9. Mabel
mabel
. . .
The white tulle canopy flutters in the breeze like my heart in my chest as I watch the bride—radiant, beaming Cilla—pledge herself to Rowan. I never thought I'd be back in Cedar Bay for this, of all things.
My champagne flute is slippery against my palm, condensation mingling with the sweat of my hands.
I take another sip, letting the bubbles burn my throat, reminding myself that I'm actually here.
That this is real. That the man who once poured a jar full of grasshoppers down the back of my blouse is now looking every bit like the fairy tale groom with his gorgeous bride in her vintage lace gown.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant says, and the small crowd erupts in cheers.
I clap along, muscle memory taking over while my mind wanders down roads not taken.
What if I had stayed? What if I hadn't fled to Portland?
I could have been standing there under my own canopy of flowers, maybe with a baby on my hip and a small-town law practice with my name on the door.
Cedar Bay Law, serving the community I grew up in rather than fighting corporate battles in a high-rise where nobody knows their neighbors.
I feel his gaze before I see it. It’s like a physical touch, warm and familiar against my skin.
Cole Bennett is watching me from across the room, his dark eyes finding mine through the sea of wedding guests.
He looks good—too good—in his black tuxedo, the years having sculpted his jawline even sharper, sprinkled just enough silver at his temples to make my stomach flip.
When he lifts his glass in my direction, I lift mine back, a silent acknowledgment of everything that passed between us and everything that didn't. For a moment, I let myself imagine walking over to him, allowing our conversation to pick up as if thirteen years hadn't stretched between us.
I imagine his laugh, the way his hand would find the small of my back, and how easily we might fall back into our old rhythm.
It would be so simple to try again. To see if what we had was just teenage love or something that could withstand seasons, years, and decades.
I take another sip of champagne and wonder if he's thinking the same thing.
The reception moves into full swing around us, but I remain rooted to my spot by the garden wall, nursing my champagne and stealing glances at Cole. He's talking to Fox now, gesturing with his hands the way he always did when he got animated about something. Some things never change.
"Mabel Maxwell, as I live and breathe."
I turn to find Mrs. Thurmond, my old high school English teacher, beaming at me with the same warm smile that got me through Shakespeare and Steinbeck. "Mrs. T! You look the same."
"Flatterer." She squeezes my arm. "I heard you're some hotshot lawyer up in Portland now. I always knew you'd make something of yourself."
"Thank you. That means a lot coming from you." I glance over her shoulder and catch Cole watching me again. This time, he doesn't look away when our eyes meet. Instead, he excuses himself from Fox and starts walking in our direction.
My pulse quickens. "Mrs. T, would you excuse me for just a moment?"
But it's too late. Cole is already here, close enough that I can smell his cologne.
"Mabel." His voice is deeper, roughened by years and experience.
"Cole." I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds.
Mrs. Thurmond looks between us with knowing eyes. "Well, I think I'll go find some of that wedding cake before it's all gone." She pats my arm again and disappears into the crowd, leaving us alone.
"You look..." Cole starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. The gesture is so familiar it makes my chest ache. "You look incredible."
"So do you." The words slip out before I can stop them.
We stand there for a moment, the weight of unspoken history settling between us like dust in the afternoon sunlight. Around us, laughter and music create a bubble of intimacy that feels both dangerous and intoxicating.
"Dance with me?" he asks, extending his hand.
I stare at his palm, remembering how perfectly my hand used to fit there. How many times have we slow danced at school functions, prom, and parties by the bay? One dance couldn't hurt, could it?
"Just one dance," I say, placing my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine, and the familiar warmth shoots up my arm. It's like muscle memory, the way we move to the dance floor, the way his hand finds the small of my back, exactly where it used to rest when we were seventeen and thought we knew everything about love.
The band plays something slow and nostalgic, and we sway together as if we've been practicing for this moment all along. I try not to notice how perfectly we still fit, how my head tucks just under his chin, how his heartbeat feels steady against my cheek.
"How is Portland treating you?" he says, his breath stirring my hair. "How does it feel to be a big city lawyer just like you always wanted?"
"Yeah." I pull back slightly to look at him. "Does Cedar Bay still hold its charm?"
