Cinnabons and Sorry’s
CINNABONS AND SORRY’S
NATE
Corrigan's always smells like sugar, coffee, and the kind of memories that don't fade no matter how many years pass.
The warmth hits me as soon as I step inside—cinnamon and baked dough curling into my lungs like the town itself is reminding me where I came from.
Like Eden never really let me go, even when I tried to leave it behind.
The morning crowd is thinning out, just a few regulars scattered at tables with newspapers and laptops.
Carol's behind the counter, same as she's been for twenty years, hair pinned back in a neat bun, apron dusted with flour.
"Large black and an extra hot almond latte," I tell her, "and a box of cinnabons."
She smiles, already reaching for the tongs. "Rough morning, Mr. Sullivan?"
"Are you ever just going to call me Nate, Carol?"
"Probably never." She gives me the smile a loving grandmother gives—warm, knowing, with just enough mischief to remind you she's seen it all before. "You'll always be that sweet boy who used to come in here with your brother, trying to convince me to give you free samples."
The mention of Jake doesn't sting the way it used to. Just a dull ache, familiar and constant.
"Not a rough morning when you have a fresh batch of Cinnabons," I say, leaning one elbow on the counter.
"Oh, stop it, boy." She slides the cup across to me, then starts boxing up the pastries with careful precision. "These for young boys of yours?”
"No." I hesitate. "They're actually an apology."
Her expression softens, and she pauses in her work to look at me properly.
"Well," she says gently, "good luck with that."
I tap my card against the reader, and when she hands me the box, she adds, "I hope you're forgiven with these. Lord knows they've gotten my Harold out of trouble more times than I can count."
"Thanks, Carol. I hope so too."
I'm turning to leave when I nearly walk straight into someone who looks profoundly out of place in a small-town bakery in Eden.
Tailored navy blazer that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Crisp white shirt with the top button undone in that calculated casual way. Dark jeans that fit too perfectly to be off-the-rack. Shoes that shine like they've never seen dirt.
Hair styled with the kind of product that holds in wind and rain and general existence—the kind of grooming that speaks of standing appointments and personal shoppers and a life lived in boardrooms and first-class lounges.
Everything about him screams money. Success measured in metrics I stopped caring about years ago.
And something about him makes my skin crawl in a way I can't immediately place.
"Excuse me," he says smoothly, voice carrying that particular brand of confidence that comes from never being told no. "Are you Nate Sullivan? The music producer?"
I shift the coffee and box to get a better grip. "Uh, yeah. That's me."
He offers his hand, and his handshake is firm, practiced, exactly calibrated for maximum professional impact.
“I’m an executive with Horizon Pictures." He pulls out a card—thick stock, embossed lettering—and hands it to me but I don’t bother looking at it. "My team's been trying to reach you about a project."
My phone, heavy in my pocket, buzzes with another text like it's emphasizing his point.
To be honest, it feels like it's been buzzing for days—numbers I don't recognize, messages I haven't had the headspace to open, opportunities I've been too distracted to consider.
"We're developing a film adaptation of a New York Times bestseller," he continues. "We'd love for you to produce the opening track. Possibly the full score if the first piece resonates with the director's vision."
Now I remember the email sitting in my inbox with a red flag I added days ago.
"Right, I got the email," I say, trying to sound more professional than I feel standing here with a box of apology pastries. "Life's been a little crazy, but I'll take a look at it this week. Promise."
He nods, unfazed by what probably sounds like a blow-off. "We're on a tight timeline, but I understand. The author's been... difficult to reach lately as well, so we're all working around some complications."
Something in his tone makes my attention sharpen, but I can't place why.
"We'll be in touch," he says. "Looking forward to working with you, Nate."
As he walks toward the door, I notice the way he pulls out his phone, checks it with the kind of frustrated urgency that speaks of unanswered calls and ignored messages.
I pocket the card and make my way to the exit, the encounter leaving a sour taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with the coffee.
As I'm walking to the car, I check my phone to see who messaged.
My heart does something complicated when I see her name.
Nora
I'm sorry about yesterday. Can we talk?
