12. Cole
cole
. . .
The December air hits differently today as I pull my truck into the Riverside development site.
Fox's beat-up Ford is already parked near the half-finished framework of what will soon be someone's vacation home.
With Rowan off honeymooning with Cilla, it's just Fox and me holding down the fort at Cedar Bay Construction.
"You took your sweet time," Fox calls out as I slam my door shut. He's standing on the foundation, clipboard in hand, scowl firmly in place. Classic Fox.
"I was busy," I say, which isn't a total lie. I spent the last fifteen minutes staring at my phone, rereading Mabel's texts from thirty minutes ago.
Still thinking about you. If things go well tonight, you could visit Portland next weekend.
Fox's eyebrows lift slightly. "Are you listening to me?"
I climb up beside him, grabbing the clipboard from his hands. "What's the problem here?"
"Contractor delivered the wrong windows. Again." Fox crosses his arms, still studying my face. "You gonna tell me about Mabel, or do I have to beat it out of you?"
My chest tightens at the sound of her name. Even after thirteen years, it still affects me.
"We talked. A lot." I flip through the paperwork, but I don't see it. "She wants me to go to Portland next weekend."
Fox is quiet for a moment. "And?"
"And I'm thinking about more than that." I finally look up at him. "I'm thinking about moving there. For good."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Fox's perpetual frown softens just a bit.
"Shit," he says finally. "You're serious."
"Never stopped loving her, Fox, even when I tried. Even when I should have."
He nods slowly, looking out over the construction site. "Cedar Bay's gonna be a hell of a lot duller without you."
"You'll survive," I say, nudging his shoulder. "You've got Prue now."
At the mention of Cilla's sister, Fox's face does that thing where he tries not to smile but fails miserably. It's still strange seeing him like this—the grumpiest man in three counties, gone soft over a woman.
"Yeah, well." He clears his throat. "If she decides Seattle is where she needs to be, I'd follow her there too."
I raise my eyebrows. "Really? Mr. 'I'll-die-in-Cedar-Bay' would leave?"
"For her? In a heartbeat." The certainty in his voice is something I envy. "So if Portland is where you need to be with Mabel, I get it. I'll miss having you around to fix my screwups, but I get it."
For a moment, we're both quiet, just two guys who've known each other since kindergarten, standing on the bones of a house, contemplating lives that suddenly seem too big for this small coastal town.
"So," Fox finally says, "you gonna call those window people, or should I?"
And just like that, we're back to business. But something has shifted. Something has settled. For the first time since Mabel walked out of my life, the future doesn't feel like a question mark.
It feels like a road map pointing straight to her.
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 your lawyer 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?"
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.
"My treat," I insist. "Consider it thirteen years of missed dates I'm making up for."
She laughs a sound that makes the room brighter. "That's a lot of dinners, Bennett."
"I'm good for it," I promise, and we both know I'm talking about more than just food.
Outside, the December air has turned crisp and cold. Mabel shivers slightly, and I drape my jacket over her shoulders without thinking. She burrows into it, looking up at me with a softness that makes my chest ache.
"Want to walk down to the pier?" she asks. "For old time's sake?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. We stroll through town, our shoulders brushing, Mabel's hand occasionally finding mine. Cedar Bay at night has always been beautiful—Christmas lights twinkling in shop windows, the distant sound of waves against the shore—but with Mabel beside me, it's magical.
The pier is deserted this time of year, just the two of us and the vast, dark ocean stretching out before us. We stop at the railing, and Mabel turns to face me, her back against the wooden post.
"I used to come here on the rare occasions I visited my parents," she confesses. "Hoping I might run into you."
"I avoided it," I admit. "Too many memories."
She nods, understanding. "And now?"
"Now I'm wondering why I wasted so much time staying away."
Her hands find the front of my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. "We were kids, Cole. We needed to grow up, figure out who we were apart from each other."
"And now?" I echo her question, my hands settling on her waist, drawing her closer.
"Now I think we've done enough growing up apart," she whispers.
When I kiss her, it's like coming home after a long, exhausting journey.
Her lips are soft and eager against mine, her body fitting perfectly against me as if we were designed as two halves of the same whole.
I pour thirteen years of longing into that kiss, and she meets me with equal fervor, her fingers threading through my hair.
We break apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together. The Christmas lights from the pier reflect in her eyes like stars.
"Stay with me tonight," I whisper against her lips.
She nods once. “I told my parents not to expect me home until morning.”
I laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Always thinking ahead, counselor."
"One of us has to," she teases, taking my hand and leading me back toward the car.
As we walk, I realize I've never felt more certain about anything in my life. Portland, Cedar Bay—it doesn't matter. Home isn't a place. It's the woman beside me, her hand in mine, leading me toward a future that suddenly seems blindingly bright.