Chapter 6
Rachel
The walk back to the festival is quiet.
Not uncomfortable, quiet. More like the kind where you’re both thinking so loud you can't speak. Theo’s hands are shoved in his pockets, and I’m very focused on not tripping over tree roots because that would be the perfect cap to tonight—face-plant after kissing my brother’s best friend by the lake like a teenager.
The festival lights come into view through the trees. Music and laughter and the smell of fried everything. Normal. Safe. The opposite of whatever just happened down by the water.
“Rachel—” Theo starts.
“We should find Jake,” I interrupt. “Before Tommy eats his weight in funnel cake and refuses to sleep until Tuesday.”
He nods. Doesn’t push. Which I appreciate, because I have no idea what I’d say if he asked what this was, what it means, or any of the questions currently screaming in my own head.
We find Jake and Tommy near the prize booth. Tommy’s clutching a stuffed dinosaur that’s nearly as big as he is, face sticky with sugar.
“Mama! Look what Uncle Jake won me.” He waves the dinosaur like it’s a trophy. “His name is Rex and he’s going to sleep in my bed forever.”
“Forever’s a long commitment for a dinosaur.” I ruffle his hair, grateful for the distraction. “Did you say thank you?”
“Thank you, Uncle Jake!” Tommy launches himself at Jake’s legs.
Jake catches him easily, grinning. “No problem, buddy. Now let’s get you home before you crash harder than that time you drank three juice boxes.”
“I wasn’t tired! I was resting my eyes.”
“Sure, you were.”
I glance at Theo. He’s watching me with this look I can’t quite read. Not regret, exactly. More like he’s trying to memorize my face or figure out a puzzle he just discovered.
“I should get him home,” I say, gesturing at Tommy. “Thanks for coming tonight. He had a great time.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Theo’s voice is soft. “See you around, Rachel.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach flip.
Jake doesn’t notice. Too busy wrangling Tommy and the giant dinosaur into the truck. I climb in after them, and we drive home with Tommy chattering nonstop about everything he did tonight until his words start slurring together and he passes out mid-sentence.
I carry him inside and tuck him into bed with Rex the dinosaur. He doesn’t even stir.
In my own room, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling.
I kissed Theo Park tonight.
I also kissed Cole Archer three days ago.
Two men. Two kisses. Both of them are Jake’s best friends, and completely off-limits.
What is wrong with me?
Derek and I broke up six months ago, and I swore I was done with men for at least a year. Maybe five years. Maybe forever. I was going to focus on Tommy and on rebuilding my life.
And now I’m out here kissing firefighters like I’m collecting them.
I press my hands over my face and groan into the darkness.
This is bad. This is so bad.
But the worst part? I don’t regret it.
The grocery store on Wednesday afternoon is exactly as thrilling as it sounds.
I’m in the cereal aisle debating whether Tommy needs the sugar-bomb cereal he’s been begging for when I hear my name.
“Rachel Morgan! Oh, sweetheart!”
I turn to find Dorothy Williams making her way toward me with her cane, face lit up.
“Dorothy! Hi!” I abandon the cereal debate and meet her halfway. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m fine, dear. Just fine.” She pats my arm with her free hand. “But I’ve been thinking about you constantly since that awful fire. I still can’t believe you and little Tommy were trapped in there.”
“We got out. That’s what matters.”
“Thanks to those brave firefighters.” She shakes her head. “I was just there minutes before it happened. Minutes! If I’d stayed to finish my coffee like I usually do…”
“But you didn’t. You’re okay. We’re all okay.”
She squeezes my arm. “You’re such a strong girl. Losing your job like that, on top of everything else. How are you managing?”
“I’m looking for work. Something will turn up.” I try to sound more confident than I feel. “The café owners are trying to get repairs started, but it’s complicated with the investigation and insurance.”
“Well, if you need anything—and I mean anything—you call me. I may be old, but I can still cook a decent meal, and I’m an excellent babysitter.” Her eyes twinkle. “Tommy’s such a sweet boy. He reminds me of my grandson at that age.”
“That’s really kind of you. I might take you up on that.”
We chat for a few more minutes before she heads off to find her groceries. I’m reaching for the bland healthy cereal when I spot someone down the aisle.
A man in his late twenties, with dark hair, is checking his phone while leaning against the shelf. Something about him seems familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe I’ve seen him around town?
