Chapter 21 - Donovan
Donovan
Me: Didn’t mean to start a war over a name. Hope the coffee was good.
The typing bubbles pop up. Then disappear. Again. Three times.
I drag my hands down my face, heart thudding in my throat.
Shit. She’s pissed. Of course, she’s pissed.
And it’s my fault. My fucking fault. I could’ve just told her right away who Chelsea was, but instead I snapped back, letting my anger run the show.
Now she thinks I’m hiding something—and I’m not.
Me: Hey brother, hope you’re enjoying my bike while I’m gone. Thinking about heading to the dealership. Could really use some speed therapy right now.
I power off my phone, toss it onto the couch with a dull thud, and grab my keys, the metal biting into my palm.
Anger and disappointment radiate off me like heat, my chest burning with every breath.
I’m so fucking stupid. One honest conversation could’ve saved us both.
But hearing her say it—hearing her believe I’d cheat—that was a gut punch I didn’t see coming, one that still knocks the air from my lungs.
She’s my whole damn world. And somehow, she still thinks so little of me.
The dealership’s in the next town over. The salesman tries to talk me into the latest, flashiest Harley on the lot. I don’t let him. I know exactly what I want.
I ride out of there on a matte black Honda Rebel 500—almost identical to the one I gave Mac. I pick up new gear on the way out: helmet, gloves, jacket, and boots.
Then I get on the bike and ride.
First, East, toward the Bay. Then south—letting the rumble under me, the wind presses hard against my chest, and the steady vibration through the bars bleeds out what words can’t.
Two hours later, my ass is numb, my hands ache, and my thoughts are only slightly quieter.
A sign appears ahead, weathered but welcoming:
Entering Devil’s Cove, North Carolina.
I pull off at a gas station just off the main road—a white clapboard building with blue shutters and a hand-painted sign that reads:
Last Stop.
Twinkle lights wrap the porch railing. Wind chimes sing above the door, their soft notes tangled with the faint smell of salt and coffee drifting on the breeze.
Inside, it’s bigger than it looks—clean, cozy, and packed with everything from chips to local honey. The back wall’s lined with beverage coolers, and tucked off to the side, a painted wooden sign reads: Last Stop Tavern.
I push the door open—and forget to breathe.
It leads to a wide, wrap-around porch with hanging swings and Adirondack chairs.
Down a few steps, there’s a small deck with weathered stools and an open-air bar that looks like it belongs at a beach wedding.
Locals sit with coffee or beer—depending on their mood—chatting over the creak of swings and the clink of bottles, like it’s just another slow day in paradise.
Stella would love this.
The guy behind the counter gives me a friendly nod, like I’ve been here a hundred times before.
“You just riding through, or staying a while?” he asks as he dries the mugs he just washed.
“Not sure yet,” I say, sliding onto a stool as the cool breeze kicks up off the water.
The smell of driftwood and citrus fills the air—not heavy, not overwhelming. Clean. Calming.
Behind the bar, an old corkboard catches my eye.
Blue flyers for poetry night at the local bookstore.
A “lost but maybe not missing” cat. Surf lessons, handwritten in red ink.
Scattered among them are faded Polaroids: barefoot brides, oceanfront vows, joy caught in still frames.
The edges curl and yellow with age, but the smiles stay bright, like the whole town has been pinning pieces of its heart here for years.
I glance out toward the water, and she’s there. Not really—but I see her anyway. A porch swing swaying, legs tucked under her, coffee mug in hand. Hair wild from the wind, cheeks pink from the cold. Smiling and laughing like she’s always belonged here. Like we both do.
After several Cokes and a long stretch of silence, I finally see it—the ocean doesn’t care who’s right. It just keeps moving. Endless. Unbothered.
But the waves... They aren’t just crashing. They’re rebuilding. The pull back, the surge forward, again and again.
Maybe that’s how we fix things. Not all at once. Not with one grand gesture. One tide at a time.
