1. Trial by TikTok #2
They were probably expecting another meltdown, especially after finding out there was a freaking news crew set up outside of my house that not even the privacy wall could hide, but thankfully, I was still in shock from having my first-ever STI testing done thanks to my ex and now ex-best friend.
With less than $1,000 in my bank account and no business willing to touch me, I’m out of options.
Which is how I end up driving straight toward the one man I swore I’d never see again.
And maybe, maybe because a small part of my pathetic heart has been waiting for an excuse to see him again. To ruin his day like he ruined my senior year of high school.
Probably freshman and sophomore years of college too, but even I can only carry so many grudges.
GPS directs us through an aggressively charming coastal town with pastel buildings, hanging flower baskets, and a coffee shop called Grounds for Celebration that I will absolutely never enter on principle alone.
A girl can only handle so much wicker, and I’m already at my limit.
The scent of salt air blows through the AC, and I begin to fidget.
Cole always said the ocean made everything feel…smaller.
Easier to survive.
When we turn onto the road for The Haven at Porchlight Cove, things get…weird.
The Haven is a gated community, but the gate is wide open and decorated with a banner that says, “Welcome Home, Juniper!” in glittery letters.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
Fen laughs. “Welcome to The Haven.”
“What is this?”
“Nana Mae alerted the welcoming committee.” Fen sounds downright gleeful. It’s irritating as hell.
A golf cart pulls up alongside my car. The driver’s an elderly man wearing a bucket hat and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, while binoculars hang from his neck. Awesome. The first person I meet is a bird-watching enthusiast.
I hate birds.
He honks the horn on his golf cart. It blasts a rap song from the early 90s I vaguely remember from a podcast on an East Coast-West Coast rivalry.
“The new girl’s here! I repeat, the new girl’s here! Stanley out!” the old guy says into a walkie-talkie, then winks, points two finger-guns at me, and peels away. Literally. His tires squeal and he leaves rubber marks on the pavement.
What the hell kind of place is this?
“You’re going to love it here.” The sarcasm in Hudson’s tone makes me want to throat punch him.
Slowly we roll through the open gate, and people stand on front porches, backlit by the soft sunset while waving us by.
By the third stop sign, we’ve accumulated a train of golf carts following us through the streets, with one of them blaring the theme song for Jaws, which feels like a personal attack.
When Hudson finally pulls into a driveway, I’m white-knuckling my seatbelt. Who the hell gets followed by a parade of golf carts? Me. That’s who. And now they’re sitting at the end of a very long drive, watching.
Nolan must be pranking me.
A woman in her forties walks down the sidewalk in wedge heels, white capris, and a navy-blue tube top, shooing away the golf carts. As they disperse, I take a deep breath but don’t follow Hudson and Fen as they exit the vehicle.
The house before me is beautiful. All the ones in this neighborhood are. They have a…homey feel to them that makes my skin itchy.
Despite how people made me feel there, my home has been my only safe space.
The house in front of me is different. It’s white with blue shutters, has a wraparound porch with rocking chairs, but my favorite thing is the gas lanterns that bracket both sides of the front door.
It makes my throat uncomfortably tight. They’re probably meant to make guests feel welcome, like someone was waiting for them, but I know better than that.
Cole is likely counting down the days until he can tell Nolan that this little experiment isn’t working out. After all, he’s run away from me before, and this time, I come with way more baggage.
Maybe I can just stay in my car. Or better yet, turn around and drive anywhere but here.
As if reading my mind, Hudson waves my keys at me through the windshield. He’s such an ass.
Then the front door opens.
My stomach drops.
Some things you recognize instantly, like muscle memory forcing you to recall every painful moment, regardless of how much time has passed.
Cole Whittaker steps into my world, stopping just feet away from my car, and I focus on controlling my breath while Hudson and Fenway hurry to greet him.
When our gazes connect, he doesn’t move.
For a second—just one—his composure slips. His body locks up, his shoulders tense around his ears as though someone hit pause on his entire being.
Then it’s gone.
And he’s studying me like I’m a problem he’s already calculating how to solve.
Too bad for both of us, he stopped being my emotional crutch when he walked away.
Liar.
He lifts a hand in an awkward wave, and three thoughts hit me all at once.
One, he’s bigger, harder, hotter.
Two, I need to create an exit strategy. Immediately.
Three, I’m going to put fish oil in his shampoo.
Because old habits die hard, and it’s easier than being soft and getting trampled.
Fenway’s talking animatedly, while Hudson’s as stoic as ever, glaring in my direction.
But Cole? He just stands there in jeans and a button-down that has no business fitting him as well as it does.
It makes me regret the Frosted Flakes pj pants I’m wearing.
I wasn’t supposed to see anyone until tomorrow.
Frankly, he’s the one being rude. Standing there, staring at me with his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes? Those still hold the same dark and steady confidence that always sees too much.
That’s the real problem. He always saw too much…until he walked away without a word or a goodbye.
Some part of me longs to know why, but I’ll never ask.
It’s easier to be angry. Easier to pretend I don’t care, didn’t care. Six years is a long time, and I don’t hold grudges—for long.
Say it again louder, Junie, for those in the back—we don’t hold grudges for long.
With a heavy sigh, I exit the car without getting too close. I’m happy he’s flanked by Hudson and Fen. It’s better to have a buffer.
“Junie.” His voice is lower than I remember. Rougher. My name rolls off his tongue like it pains him to say it.
His hand flexes at his side, almost as though he wants to reach for me but stops himself.
“Cole.” I keep my voice flat. Professional. The tone I use for people I don’t trust.
He steps forward, his arms held out stiffly. Is he trying to freaking hug me?
My shoulders lift to my earlobes, and he snaps back like an elastic band pulled too tight. When I glance up, confusion flickers in his expression, there and gone in a flash.
“We’re heading inside. I have to piss.” Hudson physically drags Fen away from us.
There goes my buffer. Hudson has leveled up his assholishness today.
“How was the drive?” Cole asks.
God, this is painful.
“Fine.”
He flinches. He’s always hated the word fine. It’s funny what you forget when you spend six years pretending someone doesn’t exist. A tiny spark of vicious satisfaction flares in my chest because he spent years forcing me to elaborate—and now he doesn’t have that privilege.
“Fine” is not a descriptor for your feelings, Junie.
It was his favorite saying. Now I’m using his hated word as a weapon, one that’s helping me build my walls, and he knows it.
Good.
He’s already reaching past me for the trunk before I can process what’s happening.
“I’ve got it.” I step between him and the suitcase, dragging out the smaller of the three I’ve packed. It’s all I’ll need tonight anyway.