Chapter 38
No, they don’t give out medals for these.
“Oh, honey, it’s all clickbait bullshit, you know that,” Cecily says to her as they pull up to the Hertz car rental off Main Street. “Now give me back my phone. Sure you don’t want to meet me at the spa? It’s got great reviews.”
Cecily’s assistant has her booked for a series of appointments at Seaside’s new spa, which will keep her occupied for most of the day.
Normally Cole would join her for all the pampering, but she finds herself feeling out of sorts in Seaside, as if she’s not sure which version of herself she’s supposed to be.
For one thing, she’s not hungover this morning.
She and Cecily had gone out to dinner with Ray last night, and she’d only ordered an iced tea.
“Enjoy the spa,” Cole says, getting out of the Escalade. “I’ll text you later.”
“You’d have to turn your phone on for that,” Cecily says in a singsong voice, and the car pulls away.
She picks up her rental car, a nondescript Kia, and heads for the downtown area to search for coffee.
Dinner with Ray and Cecily the night before had been fun.
Cecily is an unabashed flirt, and her big brother hadn’t quite known what to do with that, appearing equal parts flattered and terrified.
The evening had been full of laughter, which was new for the both of them.
She and Ray never had light conversations growing up; it was always every man for himself in the Montes house, and it was all they could do to survive the volcano that was their father and the hurricane that was her mother.
“Thanks for not inviting Dad to dinner,” she’d said when Cecily excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
“I wish I did,” Ray said. “He’d know how to handle Cecily. Did you go by the house? He was home.”
“I haven’t seen him in twenty-five years, dickwad,” she’d said. “I just got here. I need a minute.”
Cole knows she’ll have to talk to her father at some point; it’s unavoidable.
But she needs time to work up to it. Ray insists that he’s different now, that he’s changed.
But it’s hard to imagine a man like their father evolving.
To this day, she’s never met another man as committed to being an asshole as Richard Montes.
Well, except for Jordan. As she pulls open the door to the Green Bean, the thought gives her pause.
When she married him, she’d patted herself on the back for not marrying a man like her father, as women too often do.
But it turns out, Jordan and Richard are alike.
It’s just that one wears a suit, the other a leather cut.
One stole thousands; the other, more than a million.
Both cheated on their wives. And both are bullies—her father with his intimidating physical presence and his temper; her husband with his barbed words that nicked her relentlessly, which, over time, became the death of their marriage by a thousand papercuts.
The Green Bean smells amazing, as a coffee shop should.
Cole joins the line and squints to read the artsy-looking chalkboard menu.
The whispers and looks start slowly, and by the time she’s next in line to order, it feels like everyone in the coffee shop is staring at her.
She can hear snippets of conversations about her coming from different directions.
. . . Cole Lennox is back . . .
. . . She was awful in that TikTok video . . .
. . . She looks so different than she does on Trophy Wives
. . . . . . Did you see the new Criminal Confessions trailer . . .
She’s used to being stared at, of course.
But it feels different in her hometown, where they’re not judging her because she’s on TV.
They’re judging her because she’s from Seaside and on TV.
The key, just like in Las Vegas, is to plaster on a pleasant facial expression that neither attracts nor deters conversations from strangers.
Do not make eye contact. And no matter what you hear anyone say, act completely unbothered.
Someone brushes against her arm and she stiffens. Then a man’s voice says, “Nicolette.”
Reflexively her gaze shifts toward him, breaking her own rule.
The man speaking to her is Daniel Hawksfield.
Other than the touch of gray at his temples and a few more crinkles around the eyes, he looks more or less the same as she remembers.
Kind. Interested. Trustworthy. Except he was none of those things in the end.
He is the greatest liar she’s ever met, and that’s saying something, considering who she’s married to.
Her heart leaps into her throat, and it takes every ounce of energy she has not to react.
“I thought that was you,” Hawk says with a warm smile, as if they’re old friends. As if he hadn’t gotten her pregnant. As if he hadn’t been there on the most traumatic night of her life. “You’re all grown up. Welcome back.”
She realizes they’re the same height now, five-six. The last time they stood this close, twenty-five years ago, she was shorter than him.
He has two small children with him, and he’s balancing a tray of beverages. Coffee for him, slushies for the kids.
“Thanks,” Cole says, keeping her expression intentionally blank, even though she’s reeling internally. She’s a pro at sounding neither friendly nor unfriendly. The line moves and she takes a step forward. “Nice to see you. Take care.”
“What can I get you?” the barista asks when Cole finally steps up to the counter.
It takes her a second to shake it off. “I’ll do an extra-large cold brew with Stevia, and your cookie of the day.”
