Chapter 9 Bellamy
BELLAMY
Five sets of eyes swing my way.
My fork hovers over my plate as I try to think of what to say. I should’ve practiced my response. “We moved around a little bit over the last few years, but we’re back in Hollow Beach.”
Across from me, Gage’s gaze sharpens. Like he’s trying to see all the things I’m not saying. “For good?”
I meet his eyes and hold them, praying he doesn’t see the residual fear floating behind my eyes. “For now.”
Something tightens in his jaw. Something in my chest answers it, low and unwelcome.
“That’s real good, honey,” Coco says, cutting neatly across whatever that moment might have become. She reaches for her wineglass, giving me a soft smile over the rim. “It’s always good to come back home.”
The word home lands heavier than I expect. Dense and weighted, like something dropped in deep water.
Coco sets her glass down, eyes still on me. “And did you end up going to school for… what was it you wanted back then?”
I blink. For half a second, I’m sixteen again at her kitchen table—Lola pressed into the chair beside me, a stack of college brochures fanned out like a promise, my mother passed out on our couch back home. The air smells like burnt coffee and hope I don’t know what to do with yet.
I swallow. “Design.”
Coco tilts her wineglass toward me. “That’s right. Design.” She nods. “Did you end up at college for design, honey?”
Regret coils around my throat so fast it’s almost funny. Tight and efficient, like it’s been waiting for its cue.
I want to laugh. Or maybe just scream.
Instead, I clear my throat. “Life had other plans.”
Coco’s smile softens at the corners, like she can see the rest of the story. Maybe she does. Maybe she remembers the night I showed up here—hands shaking, pounding on the gate, begging Gage to help me. Begging her to help me get my brother and sister back.
I don’t let myself sit with it. I never do.
Coco’s hand finds my forearm, warm and steady. “Life often does, honey. You did what you had to do. That’s what matters.”
Her gaze lingers, gentle and assessing all at once. It fucking grates on me.
I clamp my teeth together, swallowing whatever sharp reply flickers at the back of my tongue. I force a brittle smile and take a sip of water, grateful for the excuse to look down.
“Anyway, I do freelance stuff,” I say. “Interior staging. Graphic design. That kind of thing.”
The words taste strange. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s life for a second.
Coco beams, eyes crinkling. “I think that’s wonderful. You always did have a good eye. I remember you drawing little floor plans on napkins at my kitchen table.”
Gage snorts softly. “And telling us our garage was structurally unsound.”
“It was,” I shoot back. “You had that weird attic crawl space with the loose—”
“Bells,” Cruz cuts in, smirking. “You told me the garage was haunted.”
“It was,” I say again, heat creeping into my cheeks.
For a split second, I’m cold nylon and tangled sleeping bags. A scrape in the dark. My heart punching hard enough to wake me fully.
A ghost, I’d thought.
Rafe raises his brows. “Great. I’m sleeping in there next week.”
That gets a laugh. Cruz first, then Gage. Even Bishop’s mouth twitches at the corner.
Coco beams at all of us like we’re performing a play she wrote.
I chew a bite of roast and let the rhythm wash over me—the clatter of silverware, overlapping voices, the string lights swaying overhead.
It’s disorienting how easy it is to fall back into this seat, this table, this family-shaped orbit.
It almost feels normal.
If I overlook that two of them know I hit the yacht before they could. If I ignore the way Bishop keeps studying me like I’m a problem he hasn’t solved yet. If I pretend my nerves aren’t buzzing—anchored and lit in a way I haven’t felt in six years.
Almost as if no time has passed. And that’s the problem.
The ease of it jolts something awake in me—sharp, corrective. Like my body remembering why I’m actually here. If this isn’t an ambush, then fine. I’ll take Lola’s advice and do my own digging.
Rip the band-aid off.
I clear my throat. “What about you guys?” I ask, lifting my gaze. “You all still living here? At the house?”
