8. Cole
cole
. . .
My head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it and then decided to finish the job with a jackhammer.
I stumble into the wedding venue's back room, squinting against what feels like nuclear-level lighting but is probably just regular fluorescent bulbs.
The irony isn't lost on me—I'm about to watch my best friend marry the love of his life while I'm dying from alcohol poisoning, all because I couldn't handle the thought of seeing Mabel Maxwell and being too chicken-shit to keep her from leaving me again.
"Jesus, son, you look like hell warmed over."
I turn toward the gravelly voice and immediately regret the sudden movement. Mr. Malone—Rowan's dad—stands in the doorway holding a steaming mug and shaking his head at me like I'm a lost cause.
"Feel worse than I look," I croak, slumping into a folding chair that creaks ominously under my weight.
"Drink this." He shoves the mug into my hands. The smell hits me first—something that makes my eyes water and my stomach lurch. "Family recipe. Cured many a hangover in the Malone household."
I take a tentative sip and immediately want to die. "What the hell is in this?"
"You don't want to know. Just drink it."
Mr. Malone settles into the chair across from me, his weathered hands clasped together. He's got that look—the same one he used to give us when we were kids, and he was about to drop some life wisdom whether we wanted it or not.
"So," he says, cutting straight to the chase. "You planning to tell her how you feel, or are you gonna spend the rest of your life wondering what if?"
The question hits harder than the hangover. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Like hell, you don't. Mabel Maxwell. That girl's been eating you alive for thirteen years, and today she's gonna be standing twenty feet away looking like a million bucks." He leans forward, his eyes serious. "Question is, what are you gonna do about it?"
I take another sip of his toxic hangover cure and force it down, buying myself time I don't have. The bitter liquid burns my throat, but it's nothing compared to the way his words burn through my chest.
"She made it pretty clear where she stands," I mutter, staring into the murky depths of the mug. "Thirteen years, Mr. Malone. She's had thirteen years to?—"
"To what? Read your mind?" He snorts. "Son, I've known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, and you've been carrying a torch for that girl so long it's practically welded to your hand. But have you ever—and I mean ever—told her straight out how you feel?"
My stomach churns, and it's not entirely from the hangover. "It's complicated."
"Bullshit." The word comes out sharp enough to make me wince. "You know what's complicated? Spending the next forty years wondering if she would've said yes. You know what's simple? Walking up to her today and laying your cards on the table."
I drain the rest of his concoction and immediately regret it. My head throbs in protest, but the fog is starting to lift. "And if she shoots me down? If she tells me I'm an idiot for waiting this long?"
"Then at least you'll know." Mr. Malone stands up, brushing imaginary dust off his suit pants.
"But I'll tell you something else—that girl didn't come back to Cedar Bay for the wedding cake.
She came back because this place still holds meaning for her.
And whether you want to admit it or not, you're a big part of what this place means. "
He heads toward the door, then pauses. "Pride's a funny thing, Cole. It'll keep you warm at night for about five minutes, but it makes for a lonely life partner."
He disappears through the doorway, leaving me alone with his words echoing in my head louder than the pounding behind my temples. I set the empty mug down on the table and rest my face in my hands, trying to think through the haze of whiskey and whatever the hell Mr. Malone just made me drink.
The truth is, he's right about everything.
I've been a coward for thirteen years, hiding behind hurt feelings and wounded pride like some martyr.
Every time I've had the chance to tell Mabel how I feel, I've choked.
At high school graduation, when she was discussing college.
That summer, she came back after her first year.
The handful of times our paths might have crossed when she'd visit her parents.
Each time, I told myself it wasn't the right moment. That Mabel was busy, focused on her career, clearly over whatever we had, and that I was protecting myself from another round of rejection.
But maybe I was protecting myself from the possibility that she might say yes.
My phone buzzes against my leg. A text from Rowan:
Ceremony starts in 30. Are you alive?
I type back:
Barely. Your dad's trying to kill me with folk medicine.
Good. It means you deserved it. Get your ass out here.
I push myself up from the chair, testing my balance. The room only spins a little, which I'm taking as a victory. My reflection in the small mirror by the door looks like I've been hit by a truck, but it's an improvement from when I walked in.
Through the window, I can see guests starting to take their seats in the garden. White chairs arranged in perfect rows, flowers everywhere, the whole fairy-tale setup that Rowan and his bride dreamed of.
And somewhere out there, in a dress that probably costs more than my truck, is the woman I've been in love with since I was eighteen years old.
Mr. Malone's words ring in my ears: Pride makes for a lonely life partner.
Time to stop being lonely.