“One brew, and one Vanilla Thrilla,” the barista says, scrawling Cole’s coffee order on the cardboard cup. “Name?”
“Nicolette,” Cole says, then stops. Jesus. Did she actually just say that? She hasn’t done that in years, and maybe it was because Hawk had just addressed her by her birth name.
“Sorry, spell that?” the barista says, her Sharpie poised.
“C-O-L-E,” she says. “Cole.”
The barista’s head snaps up. “Oh my god, it is you,” she says. “We heard you were back in town, but we thought it was just a rumor, what with all the docuseries talk. I didn’t recognize you right away because of the . . .” Her hands flop around her face.
“The lack of makeup?” Cole says, helping her out. “And no hair extensions?”
“Right,” the barista says, her face reddening. “Not that you don’t look great, because you really do—” She turns to her coworker at the other end of the counter. “Jackson! Come here! It’s Cole Lennox! Oh my god. Cole Lennox is here.”
Cole winces. “Could you maybe not shout—”
“Holy shit, Cole Lennox!” the employee named Jackson says, rushing over.
Neither barista seems to care that the line behind Cole is growing longer.
“We are your biggest fans. Like, we totally forgive you for that RealityCon thing. If that girl isn’t mad that you punched her, then why should we be?
Like, it happened, it’s done, get over it.
Can me and Misty get a selfie with you?”
The man behind Cole sighs loudly. “Hey, buddy, I’m in a hurry—”
“One picture,” Misty begs. “Stay right there, we’ll come around.”
Everyone in the busy coffee shop is watching now as the two baristas, plus a third they pick up along the way, all come out from behind the counter. They all huddle around Cole in their brown aprons, pressing their faces close together. Several selfies are snapped from two different phones.
“Is it true that Cecily Monaco is here, too?” Jackson asks her. “Like, that can’t be real. The queen herself in Seaside would be wild.”
“I thought I was the queen,” Cole says, and when he looks mortified, she says, “I’m kidding.”
“I knew you and Cecily were friends,” Misty says, clapping her hands together. “When she threw her champagne in your face—”
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” the man behind Cole says, shooting them all a dirty look as he steps out of the line. “This is why this place sucks. I’m leaving you guys a one-star review, which I’m gonna write while drinking my coffee from Dunkin’.”
The baristas get back to work, and Cole moves to the end of the counter to wait for her order.
Everyone is still staring, and despite her lighthearted banter with the employees, she feels exposed.
The minute Misty shouts out her name—totally unnecessary since Cole is standing right the hell there—she takes her coffee and cookie and makes a beeline for the door. She has to get out of here.
But before she can leave, an older woman with two kids in tow blocks her way. The lady, dressed in a Wonderland T-shirt and matching visor that you can only buy at the park itself, glares at her with pursed lips. She’s holding a coffee in one hand and a biscotti cookie in the other.
“You’re Cole Lennox,” the woman says. “I watch your show. And I think your behavior is just abhorrent. You have no respect for yourself or anyone else. I can only imagine how your poor mother must feel.” She clucks. “She must be so ashamed of you.”
Cole turns slowly to face her. The two kids, maybe eleven or twelve and each drinking a frozen hot chocolate, shrink back, clearly mortified.
Well, they should be. It’s one thing to have a negative opinion about a stranger you’ve only seen on television.
It’s another thing entirely to share it with that stranger, to her face, unprovoked.
For instance, Cole is guessing that this woman—obviously a tourist—insisted on taking her grandkids to Wonderland for a couple of days, a trip that the kids were probably dreading because they know their grandmother is embarrassing.
See? Cole can be a judgy bitch, too, but you don’t hear her saying any of this out loud.
“Ma’am, did you know my mother?” Cole asks her. “Because she’s been dead a long time.”
The older woman blinks. “Well, not personally, and my condolences, of course. But with the way you carry yourself, I’m sorry to say it, but your mother must be rolling in her grave.”
The entire coffee shop seems to have gone quiet.
“If you actually knew my mother, you’d know she had zero shame,” Cole says.
“And I can promise you that she’s not rolling in her grave.
She’s resentful because of all the money I make acting abhorrent on TV, because she was a cruel woman, just like you.
So why don’t you take that biscotti you’re holding, go back to wherever you came from, and go fuck yourself with it.
” She looks down at the tweens. “Sorry, kids. I promise I’m actually a nice person, but your grandma’s an asshole. ”
The woman’s mouth drops open. The kids, wide-eyed, look like they’ve just met a superhero. And behind Cole, the entire coffee shop applauds.
She leaves the Green Bean feeling better than she has in months. Maybe even years. That’s the thing with Seaside. No matter how the town feels about you, they’ll never let an outsider fuck with one of their own.