Chapter 1 Cole #5
Kieran’s one of JJ and Ronnie’s many deadbeat relatives — a whole swamp of them scattered around Baywood. Kieran has an extra trailer at Bay Hollow’s park, which somehow makes him royalty in their eyes.
“You owe me more than one favor,” Frankie grunts, but there’s warmth behind it.
The place is comfortably unchanged: tools lined up in order, half-repaired bikes in corners, the jukebox that only plays Springsteen. A dusty black-and-white TV tuned to baseball. Above it, a ten-year-old calendar with two faded photos taped on: his ex-fiancée, and his late dog.
Frankie’s the reason I know how to fix a carburetor.
The reason I don’t trust men with too-friendly smiles.
The reason I know loyalty can be quiet and constant.
He and my dad weren’t just work buddies; they fixed each other’s problems. Friends from the day my dad walked in after trade school and offered everything he had in a handshake.
He squints at me through cigarette smoke. “You careful?”
“Careful’s my middle name.”
Frankie barks a laugh. “Just checking. You still carrying that folder?”
“Always.” We share a look, the kind built over years of shared grief.
Then tires crunch on gravel.
A cruiser pulls up.
Sheriff Hugh Willard steps out like the whole world’s his stage. Boots shined, badge gleaming, even his belt buckle polished. The Glock on his hip looks less like regulation and more like intimidation.
“Bailey,” he booms, touching the brim of his hat like he invented Southern charm. “Helping Frankie?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just scans the place like it’s hiding state secrets instead of mufflers.
“Heard you’re on parole,” he adds, smile thin as fishing wire. “Staying out of trouble?”
I nod. Slow. Not giving him anything. He lets the silence stretch, waiting for me to say sir. He’ll be waiting a while.
“Good,” he says at last. “You can stay if that’s what you’re planning. But the trouble stays outside Baywood. Got it?”
I don’t remember asking for his permission.
Beside me, Frankie wipes his hands on a rag, slow and deliberate. Doesn’t speak. But he’s not smiling either. Something’s off between these two, and it isn’t just old grudges.
Willard’s eyes flick back to me. “Seen any of the Hudsons?” he asks, too casually.
My gut tightens. I blink, all innocence. “Should I have?”
“Figured you and Cole might’ve bumped into each other,” he says, smooth as grease. The way he says Cole’s name makes my skin crawl. “Given your… history.”
“You mean when he was my boyfriend?” I say brightly. Willard’s jaw twitches. He clears his throat like he’s swallowing something bitter.
Probably wasn’t a Pride parade invite.
Baywood’s mostly welcoming, but there are some people like Hugh Willard. The kind who’ll never say it out loud where it costs them, but you can feel it in the twist of their mouths.
I’ve felt it plenty. Poor kid, wrong side of town, and queer on top of it? People like him never let me forget.
“Well. Keep things quiet. Peaceful.” Sheriff gives Frankie a stiff nod, turns on his heel, and drives off.
Soon after, Frankie calls it a night, but I’m too wired. I need to walk this day off.
Baywood’s always been a patchwork of weird and wonderful.
Most small towns are, I guess. I pass the statue of Mayor Billings holding a squirrel — nobody knows why, but we still celebrate Billings Day with squirrel cookies.
Then Fenton’s Books, where the window sign says Shadow Daddies Welcome.
Ann-Sabrina’s imagination is still a hazard.
Town hall’s bulletin board has Harold Bramble’s latest flyer about Baywood history lectures.
Somebody slapped a post-it on it: NOBODY CARES, HAROLD.
I snort. Baywood’s loud, nosy, alive. I’ve missed it.
Have I forgiven it for killing my dad? Not a chance. But I’m here to settle that debt.
The church’s cracked bell tower looms. The alley behind the florist shop stops me cold. The first time Cole kissed me; when it was him making the move. Grinning shy, grabbing my collar, pressing me into the wall like it was urgent.
His hand on my shirt. My heart in my throat, on my sleeve. His mouth on mine.
God, we were happy.
I shake it off and keep walking.
Frankie gave me Cole’s new address. A house. With Noah. A real one. Somewhere safe. Somewhere theirs.
What would Cole say if he saw where I’m sleeping? Frankie’s garage backroom, packed with broken furniture and old tools. Things that once mattered but now gather dust. Like me.
Boo-fucking-hoo , I tell myself. I didn’t come back to wallow. I came back to finish what Baywood started.
I round the corner, and there it is; a tidy two-story with a porch and a swing.
Bought with the royalties of One Last Kiss . I’m glad he got something out of the mess I left. But he shouldn’t have had to write that heartbreak in the first place.