He looks up, catches me staring, and gives a half-wave before disappearing around the corner.
I shake it off and finish my shopping.
The job interview is at Morgan’s Home Goods, a small retail store on Main Street that sells everything from kitchen supplies to seasonal decorations. The owner, Harriet, called yesterday about a part-time sales associate position.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not even exciting. But it’s work, and I need work.
Harriet is nice enough. Mid-fifties, efficient handshake, asks standard interview questions about customer service and availability. I’m answering something about my experience managing the café when the door chimes.
An elderly woman walks in, probably seventies, with styled silver hair and an aura that screams old money and older opinions.
“Patricia!” Harriet stands up. “I’ll be right with you. Just finishing up here.”
Patricia’s eyes land on me. She looks me up and down with a look that makes you feel like you’re being graded on a scale you didn’t know existed.
“Take your time, dear.” But she doesn’t move away. Just stands there, radiating judgment.
Harriet glances between us, clearly uncomfortable. “Rachel, I think I have everything I need. I’ll give you a call by Friday?”
“That sounds great. Thank you for the opportunity.”
I stand up, gathering my purse. Patricia’s still watching me.
“You’re the Morgan girl, aren’t you?” Her voice is pleasant enough, but there’s steel underneath it. “Living with your brother Jake over on Pine Street?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you have a son?” She says it like she’s confirming a crime. “Without a father in the picture?”
My spine stiffens. “I have a son, yes.”
“Such a shame.” She shakes her head, and I can’t tell if she’s talking about Tommy not having a father, about me being a single mother, or about my entire existence. “Young women these days don’t seem to understand the importance of stable family structures. Children need both parents.”
“Tommy has plenty of people who love him.” I keep my voice level even though I want to scream.
“I’m sure he does. But love isn’t the same as proper stability, is it?” Her smile is thin. “And that fire at the café where you worked—such a coincidence that you were there when it happened. People do talk.”
“The fire was arson. I was a victim, not a suspect.”
“Of course, dear. I’m sure that’s true.” But the way she says it makes it clear she doesn’t believe me at all. “Still, it does make one wonder. You move back to town, take up residence in your brother’s house, and suddenly there’s a fire at your workplace. It all seems rather… suspicious.”
Harriet looks mortified. “Patricia, I don’t think—”
“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” Patricia adjusts her purse strap. “Single mothers living off family charity rarely make good employees. Too many distractions. Too much drama.”
The words hit like a slap.
I want to argue. Want to defend myself. Want to list every single thing I’ve sacrificed and fought for to give Tommy a good life.
But my throat is tight, and my eyes are burning, and if I open my mouth right now, I’m going to either cry or say something I’ll regret.
So, I don’t say anything.
I walk out.
I make it to my car before the tears start. Sit in the driver’s seat with my hands gripping the steering wheel and let myself cry for exactly three minutes.
Then I wipe my face, start the engine, and drive home.
Jake’s not there when I get back. There’s a note on the fridge: “Took Tommy to the park. Back by dinner.”
I’m grateful. I don’t want to explain why my eyes are red or why I’m sitting on the kitchen floor staring at nothing.
My phone rings, unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Morgan? This is Doug Martinez. From the café.”
I sit up straighter. “Hi, Doug. How are you?”
“Been better, honestly.” He sighs. “I’m calling about the repairs. The insurance company is dragging its feet because of the arson investigation. They won’t pay out until someone’s held responsible for the fire.”
My stomach sinks. “How long will that take?”
“Could be months. Maybe longer if they never find who did it.” He sounds as exhausted as I feel.
“Linda and I are trying to cover the gap, but we can’t afford to pay staff while the café’s closed.
I’m so sorry, Rachel. You were a great manager.
But I can’t give you a timeline for when we’ll reopen. ”
“I understand.” I don’t, really. But what else can I say? “Thanks for letting me know.”
“If we do rebuild, you’ll be first on my list to call. I mean that.”
“I appreciate it.”
After he hangs up, I sit on the kitchen floor and let myself feel the full weight of it.
No job. No prospects. No idea when the café might reopen or if it ever will.
I’m twenty-eight years old, living in my childhood bedroom, and apparently, the entire town thinks I’m either a charity case or a criminal.
