Chapter 23 #2
The wings burst upward in oranges and golds, but the base of the painting roots itself in farm imagery: sacks of grain, stalks of wheat bending in the wind, a horse and plow sketched in clean, bold lines beneath the flames.
The storm clouds at the bottom aren’t abstract; they’re layered with faint outlines of old farmhouses, barns, silhouettes of the Cove’s earliest families.
The phoenix rises out of that history—not away from it, but because of it.
Baxter himself is near the front, weathered cap in hand, blinking hard as though he’s seeing his own life written across the brick. His wife claps first, sharp and proud, and then the applause swells, spreading through the square until the whole town is alive with it.
The story is clear: Driftwood Cove doesn’t forget where it came from. It rises because of it.
Sadie stands there with the bouquet hugged to her chest, sunlight catching her pink hair, looking like she doesn’t quite believe she made this happen.
The applause doubles, louder now, with cheers breaking out from the younger crowd near the food stalls. Sadie flushes bright, a mix of pride and disbelief, and when Jake calls her forward, she moves like she’s walking a line between terror and awe.
She steps up beside him, and for a second she looks out over the crowd like she might bolt. But then she catches sight of me.
Just me.
And her mouth curves—small, soft, real.
For one dangerous heartbeat, I let myself believe it. That maybe the smile is for me. That maybe she’s looking at me the way I’ve seen her look at Boone, like he’s her anchor in a storm.
The thought slides in too easy, too tempting. It makes my chest ache.
She speaks into the mic, voice low at first, then steadier as she goes.
“I don’t… I don’t usually do speeches. I’m better with paint than words.
But this wall, it’s not just mine. It’s yours.
It’s Driftwood Cove’s. I wanted it to hold hope.
To remind anyone who looks at it that no matter how much we burn, we can rise again.
” Her voice cracks just slightly, but she doesn’t falter. “Thank you for letting me try.”
Applause erupts again, even louder this time, and the pride in the crowd is palpable. People are clapping, whistling, stomping their feet against the pavement. Even the kids are clapping, their little palms smacking together with unfiltered joy.
I’ve seen plenty of community events in this town—library fundraisers, harvest festivals, Fourth of July fireworks—but nothing like this. Nothing that feels this alive.
And in the center of it, Sadie looks like she’s glowing.
The mural behind her blazes in the sunlight—the phoenix’s wings stretched wide, feathers painted in strokes of gold that shimmer against the rough brick.
The contrast of stormy blues below makes the flames look brighter, more alive.
She’s captured grief and hope in a single image, and the town feels it. I feel it.
When the speeches wind down, the mayor thanks the businesses that donated scaffolding, paint, and supplies, then dismisses the crowd to enjoy the food stalls and music. The square dissolves into chatter and laughter again, people crowding closer to snap photos of the wall.
Sadie finds me almost immediately, weaving through neighbors with the bouquet still tucked under her arm. Her eyes are searching, guarded but expectant.
“Shep.” Her voice is careful, but her shoulders are straighter than they were an hour ago. “How was it? Really.”
I don’t sugarcoat. “It was perfect. The mural is stunning, Sadie. You gave this town something to believe in again.”
She exhales, relief softening her features. “Good. I wasn’t sure I—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Never mind. Just… thank you for being here.”
I nod, but I have to tell her. “Boone wanted me to say he’s sorry. He got called out on an accident. He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t have a choice.”
Her mouth tightens, but she nods. “Of course. Work comes first. Always does.”
There’s a flicker in her eyes—something between disappointment and understanding—and I wonder if she knows how hard Boone fought with himself before leaving.
“You should be proud,” I say, redirecting, because the heaviness doesn’t belong here. “This is yours.”
She fidgets, shifting the bouquet from one hand to the other. “I never know what to do at these things. Smile and wave? Stay ’til the last person leaves?”
I grin softly. “There’s no rulebook. But I do know a place that makes the best hot chocolate you’ve ever had.”
Her brow arches. “And I’m supposed to ditch my own unveiling for cocoa?”
“No one would blame you,” I assure. “You’ve already given them more than enough. You deserve a break.”
Her lips curve again, faint but real. “Lead the way, librarian.”
