Chapter Twenty-one – Bailey
The shop smells like paper and rain, the kind of scent that usually calms me, but today it feels like a weight pressing into my ribs. The storm outside finally broke overnight, and the lighthouse hums with it—low, constant, like a pulse I can’t match.
I’ve already wiped down the counter twice, restacked the front display, and alphabetized the new shipment of romances that came in this morning. Normally, I’d lose myself in it—spines lined like soldiers, covers gleaming under the soft light—but every time I touch one, I think of his hands instead.
He texted last night before bed:
Crew: Made it to Nashville. Don’t let Dean near the power tools.
I read it five times. Typed a dozen replies. Sent one.
Me: We’re fine. Miss you already.
And then—nothing.
Now it’s almost noon, and my phone is a quiet, accusing thing beside the register. I’ve checked it so many times that the screen’s greasy with thumbprints. Still no unread messages. No call.
He said it was just a quick meeting. Forty-eight hours, tops. But Crew Wright isn’t the kind of man who goes quiet. When he’s upset, you hear it—in his voice, in his body, in the way he exhales before he says something honest.
I stare at the display of bookmarks near the register.
Lila made them for the fall festival last month—pressed flowers sealed under resin, each one a little world frozen in place.
I pick one up, trace the stem of a daisy, and pretend I don’t feel like that’s what I’m doing too. Waiting for time to melt.
The bell over the door jingles, and Ivy steps in carrying two coffees and a smile that’s too bright to be real. “You look like you’re trying to murder that bookmark,” she says, handing me a cup.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” She leans against the counter, hip cocked, hair escaping her braid. “You heard from him?”
I shake my head. “Not since last night.”
Her voice softens. “He’s probably buried in meetings. You know how those guys love to hear themselves talk.”
“Yeah,” I say, wrapping my hands around the cup. The warmth seeps into my fingers but doesn’t reach anything that matters. “Just… it’s not like him.”
Ivy’s eyes search mine. “You’re doing that thing where you tell yourself it’s fine while your insides are setting fires.”
“I’m not—” I start, then stop, because she’s right. I’m exactly that.
She nudges me gently. “You want to come by the studio later? I’m dropping off that set list for the charity event. We’re pretending to be organized.”
“I can’t. The new shipment’s still in boxes, and the book drive paperwork’s due tonight.”
“Bailey…”
I give her the look that says please don’t make me talk about this right now. She reads it, sighs, and lets me have my silence. “Okay. But call if you need to vent or… break something.”
“I’m not breaking anything,” I say, voice too steady.
She grins. “Then I’ll do it for you.”
When she leaves, the quiet rushes back in like a tide. The lighthouse creaks, the breeze drags another breath across the windows, and I wonder when home started feeling like a question.
By three, the sky’s cleared to a pale gray that smells like salt and second chances. I close up early and walk down Main Street, hoping movement will trick my body into thinking I’m fine.
Coral Bell Cove moves at its own rhythm—kids chasing each other past the bakery, Mr. Daniels setting out pumpkins in front of the hardware store, the chatter of tourists who think they’ve found something untouched.
Every person I pass smiles, waves, asks about the book drive. Normal things. Simple things.
But every sound feels half a second too slow, every color dimmer than it should be. Like the world forgot to plug itself in when Crew left.
I stop at the café window, watching Ivy inside talking to a group of women. Her laugh carries even through the glass, soft and unguarded. She looks up, catches my reflection, and lifts a brow that says come in.
I shake my head. Not today.
My stomach twists. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s envy of ease—the way she’s learned how to live loud again after being dragged through the tabloids, the way she can trust that love stays.
I walk on, past the docks, where the water laps lazy against the boats. Crew’s truck isn’t there, of course, but I still look for it. Habit’s cruel that way.
The air tastes like brine and metal. Somewhere, a gull screams like it knows things don’t end quietly.
When I get back to the lighthouse, dusk is already bleeding into the edges of the sky. I flip the porch light on before I even unlock the door. He always teases me for that—calls it my “welcome mat for ghosts.”