The doorbell rings at eight o’clock.
I’ve been sitting in the dark kitchen for the past hour, which I realize is dramatic, but sometimes you need to sit in the dark and feel sorry for yourself.
I drag myself to the door and pull it open.
Cole stands on the porch, holding a toolbox.
“Hey.” His smile fades the second he sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” My voice cracks on the last word, which really undermines the whole ‘fine’ claim.
He sets the toolbox down. “Jake asked me to fix the loose railing on the back deck. But that can wait.” He steps closer, eyes scanning my face. “Rachel. What happened?”
“Bad day. That’s all.”
“You’ve been crying.”
“I’m allowed to cry.”
“You are. Absolutely.” His voice is gentle. “But you don’t usually cry. Which means it was a terrible day.”
The kindness in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. Fresh tears spill over, and I hate it. Hate that I’m falling apart in front of him. Hate that I can’t seem to hold it together.
Cole doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me into his arms.
I bury my face in his chest and let myself cry for real this time. Not the three-minute sob in my car. The ugly kind where you can’t breathe right, your nose runs, and you make embarrassing sounds.
He holds me. One hand rubbing slow circles on my back, the other cradling my head against his shoulder. He smells like soap and something woodsy—no, that’s not right. He smells clean like laundry detergent and summer air.
“Sorry,” I mumble into his shirt. “I’m getting your shirt wet.”
“Don’t care.” His voice rumbles through his chest. “Talk to me. What happened?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” I pull back slightly, wiping my face.
“I had a job interview today, and this woman basically called me a charity case and a suspect in the fire. Then the café owners called and said they can’t afford to reopen anytime soon.
And I’m just… I’m tired, Cole. I’m so tired of starting over and failing. ”
“You’re not failing.”
“I’m twenty-eight and living with my brother. That’s pretty much the definition of failing at adult life.”
“That’s the definition of being smart enough to accept help when you need it.” He tips my chin up, making me look at him. “You left a bad relationship. You kept your son safe. You worked your ass off at that café. None of that is failing.”
“Then why does it feel like it?”
“Because you’re human. And because some people in this town are judgmental assholes.” His jaw tightens. “What did this woman say to you?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It matters to me.”
I tell him about Patricia and her comments on single mothers, the suspicious timing, stable family structures, and how it feels like the entire town is watching me, waiting for me to screw up.
Cole’s expression goes dark. “Give me her name.”
“What? No.”
“Rachel.”
“You can’t go fight my battles for me. That’s not how this works.”
“I’m not fighting your battles. I’m just going to have a conversation about basic human decency.” But he says it with this edge that suggests the conversation might involve his fists.
“Cole. Please. It’s not worth it.”
He studies my face for a long moment. Then he nods. “Okay. But if she says anything to you again, I want to know.”
“Deal.”
He’s still holding me. Still close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. My hands are resting on his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat under my palms.
“Come with me,” he says quietly.
“Where?”
“Rooftop. You need air.”
The Morgan house has a small rooftop access from Jake’s room—a flat square area that’s just big enough for two chairs and a view of the stars. Jake used to sneak up here as a teenager to avoid doing homework. I’d forgotten about it until Cole led me through the upstairs hallway.
The evening air hits my face when we step outside. Cooler now that the sun’s down. The sky is that deep blue purple that comes right before full dark, stars starting to appear in clusters.
Cole sits down with his back against the low wall. I sink down beside him, and without thinking, I lean into him. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer.
“Better?” he asks.
“Getting there.”
We sit in silence for a while. Just breathing. Just existing. The town spreads out below us—strings of streetlights, the distant glow of the lake, the soft sounds of evening settling in.
“I’m not good at this,” I say finally.
“At what?”
“Accepting help. Letting people take care of me.” I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “Derek used to help me. Then he’d throw it in my face later. ‘Remember when I did this for you? Remember how much you needed me?’ Like every kind gesture came with strings attached.”
Cole’s quiet for a minute. “I’m not Derek.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He shifts so he can look at me. “Because I’m not keeping score, Rachel. I’m here because I want to be. Not because I expect anything back.”
“Why?” The question comes out quietly. “Why do you even care?”
“You’re Jake’s sister, a good person who got dealt a bad hand. Because—” He stops, jaw working like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. “Because you matter. To Jake. To Tommy. To me.”