Chapter 1 Cole #9
I saw the fresh ink wrapping his arms, crawling down skin I used to know like a map.
Some of the shapes I recognized — the kind only we could ever understand.
For half a second I thought maybe… maybe they were all for me.
But he never said a word. He let me think they could just as easily mean someone else.
And the laughter. His friends, loving the image of Xaden Bailey like that, like some heartless bastard. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even look at me like it wasn’t true.
He let me picture it. So now I can’t stop picturing it.
Some faceless body under him. His hands gripping skin that isn’t mine. His voice, low and rough, spilling words I wasn’t brave enough to let him speak to me.
I haven’t even kissed anyone since him. Not once.
Not when I had the chance. Not when I wanted to forget.
Because I couldn’t. Because every part of me was — and is — still his.
He was my first. My only. My first kiss, my first I love you, my first everything except the one thing I wasn’t ready for.
And now all I can think is that he gave that part of himself to someone else.
That while I was too scared, too hesitant, too slow, someone braver took what I couldn’t.
I press my palms to my face, trying to shove the images out of my head, but they come anyway — his mouth on someone else’s throat, his hands pinning someone else down, his body giving someone else what I saved all this time for.
The thought makes me sick. It makes me feel small, cheap, like I was just the warm-up act for someone better.
And the worst part? He probably doesn’t think about me at all.
I slide down the shower wall, hot water hammering my skin, my sobs mixing with the spray.
I cry for the boy who promised to wait.
I cry for the man who didn’t.
And I cry because I know I’ll never stop loving him.
I’ll never stop wanting him, even after he’s already given himself away.
XADEN
I only move when I’m sure my legs won’t betray me and run after Cole. My chest feels raw, scraped out.
Then the coffee shop door swings open again. Mrs. Kirkland, our old math teacher, steps out. She’s still low-key terrifying, like she could assign detention with a glance, and if she saw what just happened with Cole, I’m done for.
“Xaden,” she says in her clipped voice.
“Good morning, ma’am,” I mutter.
“What is going on? Cole was clearly upset. As were you.” I’m cornered again. First by Cole’s fire, now by Mrs. Kirkland’s sharp-eyed stare.
My throat tightens. I swallow hard. I’ve always liked her. Maybe because math was something I understood easily. Numbers never judged, unlike people.
What a relief it would be to tell her the whole sad story that is my life. A relief, and an impossibility.
Mrs. Kirkland studies me for a long moment. Then her expression softens.
“Your father was one of the best men I ever knew. Very stubborn. Sometimes smart, sometimes… not so much. And loyal to a fault.” Her gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re all of that, Xaden, plus a dash of stupid. But you’re still young. You’ll get there.”
The kindness in her voice nearly undoes me.
“You look more like Sandra every year,” she adds. “You have her eyes, you know,” she goes on. “Oh, to be young again,” she suddenly sighs, startling me. “The way you looked at Cole Hudson in my class reminded me so much of how your mother looked at your father.”
A startled laugh breaks from my throat. The tears sting instantly.
Dad rarely talked about Mom, but I knew the gist of it: a daughter of ‘a good family’, she was supposed to marry someone from her world.
Instead, she eloped with Dad and her family renounced her.
She traded pearls and fancy dinners for a one-bedroom over the garage, and she never looked back.
Most people expected her to wilt, but she didn’t.
They didn’t have much but they were happy, right until the cancer took her when I was three.
I smile through my tears. The whole moment feels unreal: Mrs. Kirkland’s warmth and her memories of my parents.
She points a finger at me now. “You were never the bad kid. And for the record? I always knew when you whispered the right answers to Cole. Those were the only times he looked even remotely confident.”
All those times I whispered the answers, just to keep him from sinking into himself.
And now? I’m the one dragging him under.
Maybe Cole would have figured things out eventually, maybe he would’ve believed in himself more, if I hadn’t made him believe in me instead.
What if all I ever gave him was distraction, when what he needed was strength?
I glance down, overwhelmed. The emotion’s too big to hold.
Mrs. Kirkland presses a paper bag into my hand. “I think you need this more than I do,” she says. “It’s egg salad, I’m afraid. Not the most glamorous lunch.”
“It’s perfect,” I murmur. “Thank you.”
“It’s just a sandwich,” she replies. Then, after a beat: “But I hope you remember not everyone in this town has forgotten who you were. And not everyone believes what they hear.”
I nod, afraid if I try to speak, I’ll fall apart.
She gives me one last look, part exasperation, part parental fondness, and walks away.
It’s just a sandwich.
But for a second, it feels like something else entirely.