Inside, the shop glows soft, golden. Cozy. It should feel safe. Instead, it feels like pretending.
I sink onto the stool behind the counter, phone in my lap. I tell myself not to check it again. Then I do.
Nothing.
I open our thread anyway, scrolling through old messages. His last picture—the one he sent from the truck—still makes me smile. The way he holds the camera too low, jaw shadowed, the world behind him a blur of motion. Made it to Nashville.
He looks tired in it. I didn’t notice before.
My chest tightens, and I drop the phone onto the counter like distance might shrink if I stop holding it so hard.
The storm outside has moved on, but the wind still pushes against the windows. The lantern beam sweeps across the room, throwing soft light over the books, the plants, the cup he left half-drunk on the windowsill two days ago.
I trace a finger over the rim, then close my eyes.
“Don’t let them make you smaller,” I whisper, the words tasting like prayer.
The floor creaks. For a heartbeat, I think it’s him—stupid, hopeful instinct. It’s just the building settling. Or maybe it’s me.
The following morning, I wake early, the air heavy and still. The ocean’s calm again, that eerie hush after a storm. I make coffee, feed the cat, and watch the first light hit the water through the kitchen window.
He should’ve texted by now.
I tell myself maybe his phone died. Maybe he overslept. Maybe the meeting ran late. But each maybe sounds thinner than the last.
By eight, I’ve checked the news, the team page, his fan accounts—nothing unusual. Just recycled interviews, old highlight clips. The digital version of pretending everything’s fine.
When I unlock the shop, Rowan’s already outside with a box of donated books balanced on his hip. “Morning, sunshine,” he says. “You look like you fought a ghost and lost.”
“Coffee hasn’t worked yet,” I say, opening the door.
He follows me in, setting the box on the counter. “You good?”
“Fine.”
He gives me a look that says he’s not buying it. “You sure? I can threaten someone on your behalf. I’m versatile.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He grins. “You always do.”
When he leaves, I stand behind the counter, hands pressed flat to the wood. The grain feels like a heartbeat under my palms. I wonder if that’s how Crew felt—trying to steady something that won’t stop moving.
By noon, the bookstore fills with the quiet chatter of regulars. Mrs. Landry drops off her weekly cookie bribe. A kid from the high school asks for something “that doesn’t suck” for his lit class. I find him The Outsiders and tell him it’s about staying gold. He shrugs but smiles.
Normal. I can do normal.
Until I can’t.
Because when the shop finally empties and I’m alone again, the quiet presses in harder than before. My phone buzzes once—my heart stutters—but it’s just a weather alert.
And that’s when the fear shifts into something else. Not panic. Not yet. Just that low, humming certainty that something isn’t right.
I pick up my phone again and type. Just checking in. How’d the meeting go?
I delete it. Type again. Miss your face. Also, your favorite kid broke the display shelf. Delete that, too.
Finally, I send a single word. Home?
The message hangs in the air, blue bubble glowing like a promise I don’t believe.
The dots appear for half a second—then vanish.
I stare at the screen until it goes black.
Outside, the lantern beam sweeps over the water, slow and steady, the same as always. But it feels like it’s searching this time.
Searching for him.
And maybe for me, too.
The next day starts with fog.
The kind that blurs the horizon until sky and water forget which one is supposed to be blue.
I open the shop anyway. Habit wins over sense.
The bell jingles, the cat yawns, and the smell of ground beans from the café next door slides under the door like an invitation to act normal.
I make it until ten. Ten whole minutes before checking my phone again.
Nothing.
There’s a hollow space where his name should be.
Every hour that passes stretches it thinner, like silence can actually tear.
By eleven, I give up pretending and take the box of donation forms down to the café. Mrs. Lopez will want the paperwork for the town fundraiser anyway, and I can’t keep pacing the aisles of the shop without going insane.
The bell above the café door rings when I step in, warm air kissing my face. The smell hits—sugar, espresso, cinnamon—and for a second I almost remember what peace feels like. The place hums with low chatter, spoons against mugs, a guitar humming from the radio.
