Page 28 of Back in the Bay

Our place. The words hit me like a physical thing.

"Never found anywhere better," I admit, which is both true and not the whole truth. The whole truth is I kept coming here because it reminded me of Mabel.

The margarita I order is strong—I need it to be—and Mabel asks for the same. When they arrive, salt-rimmed and lime-garnished, we clink glasses across the table.

"To second chances," she says, her eyes never leaving mine.

"To second chances," I echo, wondering if she can hear how my heart is hammering against my ribs.

The first sip burns pleasantly, liquid courage warming my veins. Mabel licks salt from her lips, and suddenly, I'm eighteen again, watching her across a bonfire at the beach, wanting nothing more than to kiss her until we both forget how to breathe.

"So," she says, setting her glass down. "Portland next weekend?"

I nod, trying to appear casual when there's nothing casual about any of this. "I was thinking I could drive up Friday after work."

"Or Thursday night," she suggests, a hint of mischief in her smile. "I can work from home Friday."

The implication hangs between us, electric and thrilling. I take another gulp of my margarita.

"Thursday sounds good," I manage.

When our food arrives, we fall into an easy rhythm of conversation that feels both familiar and brand new. Mabel tells me about her latest case—something involving corporate environmental violations that makes her eyes flash with righteous indignation. I tell her about Fox and Prue's unlikely romance, about Rowan finally making an honest woman of Cilla.

"And what about you?" she asks, twirling her fork in her rice. "Any romances I should know about?"

There's a careful nonchalance in her voice that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Nothing serious," I admit. "Nothing that lasted."

"Why not?"

The question is soft but direct. Classic Mabel. She never shied away from the hard stuff.

I could give her the easy answer—busy with work and a small dating pool in Cedar Bay. But we're past easy answers now.

"Because they weren't you," I say simply.

Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. For a moment, I worry I've said too much, too soon. But then her free hand reaches across the table, fingers brushing against mine.

"I dated a tax attorney for two years," she says, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. "He proposed last spring."

Something cold slithers through my chest. "Oh?"

"I said no." Her eyes hold mine steadily. "Couldn't figure out why at the time. It made perfect sense on paper. Same career, same city, same friends."

"But?" I prompt, hardly daring to breathe.

"But he wasn't you either," she finishes softly.

The admission hangs between us, fragile and precious. I turn my hand over, lacing our fingers together properly.

"I missed you," I tell her because it's the truest thing I know. "Every day, Mabel. Even when I tried not to."

Her smile is like a sunrise breaking over the ocean. "I missed you too. Even when I told myself I didn't."

We eat the rest of our meal one-handed, neither of us willing to let go. The conversation shifts to lighter territory—Mabel describing the view from her condo, me telling her about the custom furniture I've started building on the side. But underneath it all runs a current of anticipation, of possibility.

When Maria brings the check, Mabel reaches for her purse, but I shake my head.

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