Like being remembered. Like being seen. Like being accepted.
COLE
I wasn’t ready for this dinner. I was barely ready to look at myself in the mirror after crying half the afternoon. Now I’m supposed to sit through salmon and small talk like nothing happened.
“What on earth is that?” Mom asks, looking at my jacket. She peers behind me like a better-dressed son might be hiding there.
“This old thing? Just something I found abandoned on the curb,” I say, just to annoy her. If Mom doesn’t like my clothes, fine. I’ll just wear an extra layer of sarcasm.
Mom presses her lips together, but somehow doesn’t comment further. She leans down to hug Noah. “You suit up nicely,” she says, as he bolts toward the kitchen in his dinosaur tee and overalls. Double standards, but okay.
“The others are already here,” she adds, heels clicking like warning shots. She pauses. “The Willards stopped by earlier. Invited themselves to stay.”
It’s hard to tell if she’s more upset about the company or the lack of etiquette.
We step into the living room, dread settling in my stomach like it’s unpacking for the week.
Caspian’s parents are here, and they’re horrible.
Sheriff Willard and his wife, Sarah, sit rigidly on the brocade loveseat, formal as funeral chairs. Willard’s wearing his usual smug menace; Sarah just looks subdued.
By the fireplace, swirling red wine, is James Lexington III.
Baywood’s “most eligible gay bachelor,” according to Mom.
According to me? Pompous ass.
“Cole!” James beams, teeth so white they could guide ships to shore. “You look cozy.”
What is it with these people and my clothes? I’m wearing a perfectly nice guitar-print jacket from Etsy.
“And you look pressed,” I reply. His blazer probably ironed itself out of fear.
“Let’s sit,” Mom announces like she’s hosting NATO. “We’re having poached salmon with an herbed lentil crust.”
That makes me wonder if Noah would eat his greens if I gave them a proper intro: “Tonight, we’re serving a leaf of lettuce and a slice of cucumber!” Probably wouldn’t help.
James claims the seat beside me, clearly a fan of cozy.
My father winces as Willard leans over to whisper something. Willard’s smile stays in place, but his eyes are already two moves ahead in a game no one else is playing. A warning hums in my gut, but I tell myself they’re probably just talking golf.
Mrs. Stone dabs her mouth. “Caspian was invited, of course, but he’s always off doing something dramatic.”
“Well, yeah. Usually helping with my dramatic single-dad life,” I say before I can stop myself. Snark’s easier than silence tonight.
Mr. Stone hums. “That’s nice. But you’re here. And he isn’t.”
Mom’s smile sharpens. “He dropped by earlier, actually. Something about a charity event. For homeless people,” she adds with a pointed look.
Mr. Stone chuckles coldly. “Always choosing galas over family.”
James turns to me. “You sang splendidly at the festival. Art demands discipline.” His smile says compliments, but his eyes say collar and leash optional.
Before I can respond, Noah barrels in holding a cookie box, chocolate smeared on his face. “Grandma, I spiritually connected with four cookies.”
James blinks. “Is that normal?”
“Just vocabulary from Mom,” I say, amused.
“With whom have you spiritually connected, darling?” Dad asks Mom.
“Oh, stop it,” she says. “We saw a painting the other day. ‘Spiritually Connected to Oven Mitts’. Delightful.”
“I liked the milkshake I got after,” Noah comments before vanishing again.
Mrs. Stone smiles sweetly, but the words are meant to sting: “Speaking of Noah, how is Lizzie?”
“She’s doing wonderfully,” Dad says. Like the last time he spoke to Lizzie wasn’t in their hallway, Dad repeating he’s sorry and Lizzie saying it’s too late.
“I always told Sarah,” Willard says, “that Hudson girl would end up in trouble.”
Mom’s smile tightens. Danger zone. You shouldn’t poke a mama bear. Not even the kind who lost her daughter because of her own actions.
I meet Willard’s gaze. “Turns out you were wrong.” He holds my eyes a beat too long.
James clears his throat. “I bought a yacht. A real looker, too, only sixty-five grand.”
“Divorce auction?” Mr. Stone asks.
“Estate liquidation.”
“What’s the name?” Sarah Willard asks.
“Chardonnay Therapy.” Could be worse. Could’ve been Sea Discipline.
“Three staterooms. One’s basically a floating spa,” James adds, then turns to me, eyes gleaming. “You’re welcome to stay aboard anytime. My assistant can arrange it.”
Mom beams like I just got engaged.
Mrs. Stone clears her throat theatrically. “You won’t believe who’s back in town.” She pauses dramatically. ”Xaden Bailey!”