“Bailey!” Mrs. Lopez waves from behind the counter, hair pinned up, lipstick smudged from smiling too much. “You working or hiding?”
“Maybe both,” I say, sliding the box onto the counter. “Book drive totals. Coral Bell Elementary hit their goal.”
“That’s my readers!” she beams, already flipping open the folder. “You staying for coffee? You look like you need it.”
I manage a half smile. “Do I?”
“Like a woman holding back the tide with a paper cup,” she says, and doesn’t wait for an answer before calling to the back, “Jessica, two lattes!”
I sit at the counter, twisting the paper napkin in my hands.
The TV in the corner plays muted news—sports recap, scrolling headlines, some anchor mouthing excitement that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s background noise, like usual.
Mrs. Lopez slides a mug toward me. “How’s your fella? He’s still in Nashville, right? That quarterback?”
The napkin tears in half in my fingers. “Yeah. Just meetings.”
She nods, satisfied, then moves on to the next customer, leaving me with steam and caffeine and a silence that feels anything but quiet.
I sip, burn my tongue, and glance up, just as the screen cuts to a press conference.
I don’t register the words at first. Just the image. A long table, team banners, microphones lined up like a firing squad. Harris at the center, smiling. David on the far right, pretending he belongs. And Crew—
Crew looks like someone I almost recognize.
He’s in a tailored suit, hair pushed back too neat, eyes shadowed. His smile is the kind that hurts to look at—half a muscle too tight.
The anchor’s voice rises, clear over the café hum: “…and the Tennessee Stallions are proud to welcome back quarterback Crew Wright, officially returning for next season after successful rehabilitation and a renewed partnership with our sponsors…”
My heart stops.
The words fall wrong.
Renewed partnership.
That’s the phrase he swore he’d never let them use again.
I set my coffee down, too hard. Liquid splashes the counter.
“…Mr. Wright, how does it feel to be back?” a reporter asks from offscreen.
Crew leans toward the mic, and for a second, his lips part like he’s about to speak the truth. But then something shifts—his eyes flick sideways toward Harris, a warning or a reminder—and what comes out is measured, flat, someone else’s voice wearing his mouth.
“I’m grateful,” he says. “The team has always believed in me. I’m looking forward to moving past distractions and focusing on what matters.”
Distractions.
That’s what he calls me now?
The air leaves my lungs like it’s been punched out.
Someone in the café laughs at another table, a sound too bright for this moment. Mrs. Lopez hums to the radio. The world doesn’t notice I’ve gone still.
I stare at the screen, at the way his hand tightens on the table, fingers flexing once like he’s trying to hold on to something invisible.
Harris smiles wider, leans closer, says something low I can’t hear. Crew nods.
The camera pans, and for a flicker—just a single heartbeat—Crew’s eyes meet the lens. And I swear he’s looking for me.
That tiny, desperate thing that passes through his expression—it’s gone before I can name it. But it’s there. The real him, buried under PR polish and contract chains.
The screen shifts to an ad. Bright colors. Laughter. The world keeps moving.
I’m still frozen.
Mrs. Lopez looks over. “You okay, honey?”
I nod, but the word doesn’t reach my throat. “Yeah. Just… spilled my coffee.”
“Want a towel?”
“I’m fine,” I manage, already grabbing my bag. “Sorry—bookstore needs me.”
She calls something after me, but I don’t hear it.
Outside, the air cuts cold against my cheeks. I walk without direction, phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline that isn’t one. The waves slap against the dock in slow, deliberate rhythms. Somewhere, the gulls scream again.
I stop at the edge of the pier, wind tugging my hair, the lighthouse small but steady in the distance.
He looked at the camera. He looked at it like it was me.
Something inside me steadies—not the fear, not the hurt, but something sharper. Resolve, maybe.
If he can’t say what’s happening out loud, then I’ll find out myself.
The water shivers with light as the lantern sweeps across it, one steady pulse after another.
I whisper to the horizon, to him, to whoever’s listening,
“I’m coming to get you back.”
And for the first time since he left, I let the storm break.