Page 27 of Back in the Bay

I work through the afternoon like a man possessed, hammering, measuring, and calculating with laser focus. It's like I'm trying to burn through every last ounce of energy before tonight. Before Mabel.

"Go home already," Fox finally says around four, yanking a nail gun from my hands. "You're making me look bad with all this productivity."

I glance at my watch and feel my stomach flip. Two hours until I'm supposed to pick Mabel up.

"You sure?" I ask, even as I'm already backing toward my truck.

Fox waves me off. "The windows aren't coming till tomorrow anyway. Go make yourself pretty for yourlawyer lady."

The drive home is a blur. My bungalow sits on the edge of a cliffside road, nice and spacious but nothing fancy—just a place I built with my own hands after saving for five years. I've always been proud of it, but now I wonder what Mabel thinks of it. Would she be happy here?

The shower runs hot as I scrub away sawdust and sweat. I shave carefully, nicking myself only once, which is practically a miracle, given how my hands won't stop trembling. The cologne I splash on is the same brand I wore in high school. Mabel bought it for my eighteenth birthday.

Standing in front of my closet, I realize I own exactly one button-down shirt that isn't flannel—dark blue. Mabel always said it matched my eyes. I pair it with my least-worn jeans and boots that I took the time to polish last night after she texted.

"Pull it together, Bennett," I mutter to my reflection, running nervous fingers through my hair.

The five-minute drive to the Maxwell house feels like forever and no time at all. Their two-story Victorian looks the same as it did when I used to pick Mabel up for dates in high school, right down to the porch swing where we'd shared our first kiss.

Before I can even knock, the door swings open. Mrs. Maxwell—Rachel—stands there beaming like I'm the prodigal son returned.

"Cole Bennett!" she exclaims, pulling me into a hug that smells like cinnamon and home. "Look at you, handsome as ever."

"Hi, Mrs. Maxwell," I say, feeling sixteen again.

"Rachel, please. You're making me feel ancient." She ushers me inside. "Robert! Cole's here!"

Mr. Maxwell appears from the living room, newspaper in hand, glasses perched on his nose. His handshake is firm and familiar.

"Good to see you, son," he says, and something in his tone makes my throat tight. "Mabel's just finishing up. Aiden headed back to Portland this morning—his husband had some gallery opening."

We make small talk about the construction business, the town's growth, and everything except what's happening: our daughter and I are trying to figure out if we can build something from the ruins of what we once had.

"She's been different since she's been home," Rachel says quietly when Robert steps away to answer the phone. "Happier. More like the Mabel who left for college all those years ago."

I don't know what to say to that, so I nod.

And then I hear footsteps on the stairs, and everything else fades away.

Mabel stands there in a simple teal dress that makes her eyes look like the ocean after a storm. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders. She's smiling—that small, private smile that used to be just for me.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," I manage to reply, suddenly understanding every sappy love song I've ever rolled my eyes at.

I don't remember feeling this alive since the summer Mabel left Cedar Bay.

The drive to Rosalita's is quiet but not uncomfortable. Her perfume fills the cab of my truck, something subtle and expensive that somehow still reminds me of wildflowers and summer nights.

"I've been craving their enchiladas for years," she confesses as I hold the door open for her. "Nothing in Portland comes close."

The restaurant is dimly lit and warm, with Christmas lights strung across the ceiling year-round. The hostess, Maria, recognizes me and winks as she leads us to a corner booth.

"Your usual, Cole?" she asks.

"Please," I say, and Mabel raises an eyebrow.

"You have a usual? At our place?"

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