Sweet Cherry Cove: The Complete Series

Faith

The bar is packed with the Friday night crowd, all the windows thrown open to the summer heat. It’s dark outside, stars speckling the night sky, and the salty ocean breeze washes in through the open windows and cools our flushed cheeks.

Ancient fans sit atop the wooden bar, clicking and whirring as they turn back and forth. They’re not so much helping as moving the warm air around. A sea shanty hums from the dusty speakers on the walls.

Someone’s propped the front and back doors open with two sandy rocks carried up from the beach. It’s long past The Buccaneer’s official closing time, but the Sweet Cherry Cove locals are just getting started. When we party, we go hard.

“Drink?” my brother leans down to ask over the din, his elbows propped on the bar. I’m wedged by his side, head and shoulders below most of the men in this room. Ask me how many times I’ve been stepped on already.

“Rum and coke, please. With lots of ice.”

Stephen rolls his eyes at my basic bitch order, but it’s a hot summer night, okay? And we’re in a bar called The Buccaneer. A sweet, cold rum drink is called for, and I won’t be told otherwise.

“You could order anything,” my brother says grandly, waving one arm at the shelves behind the bar. They’re groaning with dusty, obscure liquor bottles with names I can’t pronounce. “This next assignment will set us up for months. Go wild, Faith.”

“I don’t want to go wild. I want a rum and coke.”

Stephen shakes his head, muttering, but when the bartender reaches us, he orders my boring drink and something that smells like aniseed for himself.

Three months he’ll be gone this time, jetting around the world with nothing but his camera equipment and a camping backpack stuffed full of holey t-shirts. My brother has built a career making documentaries in the wildest, strangest, most dangerous locations, and tomorrow morning he sets off again.

Leaving me behind to fret and count down the days until he’s home safe. Chest suddenly tight, I grip Stephen’s forearm and squeeze. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

He smiles down at me, freckled cheeks dimpling. “Always, little sis.”

He doesn’t need to call me that for people to know we’re related. We have the same dark red hair; the same pale, freckled skin; the same blue eyes. Whoever designed us used only one color chart.

But that’s where the resemblance ends. Stephen is loud, tall, cheeky, brave. A favorite with the local men and women, he scans the room with lazy interest over his drink. Stephen never has to go home alone if he doesn’t feel like it.

I am… also here. Invisible and cranky from the heat, wishing for one specific man so badly that I’m gonna get an ulcer.

Is Andre coming tonight? Or is he at home, his windows lit up in the darkness?

The song changes to another folksy classic. Someone whoops, and the crowd lurches as a few start to dance, couples swinging in tight circles.

Tucked safely by the bar, I stab at the ice in my drink with my paper straw. The soggy end crumples, and I sigh and toss it in the nearest empty glass.

“Not dancing?”

Goosebumps ripple down my bare arms, and I suck in a steadying breath before I look up. Andre Silva, the chef at the local diner and the man who haunts my dreams, leans one elbow on the bar by my side.

When did he get here? How the hell didn’t I notice?

Too wrapped up in my funk, I guess. Well, my sour mood is long gone now, evaporating off me like morning mist, because Andre is here. All is well with the world.

“Hey, neighbor,” I say.

He nods, mouth curving up into that almost-smile of his. A red t-shirt clings to the broad planes of his chest, and even though I see him more at his house than anywhere else, it’s always weird seeing Andre out of his white chef’s tunic.

Maybe because he wears that thing in ninety percent of my daydreams. I like to imagine peeling it off him, revealing his tanned skin and his dark chest hair. Like to imagine rubbing my cheek against his bare abs.

“Heard Stephen’s leaving tomorrow.” Andre watches me closely, but my brother is always about to leave. “You gonna be okay?”

I shrug and take an awkward gulp of my drink. The ice cubes slosh against the glass. “I’m always okay,” I say, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

Andre grunts, and he clearly doesn’t believe me.