The message is from twenty minutes ago and exactly what I've been hoping for while simultaneously dreading.
I stare at it for longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The coffee in my hand is getting cold.
Finally, I type back:
Nate
Nothing to apologize for. I overstepped.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Until they disappear, again.
The lake air is cool when I pull up to Nora's cabin ten minutes later. Her porch light is on even though it's full daylight, like she forgot to turn it off this morning. Or like she's been up all night.
I grab the coffee and Cinnabons from the passenger seat, nerves doing something uncomfortable in my stomach.
This feels bigger than an apology. I knock but no one answers.
I have the key, could open the door and leave the coffee and cinnabons inside, but that would feel like a breach of her privacy.
So I decide to leave them on the table on the porch with a note on the back of the receipt.
The studio feels wrong without Tommy's guitar cutting through the air. I notice it the moment I walk in—the absence like a missing tooth, something fundamentally off about the space.
His lamp sits silent in the corner. His chair is empty. Even his usual clutter—picks scattered across the desk, half-empty water bottles, the notebook where he scribbles lyrics—is gone.
Julian's already here, sitting at the piano, picking out a melody with the kind of focus that tells me he's trying not to think about the empty space.
"Still no word?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
Julian shakes his head without looking up. "Straight to voicemail. Has been for three days."
Sonny appears from the lounge, bass slung across his chest, drumming his fingers against his thighs in that restless way he has when he's anxious.
"He's not answering anyone, man. Not me, not Levi, not even his misses. She called me yesterday asking if I knew where he was."
Fuck.
Levi emerges from the booth, concern etched across his face.
"This isn't like him. I mean, yeah, he's flaked before, but never like this. Never completely off the grid."
Right now, I need to keep the boys steady. I need to be the constant in a world that keeps pulling people apart. Need to be what Nick was for me when I was spiraling—present, patient, refusing to give up even when giving up would be easier.
"We'll rehearse without him," I say, moving to the console and pulling up the session we've been working on. "He'll come back when he's ready."
"Will he though?" Sonny's voice has an edge I haven't heard before. Frustration bleeding into anger. "Because we're supposed to finish this album in six weeks. We've got tour dates booked for the fall. Venues confirmed, tickets on sale. And Tommy's just gone. Again."
Julian stops playing, turns to face us. "He's going through something—"
"We're all going through something," Sonny interrupts, and there's real heat in his voice now. "That's life. That's being in a band. But you don't just disappear on your brothers. You don't leave everyone hanging while you deal with your shit alone."
"He's not thinking straight right now," I say carefully. "Whatever he's dealing with, it's bigger than the album. Bigger than the tour."
"Then maybe we need to start thinking about a replacement."
The words come out harsh, and Sonny immediately looks like he regrets them, but he doesn't take them back.
"I'm just saying—how are we meant to go on tour if he keeps flaking on us?"
"We're not replacing him," Julian says firmly.
"Yeah well, you don't see any of us ghosting for days on end without a word," Sonny shoots back. "He doesn't give a shit about us or this album."
"Enough." My voice cuts through the argument, firm but not angry. "I hear you, Sonny. I do. And you're not wrong to be frustrated. But we're not making any decisions about Tommy's place in this band until we've actually talked to him. Until we know what's going on."
Julian nods. "Nate's right. We owe him that much."
Sonny's jaw works, tension radiating off him, but he nods reluctantly.
"Fine. But if he doesn't show up in the next week, we need to have a real conversation about what happens next."
"Agreed," I say.
I'm worried. More worried than I'm letting on.
Because I recognize the signs—the withdrawal, the silence, the gradual disappearance from everything that used to matter. I've seen it before. In mirrors, mostly. In the months before I hit bottom.
Tommy's going down a dark path, and I don't know if we can pull him back before he goes too far. I believe he'll come back because I have to. Because the alternative—that we'll lose him the way we've lost too many others—is unacceptable.
Music fills the room soon after—Julian's voice, Sonny's bass, Levi's drums. They sound good despite the absence. They sound hungry. They sound like they still have something to prove.
I just hope Tommy remembers he does too.