"Someone had to stay and keep the place running." Cole's smile is soft, teasing. "We can't all abandon ship for high-rises and designer coffee."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling too. "I'll have you know that I make my coffee now. French press. Very sophisticated."
"Wow, Portland did change you."
We laugh, and it feels so easy, so right, that for a second, I forget why I left in the first place.
I forget about the scholarship I couldn't turn down, the opportunities that seemed impossible to find in a town where the most significant legal dispute was usually about property lines or noise complaints.
I forget about our final fight, the tears, the ultimatums.
"How's the firm?" he asks, twirling me gently before pulling me back.
"Busy. Competitive. Sometimes soul-crushing." I surprise myself with the honesty. "But I'm good at it."
"I never doubted that for a second."
The song shifts, but we keep dancing, neither of us willing to break the spell.
"And you?" I ask. "The hardware store must be thriving under your leadership."
"Cedar Bay Construction has been incredibly lucrative and keeps me busy," he says with a hint of pride. "We expanded five years ago. Added landscaping and took over my dad’s lumber business. We’re the biggest supplier of lumber between here and Oakridge."
"Cole, that's amazing."
"Yeah, well, it turns out I had some ideas after all."
The reference to our past stings a little. I'd accused Cole of lacking ambition, of being content to inherit his dad's business while I wanted to conquer the world. Now I wonder if I'd been too quick to judge and too eager to leave.
Over his shoulder, I see Cilla throw her bouquet. It arcs through the air and lands squarely in the arms of her surprised sister. Everyone cheers. Cole and I keep dancing.
"Do you ever think about it?" he asks suddenly, his voice dropping lower. "What might have happened if you'd stayed?"
The question hangs between us, a dangerous and tempting one. I could lie and brush it off with a joke, but something about being here, in Cole's arms again, makes me reckless with the truth.
"All the time," I admit. "Especially today. Watching Rowan and Cilla get married, I couldn't help but imagine us."
His hand tightens slightly on my waist. "I bought a ring, you know. Two weeks before you left for Portland."
My step falters. "You never told me that."
"What was the point? You'd made up your mind. Law school was waiting. I wasn't going to be the guy who tried to clip your wings."
The music swells around us, but all I can hear is the thundering of my heart. "I never thought of you that way," I whisper.
"No?" His eyes search mine, blue and clear as the bay on a summer morning. "What about now, Mabel? What do you think of me now?"
His question hangs in the air between us, and I can feel my carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble. The champagne has made me bold, or it's the way the fairy lights cast everything in a golden glow, making this moment feel like something out of a dream.
"I think..." I start, then stop, searching his face. The boy I knew is still there but now layered with the confidence of a man who has built something from nothing. "I think I was an idiot to leave the way I did––so suddenly and without a plan for us."
Something shifts in his expression—hope, maybe, or relief. His thumb traces a small circle on my back, and I feel that familiar flutter low in my stomach.
"We were kids," he says softly. "We thought we had to choose between love and dreams."
"And now?"
"Now I know they don't have to be mutually exclusive."
The song ends, but we don't step apart. If anything, we move closer until I can count the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, until I can feel his breath against my lips.
"Mabel," he whispers.
I should step back. I should make some excuse about needing air or another drink. I should remember all the reasons I built my life in Portland, all the walls I've carefully constructed around my heart.
Instead, I rise on my toes and close the distance between us.
His lips are warm and familiar against mine, tasting faintly of champagne and the intoxicating promise of what could be.
The kiss begins softly, a gentle exploration, as though we're both treading carefully, fearful that this delicate moment might fracture like fragile glass.
But then, his hand tenderly cradles my face, and I find myself dissolving into him, just as I did when we were seventeen, swept away by the naive belief that forever was our inevitable destiny.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and dizzy, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol.
"That was..." I start.
"Long overdue," he finishes, resting his forehead against mine.
Around us, the reception continues, but it feels like we're in our private world. The spark that brought us together all those years ago is still there, burning brighter than ever.
"What happens now?" I ask because I'm a lawyer, and I need to know the terms.
He smiles, that crooked grin that used to make me skip chemistry class. "Now we stop letting the past dictate our future."