisbees on the front lawn. Or with secret second families in Wisconsin. Or?—"

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