The words land with all the subtlety of a dropped plate. I wince internally.
Stellar recon work, Bell.
Cruz leans back in his chair and drapes an arm over the back of Gage’s, like he owns the entire universe. “Some of the time.”
“Most of the time,” Coco corrects, pointing her fork at him. “All my boys have a bedroom here. Always will. I didn’t raise them just to have them disappear on me.”
Rafe smirks. “She’d show up with a casserole and a crowbar if we tried.”
“You’re not wrong,” Coco says calmly, taking a sip of wine.
Gage shakes his head, amused. “I’ve got a place on Orchard Street.”
My eyebrows lift before I can stop them. Orchard Street runs right along the water. Beckett found a studio at the far end when we were looking. It was tiny, overpriced, and somehow still damp. Not even the ocean couldn’t convince me it was worth the rent.
“So,” Rafe adds casually, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “I’ve got a house on Shoreline. Quiet stretch at the end. Fewer tourists. More privacy.”
Of course he does. Because the only place more expensive than Orchard Street is Shoreline.
“And Cruz still lives here,” Bishop says. It’s the first thing he’s said since my name when he sat down.
My attention snaps to him, then to Cruz, whose eyes are already on me.
He lifts one shoulder in a half-assed shrug and bites the end off a carrot. “I like it here.”
“And I like having you here, honey,” Coco says, reaching over to pat his hand.
Bishop doesn’t add anything else. Doesn’t say where he lives. The omission hums louder than any answer, and I file it away.
Gage tilts his head toward me. “What about you? Where’s your place?”
“If you want to come over, Gage, you only have to ask.” I lean back with a grin I don’t fully feel.
Rafe’s forearm presses lightly against the back of my neck, an accident, probably. Still, I jerk forward on instinct, pulse flaring sharp and fast. His fingers catch briefly on the ends of my hair, a gentle tug as he withdraws.
A prickle of awareness skates down my spine. I force myself to breathe through it, to settle back into my chair like nothing just happened. Like my body didn’t light up at the smallest contact. I roll my shoulders once, deliberately casual.
“Freelance design sounds flexible. Job like that, you can go wherever you want,” Rafe says.
I tilt my face toward him. “Is that what you do? Go wherever you want?”
His mouth curves into dangerous amusement. “Something like that.”
Gage huffs, lifting his beer and swirling it once before taking a sip. “We’re all property managers.”
I file that away. It’s the kind of answer that sounds intentionally boring. Safe. The kind you give when you don’t want follow-up questions. Except I already know that’s not exactly true.
“What’s that like?” I ask lightly. “Fixing broken AC units and changing the locks?”
“Sometimes,” Gage says. “Sometimes it’s replacing a ceiling because the unit upstairs let a bathtub overflow.”
“We do whatever we have to,” Cruz adds, voice easy, eyes sharp.
It echoes something Coco said to me not five minutes earlier. But coming from Cruz, it lands heavier. Less comforting, more loaded.
I feel the weight of Bishop’s stare, but when I glance up, he’s studying his plate, jaw working like he’s chewing on more than just dinner. The silence at his end of the table has its own gravity.
It’s been years since I sat across from him, and the old tension creeps back. Me always poking, him always pretending not to care. But tonight he’s unreadable. Not angry or cold. Just absent.
I look back at Gage. “I bet you guys stay busy. Seems like half this town’s rentals now.”
Rafe tugs idly on the end of a lock of my hair, just once. “People like to rent, but they don’t like to take care of things.”
Cruz finishes his drink and sets the glass down with a precise clink. “We’ve got connections if you ever need a new place.”
The way he says it makes my shoulders tighten. Is it an offer or a reminder? Fuck, it’s probably some kind of warning.
Gage’s eyes flick to Cruz, then back to me, his jaw ticking. There’s something sharp under the surface there, something unfinished. Definitely a fucking warning.
I smile anyway. “Good to know.”
“And Bishop has a place—” Gage starts.