Two cars sit out front: the old Volvo I know is his, and the Audi RS5 gleaming beside it. Exactly the kind of car Caspian would drive. Fast, flashy, twin-turbo V6.
I sigh. Why not a clown car? Or a pimped tricycle? Something I could laugh at instead of hate. That Audi goes zero to sixty in just over three seconds.
Probably the same time it takes Caspian to finish anything else.
Jealous much? Hell yes.
I should be happy Cole found someone safe. Newsflash: I’m not.
I dig my nails into my palms, telling myself it doesn’t matter, even as the thought of Cole with someone else slices me open.
I hover at the curb. Turn. Walk halfway back. Stop. Turn again.
Like the goddamn Total Eclipse of the Heart , minus the fog machine.
In the end, I just go back to Frankie’s and try to get some sleep.
Not like I would’ve known what to say to him anyway.
COLE
Morning comes whether you want it to or not. Or whether you slept or not. A new week of preschool summer activities, Noah’s endless energy and — I groan when I remember — a dinner at my parents. With guests.
Somehow I get through Noah’s morning routines: cereal, juice, sunscreen, sunhat that he immediately takes off. He chatters the whole time, bouncing with the kind of joy only four-year-olds and golden retrievers are capable of.
“…and the man gave me two scoops, Daddy, because he said I had ‘good manners,’ and Ann-Sabrina wore a cape and said we must bow to the Fae kingdom, and I did because, Daddy, what if Ann-Sabrina really is the queen?”
“It was a smart move, buddy,” I murmur, helping him tug on his little Velcro sandals.
We make it out the door. Buckle the seatbelt.
I drive Noah to the park where Earl is already waiting, ready to take Noah’s class for their Monday Monster Bug Safari.
Regular preschool is on summer break, but the kids can take part in the madness that is Summer Activity Standard Premium Deluxe Package. (Yes, Earl named it.) The activities are organized by volunteers like Earl, Ann-Sabrina, Henry, and Juniper Thorne, our lovely librarian.
Earl is helping the kids form a line, wearing elbow shields and kneepads over his cargo shorts.
“Listen to the great Wilderness beckoning us!” he exclaims, gesturing toward the park as if it’s a dense rainforest instead of a moderate-sized area of freshly cut grass.
The kids totter after him, all wearing binoculars made of two empty paper rolls glued together.
I grab my water bottle and go wait by the picnic tables.
I’m pretending to scroll through my phone, but actually I’m tuned into the Xaden gossip channel, courtesy of six moms in pastel cardigans.
“I heard he was part of a prison gang,” Becky Fairweather, PTA president and Avery’s mom, says behind me. “Like real crime. Organized. With nicknames and tattoos and secret handshakes.”
“No, no, my sister-in-law works in parole. She said he helped other inmates write apology letters. Healed their inner child or something,” Lottie’s mom, Laura, explains in her soft voice.
“Well, his forearms are made for cracking vaults,” Paula Manning retorts as if muscles were a felony. Paula is Luca’s mom. An intense woman. “He’s clearly dangerous.”
“You don’t crack vaults like nuts, Paula. At least not anymore,” Becky points out. “I just had an in-depth discussion with Brantley about it. He’s in law school, remember? The bandits have gone digital. Encrypted apps, cybercrime, phishing.”
“Maybe, but I heard from a reliable source they’re planning to rob the post office next. Are you saying our digital newspaper subscriptions are at risk?” Paula asks.
Someone gulps.
Then the conversation shifts. Sharp as a blade.
“Didn’t Xaden date Cole Hudson?”
My fingers clench tighter around the bottle. Don’t go there. Not your business.
“Our Cole?” I’m not your Cole.
“Yeah. I heard him at the festival. Such a talent.”
“Oh, he’s adorable,” someone chimes in. Adorable? I’m not a puppy.
“Such a great dad, considering.” Considering what? That Noah’s not biologically mine? That I haven’t posted a Father’s Day montage? That I’m gay? Finish your sentences, people.
Lizzie made it clear.
Noah needed someone steady, and she wasn’t it.
She signed the papers, didn’t even blink. Then she left. I think she’s in Sydney now.
Is that always going to be a pattern in my life?
People I love and who claim to love me just pack their bags and go, expecting me to deal with it?
I’m done dealing with it.
“Do you think they’re back together?”
“I can’t remember if they were ever official.”
“Oh, they were. Back in school, Xaden used to look at him like, well, you know. Like Cole was his, and his alone.” I swallow. I remember. I was there.
“You know, I’ve always thought that handsome, dangerous men like Xaden are meant to roam free. He wouldn’t settle for a life like Cole’s with preschool runs and early nights. He has that Jack Sparrow kind of charisma, don’t you think?” He’s a pirate now?