Awesome.

Maybe if my neighbor was less protective, less inclined to watch over me, he’d notice the signals I’m putting out there. He’d see how red I get when he’s near, and how I suddenly can’t stop fussing with my hair, and how my voice gets all breathless.

Believe me, I wish I were less obvious. Cooler about my crush. Whenever he’s home, Stephen teases me to hell and back over how lame I am around Andre.

So maybe our neighbor does know how gone I am for him.

Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he’s repulsed.

As Andre orders a drink—a craft beer with tequila in it—I fumble my phone out of my cross-body bag. It’s loud and hectic and hot in here, and I tune it all out as I bring up the Dear Hattie column.

Dear Stubborn Heart…

My pulse thuds in my throat, and I take another shaky gulp of rum and coke. The ice cubes are melting, and my drink tastes watered down but I don’t care.

She answered my letter. Hattie read my letter, and she’s published a reply online.

Holy crap.

Someone barges my shoulder and I step into Stephen’s side, hunching over the screen. My teeth worry my bottom lip as I read.

Unrequited love is so hard…

Find someone who appreciates you…

Time to move on….

Knocking back the last gulp of my drink, I wobble as I set the empty glass on the bar. My stomach churns.

Tough love. I asked for tough love, and I got it. Even Dear Hattie sees it: this all-consuming crush on Andre Silva is a lost cause. The longer I indulge these feelings, the more pathetic I get.

Well, then.

“Hi!” Leaning over the scratched wood, I wave at the bartender. “Hello! Another rum and coke, please. Make it a double.”

A long whistle in my ear makes me wince. Stephen leans close, the woman he was just talking to abruptly forgotten. “What’s this, Faith? You never cut loose. Feeling antsy?”

Something like that.

The new drink comes with another paper straw but I toss it aside, then knock back the whole glass in three swallows. Stephen roars with laughter, clapping me on the shoulder, but the back of my neck prickles. Even without turning my head, I can feel Andre watching me. Can feel his stern gaze.

Whatever.

Time to move on, like Dear Hattie says.

“Gotta pee,” I say, pushing my phone and empty glass into Stephen’s hands, then hanging my bag around his neck for good measure. My older brother has always been my coat rack. “Be right back.”

“Behave!” Stephen yells after me, his voice drifting through the crowd. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” It’s the emptiest command in the world, and he breaks off with a cackle.

With each step through the crowded bar, the ache in my chest spreads further.

Time to move on.

Time to move on.

Time to…

I may be sick.

Not because of the rum—or mostly not, anyway. But because I’ve never told a single soul about my crush on Andre before my letter to Dear Hattie; have never confided that he’s my center of gravity, the sun I orbit around, my first thought when I wake up in the morning. And as long as these feelings were a secret, I could pretend there was still hope. That my sordid little daydreams could come true.

But it’s been four years. Four years. And Hattie told it straight.

If Andre wanted me, I’d know by now.

“Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry, I—coming through.”

Normally, I’m okay with crowds. So long as no one tramples me, I don’t mind the heat, the noise, the press of limbs. If anything, it makes me feel more alive. But tonight, after reading Dear Hattie’s reply, I’m blundering through The Buccaneer as one giant exposed nerve. Every brush against my shoulders and back makes me want to scream. I flinch at every burst of laughter.

“Excuse me. Can I just—sorry.”

Ugh. Elbows up.

People move faster after a jab in the ribs.

There’s a line in the bathroom, obviously. A line in the ladies’ room of a bar is one of those natural laws of the universe. Like gravity.

At least it’s cooler in here with these floor to ceiling blue tiles. Quieter too, with the sounds of the bar muted by the closed door.

Two girls linger by a spare sink, fussing with their hair and chatting about the guys they’ve started dating this summer. Not sure whether they’re best friends for life or strangers meeting for the first time, but either way, they’re shoulder to shoulder, beaming at each other in the mirror.