We slip out through the edge of the crowd, unnoticed amid the bustle of kids and families crowding toward the mural. I guide her down Harbor Street, past the florist, the antique shop, the old post office. She walks close, quiet, clutching her bouquet like it’s still holding her upright.
The chocolate shop sits at the far edge of town, tucked near the boardwalk where the harbor meets the rocky shoreline.
It’s a squat, cheerful building painted robin’s-egg blue with white trim, a bell over the door and planters overflowing with trailing ivy.
The hand-painted sign reads: The Cocoa Nook.
Sadie’s brows lift. “Cute.”
Inside, the air is warm, rich with the scent of melted chocolate, cinnamon, and vanilla. A row of copper pots hangs behind the counter, steam rising from two of them as milk froths and dark cocoa swirls.
The owner, an older woman named Maren, has been running the place since before I moved here. She greets us with her usual smile, silver hair piled in a messy bun, apron dusted with cocoa powder.
“Shepard,” she calls. “Bringing someone new?”
Sadie flushes slightly, but I nod. “Sadie. She’s the muralist.”
Maren’s eyes light. “Ah! The phoenix. I saw it this morning—stunning. First cup’s on the house for you, dear.”
Sadie blinks, caught off guard. “Oh—I—thank you.”
We slide into a small booth near the window, the sea visible just beyond the glass, waves crashing against the rocks. The shop’s cozy, filled with mismatched chairs and shelves of board games, the kind of place where families linger for hours on rainy afternoons.
When the mugs arrive, they’re heavy and steaming, piled high with whipped cream and sprinkled with cinnamon. Sadie wraps both hands around hers, breathing in the scent like it’s anchoring her.
“Holy hell,” she murmurs after her first sip. “That’s… wow.”
“Told you,” I say, unable to stop my smile.
She laughs softly, and the sound eases something in me I didn’t realize was wound so tight. For the first time all day, she looks relaxed. Not painting, not performing for the town, not haunted by grief—just Sadie, in a booth with hot chocolate.
I let myself look at her a moment longer than I should, and the thought creeps in again—dangerous, undeniable.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall.
Although I’m not sure I haven’t already.
Sadie cradles her mug like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth. The steam curls against her face, and for once, she doesn’t look like she’s calculating her every breath. She just looks… quiet.
I want to keep her like this, wrapped in calm and cocoa, as long as possible.
I take a sip of mine, rich and heavy on the tongue, then glance toward the counter where Maren’s stacking pastries into baskets. The sweet smell of sugar and warm bread rolls through the shop. My stomach growls.
“You want anything else?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, quick, like she’s not used to taking up space. “I’m okay.”
I grin faintly. “I want a bagel, and I’ll feel less guilty if I pretend I’m getting it for you, too.”
That pulls a smile from her, small but real. “Go on then.”
I push back from the booth, the wooden bench creaking under my weight.
The Cocoa Nook isn’t big—just three booths, a scatter of tables, and the long counter where Maren presides like some cocoa-slinging queen—but it’s cozy in a way most Driftwood places are.
Old wood floors, chalkboard menu, mismatched mugs. I like it. Always have.
“Two everything bagels, toasted,” I tell Maren, and she hums as she slides one into the oven. I lean against the counter while she works, my eyes drifting back to Sadie.
She’s got her head bent over her phone now, thumb swiping like she’s finally catching up on messages and for a second, I let myself imagine this as normal. Us. Sitting in a café like any couple, killing a Saturday morning with cocoa and bagels.
The fantasy’s sweet. Too sweet. Dangerous.
Maren hands me the bagels on a chipped ceramic plate, butter already melting into the cut halves. I thank her, drop a few bills in the tip jar, and head back to the booth.
But the second I round the corner, the air shifts.
Sadie’s not relaxed anymore. Not even close. Her face is chalk-white, lips parted but not moving, her eyes glued to the phone on the table. It’s angled away from me, but I catch a glimpse—movement on the screen, the faint loop of a video replaying over and over.
The look on her face guts me. Stricken. Wounded. Like someone reached across the ocean and cut her open with a single swipe.