“No,” Bishop cuts in. It’s not loud, but the finality rings around the table.
Gage stills, his beer halfway to his mouth.
Bishop lifts his gaze to him, expression flat. “Since when do we tell strangers all our business?”
The word lands heavily.
Strangers.
It’s not wrong, but it feels like it should be.
Gage’s knuckles go white around the neck of his bottle. He sets it down carefully without taking a sip. “She’s not a stranger.”
“She’s practically family,” Coco says, reaching for the bread basket like this is settled fact. “And she’s my guest, Bishop.”
A muscle ticks in Bishop’s jaw as he grunts, low and noncommittal, and spears a potato on his fork.
The vibration comes sharp and sudden against the wood.
Bishop’s phone rattles against the wood next to his plate. He flips his phone over and glances at the screen, something hard flickering across his features before it disappears.
“Excuse me, Ma. I need to take this,” he says, already pushing his chair back.
He steps away from the table, just far enough that the words drop into a low rumble I can’t make out. His profile cuts sharp against the glow spilling from the kitchen—hard lines, clipped movements, one hand braced on the back of a chair like he’s anchoring himself.
I’m not watching him.
Except I absolutely am.
When he ends the call and comes back, he slides into his chair with that same controlled efficiency, like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just shift the temperature of the entire table.
Coco leans back in her chair, cradling her wine glass. “Everything all right, honey?”
His gaze flicks to me before it goes to her. Quick and assessing, like a thumb dragged along the edge of my spine.
“Yeah,” Bishop says. “Just a guy about something.”
Coco nods, satisfied in that way that tells me she understands far more than she’s saying. “We’ll talk later.”
My stomach dips, sharp and unwelcome. The roast suddenly feels heavier in my mouth, like I swallowed something I shouldn’t have.
Gage barrels straight through the tension, launching into a story about some guy at the gym dropping a barbell on his foot and trying to laugh it off.
Cruz interrupts within seconds to embellish it—adds blood, drama, a near-death experience.
Rafe cuts in dryly, correcting them both without even looking up.Coco tells them all to eat before the food gets cold.
The table finds its rhythm again.
I sit back and let it wash over me. The bickering, the overlapping voices, the scrape of forks against ceramic, the string lights swaying gently overhead.
They talk about tide shifts and blown-out breaks, about how the south swell’s been inconsistent and which beaches are still holding shape at dusk.
“You still surf, Bell?” Gage asks, spooning another helping of potatoes onto his plate.
“Sometimes,” I say. It’s true enough.
Gage nods, the side of his lips twitching like he’s swallowing a smile. “We’re heading out Wednesday morning. Tide should be decent. Low wind, if the forecast holds. You should come with us.”
My chest tightens in a way I don’t examine too closely. “I’ll think about it.”
Rafe shifts in his chair, spreading his legs just enough that his knee comes to rest against mine beneath the table. Bare skin against denim. He doesn’t look at me or move away.
Neither do I. Not when every nerve in my leg lights up at the touch.
Cruz’s gaze slides my way, like he can see through the table and whatever the fuck is going on here. Gage doesn’t let his attention waver from me. Almost like he’s afraid if he’s not looking at me, I’ll disappear.
And through all of it, I can feel Bishop. Silent and steady to my left. The awareness presses warm and unsettling against the side of my face, like standing too close to a fire I didn’t mean to light. I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. My body already knows exactly where he is.
The conversation is easy. Familiar and familial in a way that should feel good.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like a lie.
I set my fork on my half-eaten plate and pull my knee from Rafe, straightening in my seat.
Coco clocks it immediately. She pushes her chair back and rises smoothly. “All right,” she says, already gathering plates. “Dessert time.” She nudges the sliding door open with her hip. “Bellamy, honey, come help me.”
Relief and nerves twist together in my chest as I stand. Whatever recalibration I was trying to do, it’ll have to wait.
Dinner isn’t over yet.