One is willowy with a messy dark bob, dressed in dungarees, the other is curvy and confident, her hourglass figure wrapped in a flower-patterned sundress.

“Mac is just… everything,” the dungarees girl says to her friend as the line shuffles along. She sighs happily, slicking on a deep red lipstick.

“I know what you mean,” says the sundress. “I thought Dalton and I would never happen, but here we are. I keep pinching myself, because there’s no way life can be this good.”

Ugh.

Kill. Me. Now.

Look, I’m not an ogre. I don’t hate other people’s happiness, and usually I love eavesdropping on bathroom gossip. But the joy radiating off these two lovebirds is a cruel mockery—like they’re both pressing hard on my Andre-shaped bruise. I lean back against the tiled wall, letting my eyes drop closed.

Suddenly, I am so, so tired. The sadness is heavy, and my bones ache with it.

Andre.

Could I ever truly let him go? Could I ever really move on?

Even when he feels so essential to me, like water and air? Even when the only times I feel at home in my body are when his eyes are on me?

Tears brim behind my eyelids, and as the line moves, the girl behind me clears her throat. Eyes still closed, I slide a foot along the wall, hair snagging in the tile grouting. This isn’t what I imagined my life would be like.

So: ten minutes. That’s my lot. Ten more minutes of tragic self pity, then I’m going back out there to buy my brother some obscure, disgusting drink, damn it. We’ll make memories before he goes away tomorrow.

And if Andre is still here, I won’t stare at him. I won’t linger nearby, hoping and wishing that he’d single me out to chat. I won’t chew my own tongue off with jealousy every time someone checks out the chef’s sculpted arms.

When I go back out there, Andre Silva will be my neighbor. Nothing more.

* * *

It feels weird, when I finally emerge from the bathroom, that the bar is exactly as I left it. The crowd is still loud, the music hums from the speakers, and the air is hot and humid. Dropped beer mats litter the floor.

Over the last twenty minutes, I’ve had an inner earthquake. My whole world has shattered, then been hastily glued back together. Meanwhile, The Buccaneer and its patrons are completely unchanged.

Rude.

Seems like the least the universe could do is throw out a mini tornado or something. A tiny storm to represent my turmoil. Nothing dangerous, you know, with zero property damage, but… a mess. A big ol’ mess. Seems only fair.

“Let’s read another one,” Stephen says as I return to the bar, forcing myself not to stare at my crush where he leans nearby. But it’s no use: even out of the corner of my eye, Andre is magnificent. His bicep bulges as he lifts his glass; his strong throat works as he swallows. Those worn jeans cling to his thighs, and even leaning, he’s so tall and broad. Gah.

“Dear Hattie,” Stephen begins, his voice booming into the crowd. I turn to ice, frost creeping through my veins, because my older brother is holding my phone aloft, reading from the lit up screen. Is this a nightmare? Am I dreaming?

“What’s this?” I dare a glance at Andre, but he looks relaxed as he shrugs. He wouldn’t be so casual if he’d heard my letter, would he?

“Some advice column. You missed a few already. There was one letter from a woman who wanted a commitment ceremony with her parrot.”

“Huh.”

Was the parrot lady above or below my letter? Did Stephen scan over mine already and declare it too boring?

Oh my god. I need to pee again. I need to fling myself into the sea.

“We don’t need to keep reading,” I say, aiming for light and breezy, but when I reach for my phone, Stephen holds it up high. Damn tall people! I kick at his shins but miss.

“I’m sure you could paper the walls with letters like mine,” my brother reads, a sly smile curving his mouth, “but here goes: I’m in love with my neighbor.”

The breath leaves my body, and I stagger to the side. A high pitched whining sound fills my ears.

No.

Not here.

Not ever! Shit!

“Give it back.” I swipe for the phone again, but I’m clumsy with horror. I barely knock Stephen’s forearm and there’s no force to it. He bats me away and reads on, his voice carrying across the bar. And Andre’s not the only one listening now—heads turn, and a few eyes flick to me as the letter goes on.