I make my way to the door. The guy behind the counter—Huxley, I’ve learned—tips his head and says, “Don’t be a stranger, ya hear?”
I don’t think I could be a stranger to this place again. Oddly enough, this is the most at home I’ve ever felt. And I can’t wait to bring Stella here.
The sun has already set as I ride back toward Virginia Bay. The air is cool, the hum of the engine steady as I lean into each curve like the road and I are having a quiet conversation.
I park the bike, making a mental note to pick up my car from the dealership tomorrow. Then I climb the three flights of stairs to my small apartment.
Inside, the silence hits first—thick and unmoving. The space is clean, familiar, and everything is where it should be. And yet it feels empty. It always has.
I kick off my riding boots and set my helmet and gloves on the counter. This place holds my stuff, but she is what holds me.
Stella is home.
The quiet presses in until I can’t take it anymore. I finally reach for my phone, thumb hovering over the button. I don’t even remember turning it off. But I know why I did.
When the screen lights up, the messages are stacked, one after another.
Mac: Onyx is a beauty, man. She’s so fun to ride. ?? wink emoji
Mac: You can take her out next time you come through.
Mac: Slate, it’s been hours since you texted. You haven’t even read my messages. You good?
Mac: I’m worried about you, man. Stella called me—she was a mess. I know you’re not cheating on that girl, so what the fuck is happening?
Then hers.
Stella: Mac told me you aren’t responding to texts, D. I apologize for everything. Please call me. Let’s talk about this.
Stella: Look, if you would rather not talk to me anymore, just tell me.
Finally, the voicemail.
I hit play, and her broken voice floods the room. Every word is devastation—her breath hitching, tears choking the edges of her sentences. “I don’t know how we went from making pancakes to not speaking. Please, baby, just talk to me.”
The silence after is worse than the message itself.
I drag my hands down my face, the weight of the phone like a brick in my palm.
I fucked up—plain and simple. I should’ve told her about Chelsea.
Should’ve stayed. Should’ve answered when she needed me most. My chest aches with it, sick and heavy, the kind of mistake you can’t take back.
I call Stella’s phone. It rings three times before someone picks up. I open my mouth, but I don’t get a word out.
“She’s in there, crumbling, Donovan!” Ansel’s voice is sharp, ragged, and shaking with fury. “Drowning herself just to get through the night—and you? You’re out here being a fucking coward, like she’s not breaking because of you.”
Her words slice through me, hot and merciless. In the background, I swear I hear it—Stella’s muffled sob, or maybe just silence thick enough to choke on.
Then it hits me. Faint at first, then rising—her voice belting out “Coffin.” Not the carefree, off-key singing I know, but cracked from crying, slurred just enough to wreck me.
I’ve heard her sing in the car a hundred times, windows down, laughter bubbling between lyrics.
But this isn’t that. This is broken glass where sunlight once shone.
“We’ll need a coffin handmade for two, ‘cause I love you to death.” I can hear it—tears and whiskey soaked into every note.
“Ansel, it’s not what you think. I’m not cheating on Stella. I am madly, fucking in love with that woman. Chelsea is the secretary for the football coaches. I asked her to help me get a ticket to fly out either Friday night or first thing Saturday morning.”
Ansel doesn’t say a word. On her end, the song starts over, Stella’s voice cracking on the first line.
“I wanted to surprise her, but Chelsea texted me once she got the message. Stella saw it and got mad. I should’ve told her what was happening, but once she started making accusations, I snapped. I let my anger run the show.”
I’m already moving—boots slamming the floor, jacket yanked from the chair, helmet in hand. I’ve wasted enough time.
“I’m on my way over now. Please, Ansel. She’s my world. I’m not okay without her. I can’t lose her—not again.”
The line goes quiet, but I don’t wait for an answer. I put on the helmet, straddle the bike, and gun the engine. The roar drowns out everything but the one thought pounding in my chest: get to Stella.