Chapter 44 Low-Tide Revival
Low-Tide Revival
Chase sat on his dock, his elbows resting on his knees, the dim glow of his phone illuminating his face as he replayed the interview that had aired earlier that evening.
At the time, it had been just another statement—just another job, just another project, just another day. He’d stood there in front of the cameras, professional, collected, delivering his usual no-nonsense responses.
But now?
Now, watching himself, hearing the words fall from his own mouth, he felt the weight of them.
"You hear a lot of Whispered Echoes about backing out when things get tough, but with Montgomery? We make sure to see it through."
Jesus.
Chase scrubbed a hand down his face, realizing just how much power those words carried.
In that moment, standing under the bright lights, he hadn’t realized exactly what he was saying.
But now?
Now, he knew.
He had just told the entire fucking state of North Carolina that he was moving forward.
That he was no longer holding onto the past. That he was no longer clinging to what could have been.
And yet—
He was still here.
Still sitting on this dock. Still feeling every ghost of her touch on his skin. Still haunted by her echoes.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
Jaxon: Just watched the interview. Dude, you look like hell.
Chase scoffed, shaking his head. “This motherfucker,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.
Because Jaxon was right.
He sighed, thumb hovering over the keyboard before he finally typed a response.
Chase: I’m on it. Thanks, man.
That was all that needed to be said. Because there was nothing else to say.
Chase pushed up from the dock, stretching out muscles that had been coiled tight for months, making his way back inside the house, flipping on the bathroom light.
And what he saw in the mirror?
It wasn’t him.
Not really. The man staring back at him looked hollowed out.
His beard had grown out too long, the dark scruff now borderline unruly. His hair was a mess, his skin looked tired, his eyes were weighed down by exhaustion. He looked like he had been rode hard and hung out to dry.
Jaxon was right.
Shaking his head, Chase turned on the clippers, trimming his beard back down to the length it had always been—sharp, clean, effortless. He brushed his teeth, ran his hands through his mess of hair, and stepped into the shower.
The water was hot, scalding even, but he needed it.
Needed to feel something other than the cold emptiness he’d been walking around with for two months.
When he stepped out, he wiped the fog from the mirror, staring at himself again.
Better.
Still broken. But better.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
Nate: You comin’ to Low-Tide or what?
Chase exhaled slowly, staring at the screen for a long moment before finally typing back.
Chase: Yeah. I’ll be there.
It was time.
The Return
Chase pulled on distressed-washed jeans, a black Henley that stretched across his broad frame just right, his worn ball cap, and his boots. Clean, freshly trimmed, and finally feeling like himself again, he grabbed his keys and stepped out the door.
By the time he pushed open the heavy doors of Low-Tide Tavern, he could already tell—
The tide was shifting.
The familiar scent of whiskey and fried food wrapped around him, the low hum of country music playing over the speakers blending with the loud, laughter-filled atmosphere.
And then?
He felt it.
The stares.
Not just from Nate, who was grinning like the bastard he was from across the bar. But from everyone else. Women. Friends. Locals who had watched him walk around like a damn ghost for the past two months.
They noticed.
They noticed the way he smiled. The way he laughed when Nate clapped him on the shoulder, already handing him a beer. The way he talked—really talked—without feeling like he was carrying the weight of the fucking world on his back.
And the women?
Damn if they didn’t notice. One by one, they came up to him. Some brave enough to flirt outright. Some testing the waters, lingering close, hoping to be the one he set his sights on.
And for the first time in months?
He flirted back.
He talked, laughed, played the part. He even danced with a few of them—briefly, casually, harmlessly.
And then?
Then trouble walked in.
Jenna.
Fucking Jenna.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even pretend like she hadn’t seen him. No, she marched right up to him like she had been waiting for this moment.
Tight jeans. Red halter top. Heels that made her legs look longer than they already were.
"Well, well, well," she purred, running a manicured nail down his arm. "Looks like the real Chase Montgomery is finally back."
Chase chuckled, tipping his beer to his lips. "Didn’t know I ever left."
Jenna smirked. "Oh, sweetheart, you left. But I’d say you’ve officially made your return."
Nate snorted from beside him, enjoying the show way too much.
Jenna slid closer. Too close.
She pressed a hand to his chest, tilting her head. "Dance with me."
Chase glanced toward Nate, who just lifted his beer in silent encouragement.
"Ahh—What the hell," Chase muttered, setting his drink down before leading Jenna to the dance floor.
And the second they started moving, Jenna took her shot.
"You know," she whispered against his ear, her fingers trailing up the back of his neck, "you could take me home tonight."
Chase chuckled, shaking his head. "Nice try, sweetheart."
Jenna pouted. "What? I’m just saying—"
"It’s not happening," he cut in smoothly.
She sighed dramatically, leaning her head against his shoulder for a brief second. "Your loss."
But Chase?
He wasn’t losing anything. Because for the first time in months—He felt free.
For the first time in months, he wasn’t waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.
And as the night went on?
He had a good time. A true— good time.
He drank, danced, laughed, felt alive.
But when it came time to leave?
When Jenna tried one last time to get him to come home with her?
He turned her down.
Because no matter how much he was moving forward—
Some things?
Some things just weren’t replaceable.
And when he walked out of Low-Tide Tavern that night, heading back toward home, back toward his empty bed—
He still felt her echoes.