“I live with my older brother, and my crush lives alone. We moved to this small town four years ago, and I’ve been pining for the man next door since I first caught sight of him around the moving van.”

There’s an awkward titter. Someone bites their lip.

“Oh my god,” I say, swaying on my feet, sweat trickling down my back. They know. They already know. “Stephen, stop it.”

He doesn’t hear me. My voice is hollow, scratched up, and the music is too loud, the bar filled with laughter and conversation, and besides—my brother loves an audience. He’s riding high.

A glance at Andre confirms my worst fears: he knows too. He knows. Our neighbor stares at me as Stephen reads my letter aloud. He’s gripping the bar so hard his knuckles go white.

Is that anger? Disgust? Aah!

When he gets to the chef part, Stephen tilts his head and grins down at me, like it’s weird. A funny coincidence. Half way through the description of Andre, my brother finally pales and stops reading.

The phone drops down by his side, the screen still lit up. I sag against the bar, stomach churning like the ocean in a storm.

A few onlookers boo, calling for the rest of the letter, but Stephen flips them off and finally they turn away. Then it’s just me, my older brother, my crush, and my half-read letter echoing between us.

I feel sick.

“I’m so sorry.” When Stephen speaks again, it all comes out in a rush. He drops the phone onto the bar, takes my shoulders, and peers into my chalk-pale face. I don’t feel so good. Hell, my eyelids are clammy. Did that really happen? “Faith, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was your letter, I swear.”

He’s wide-eyed with concern and guilt, ashen beneath his own freckles, but what is there to say? He can’t take it back. He can’t wave a magic wand and command everyone in this bar to forget my pathetic words—and if there’s one guarantee, it’s that the whole town will hear of this by morning.

Humiliation tastes sour on my tongue.

Andre.

I can’t look at Andre. Not after seeing that white-knuckled grip. Maybe if I never look at him again, I’ll never have to see his full reaction. The inevitable pity and irritation. After all, they’ll be gossiping about him too, and he hates that. He’s always hated too much attention.

Andre’s like me. Happier in the background.

Kind of a shame nature gave him that face, really. He’d blend better with more flaws.

“Barely anyone heard it. It’s going to be fine, okay?”

“Andre heard it, you jackass.”

It’s no use. We both turn as one, matching dark red heads swiveling to our neighbor. The chef leans against the bar, relaxed again, his expression smooth, but he’s not looking at us. He’s reading something in his palm, blue light washing over his sharp cheekbones.

My fucking phone.

I swear to god, that thing is going in the trash. I’m getting a landline. No—walkie talkies. Tin cans on a string. If people want to reach me, they’ll have to stand outside the house and throw pebbles at my bedroom window.

“Stop,” I beg, leaning hard against the bar, but I don’t try to snatch the phone back this time. Instead, I watch and wait and die of shame as Andre reads my whole freaking letter, taking his sweet time, then reads Dear Hattie’s reply.

His eyebrow twitches exactly once. That is the only reaction my letter gets this time.

Hey, maybe I’ll throw myself in the trash too. Make a new home among the garbage.

When Andre turns and signals the bartender for another drink, I snap. I’m done. Something fractures deep inside me, and I can’t bear it for a second longer.

“I’m out.”

The phone is dead to me, obviously, but my bag still hangs around Stephen’s neck. I yank it off him, strangling him with the strap for good measure, then I’m pushing through the crowd, headed for the exit.

Around me, I hear the words ‘Dear Hattie’ spoken aloud. Once, twice, three times.

My face burns impossibly brighter.

By the time I spill out into the cool night air, my eyes brim with unshed tears. I charge along the beach path, teeth chattering from horror.

Screw them. Screw everything. Screw Dear Hattie, and screw this town, and screw my own stupidity.

What was I thinking?