I set the plate down carefully, sliding into the booth. “Sadie?” My voice is low, steady, the same tone I use when calming Gus during storms. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly. Then she turns it toward me.
The video plays on a loop. It’s grainy, shot from someone’s phone in the square earlier today—Sadie at the unveiling, bouquet in her arms, laughter breaking from her lips at something Jake said. She looks radiant. Alive.
And under it, the message.
Found you!
The number above is unregistered. No name. Just those words.
Her voice cracks when she finally speaks.
“I blocked him. I blocked Scott. But he must’ve”—she swallows hard, shaking her head—“he must’ve found another number.
Or—fuck.” She presses her palms to her eyes.
“How could I have forgotten? I let them take videos of me. The media. The town. Of course he’d see them. Of course he’d—”
“How the hell?”
“I don’t know.” Her breath hitches, ragged. She looks like she’s seconds from unraveling right here in this cozy cocoa shop with whipped cream on the table and sunlight spilling through the glass.
I move without thinking. I slide the phone from her shaking hand and lock it, set it face down on the table. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
Her eyes lift, glassy and desperate.
“We’ll sort this out,” I tell her, calm but firm. “Not here. Not like this. But we will. You’re safe.”
She nods, barely, but her shoulders are trembling. The cocoa she clung to so tightly minutes ago now sits abandoned, the cream sinking into the dark surface.
I drop a twenty on the table, more than enough to cover the drinks and bagels, and catch Maren’s eye. She tilts her head, understanding in her gaze, and doesn’t say a word as I guide Sadie out.
Outside, the wind is sharp, carrying the salt of the ocean. Sadie hugs her arms to herself, bouquet still clutched like it’s the only shield she’s got left.
“Keys,” I murmur, unlocking my car. “Come on.”
She doesn’t argue. She slides into the passenger seat, curling into herself as if she could make her body smaller, invisible. I get behind the wheel, start the engine, and drive without thinking twice about where.
My place.
It’s the only option.
As the roads blur past—the bookstore, the diner, the little antique shop with its cluttered windows—memories flicker. Scott.
His name carries weight even for me, though I’ve only heard fragments.
The ex who broke her down. The man who turned her into something brittle, who cut her down until she could barely stand. The one she fled Memphis to escape.
And now, he’s reaching out again. Through numbers, through videos, through shadows.
Anger twists in my gut, hot and steady.
By the time we pull into my apartment complex, Gus is already scratching at the window, his golden head bobbing up when he sees my car. The building itself is plain brick, nothing fancy, but it’s home. A safe place.
Sadie doesn’t move right away when I kill the engine. She just stares at her hands, knuckles white around the bouquet stems.
“Come on,” I say gently, opening my door. “Inside.”
She follows me up the short flight of stairs. I unlock the door, push it open, and Gus barrels toward us, tail wagging hard enough to thump against the walls. Normally, I’d scold him for the enthusiasm, but today I just let him.
Sadie kneels automatically, fingers sinking into Gus’s fur, and for the first time since that message, she breathes. Really breathes. I watch her shoulders loosen as Gus leans his weight against her.
I give them a minute, then pull my phone from my pocket and step toward the kitchen. My fingers hover over Boone’s contact.
When he answers, his voice is clipped, background noise of sirens fading. “Shep? I’m still at the scene—”
“Boone,” I cut in. “When you’re done, come straight home. Don’t stop. Don’t get sidetracked. Straight here.”
He goes silent for a beat, the weight in my tone registering. “What happened?”
“She got a message. From him.” I keep my voice low, even though Sadie’s still distracted with Gus. “Video from today. New number. Message said ‘Found you.’”
Boone swears softly. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.” My hand grips the counter edge tight. “So finish what you’re doing and then come here. We’ll figure this out together.”
“I’ll be there.”
The line clicks dead.
I pocket my phone and glance back at Sadie. She’s still on the floor, bouquet laid aside, Gus’s head pressed to her chest like he knows exactly how much she needs him. Her eyes are closed, but her lips move faintly, whispering something against the golden fur.
And in that moment, one truth cements itself in me.
Scott might have seen a video. He might think he can reach her again. But he’s not getting through us.
Not through me. Not through Boone. Not through Gabe.
This time, she isn’t alone.