The coffee has gone cold. I dump it in the sink and grab my keys, desperate for something to do that doesn't involve sitting alone with my thoughts.
Molly Vance still lives in the same house she grew up in, three blocks from the high school where we used to skip fourth period together and smoke cigarettes behind the gym. She's married now, two kids, runs a pottery studio out of her garage. When I texted her last night asking if she wanted to get coffee, she responded in thirty seconds with an enthusiastic yes and three exclamation points.
We meet at the Daily Grind, a coffee shop that didn't exist when I lived here but has apparently become the town's unofficial living room. The walls are exposed brick, the tables mismatched, and every other person seems to know Molly by name.
"Gemma Holloway." She pulls me into a hug before I can brace for it, but it's quick and light and somehow doesn't triggerthe usual alarm bells. "God, it's good to see you. How long has it been?"
"Too long since we actually hung out?" I do the math in my head. "I saw you at Sarah's funeral, but that was?—"
"That doesn't count." Molly waves a hand. "You were in and out so fast I barely got to hug you. And you looked like a ghost even then." She slides into the chair across from me, studying my face with the frank assessment of someone who's known me since we were fourteen. "You don't look much better now, if I'm being honest."
"Gee, thanks."
"I'm your friend. I'm allowed to say it." She flags down the server and orders us both lattes without asking. "So. What happened? Last I heard, you were living in Seattle with some finance guy, and now you're back in Anchor Bay looking like you haven't slept in a month."
"The marriage ended." I wrap my hands around the water glass the server left behind. "That's the short version."
"And the long version?"
"Is longer than I want to get into before caffeine."
Molly accepts this with a nod, though I can see the curiosity burning behind her eyes. She was always good at reading when to dig and when to let things lie.
"Fair enough. We'll table the interrogation." She leans back in her chair. "So what are you doing with yourself? Please tell me you're not just sitting in Cole's house staring at the walls."
"I'm working at the Ironside, actually. Helping with the books, some bartending."
"Oh, the Brotherhood bar?" Molly's eyebrows rise. "That's quite a crew. All those big, brooding motorcycle men. How are you finding it?"
"It's fine. They've been welcoming." I keep my voice casual. "Cole's been there forever, so I guess I'm grandfathered in."
"Cole's great. They're all pretty great, actually. My husband did some electrical work for them last year when they renovated the back room." She takes a sip of the latte that's just arrived, watching me over the rim with a look I remember from high school. The one that meant she was about to say something she found very interesting. "So. Will Lawson. You two working closely together?"
My heart does something inconvenient at his name. "I'm doing the books. He's around. Why?"
"No reason." Her grin says otherwise. "It's just that he's been basically a monk since Sarah died. I mean completely off the market. Five years, Gemma. Five years and nobody has seen that man so much as glance at another woman." She leans closer. "But my husband was at the Ironside last week and he said Will couldn't stop watching you behind the bar."
Heat creeps up my neck. "He watches everyone. It's his bar."
"Uh huh." Molly's grin widens. "That's not what Danny said. He said it was different. Like he couldn't help it."
"Molly." I pick up my latte just to have something to hold. "I just got out of a marriage. The last thing I need is?—"
"I know, I know. I'm just saying." She holds up her hands in surrender, still smiling. "You knew them, right? Him and Sarah? They were together when you left."
"I knew them." The words come out quieter than I intend. "I used to watch them at Brotherhood events. The way he looked at her, like she was the only person in the room. I thought—" I stop, swallow. "I thought that's what love was supposed to look like."
Molly's expression softens. "And then you went out and found something different."
"Something that looked the same from the outside." I stare into my latte. "At first, anyway."
The silence stretches between us. Molly reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, and I let her.
"I'm sorry you went through that," she says.
"Yeah. Me too."
She doesn't push for more, and I'm grateful. Instead, she steers the conversation toward safer waters—her kids, her pottery, the new restaurant that opened on Main Street and closed three months later. By the time we part ways an hour later, I feel closer to normal than I have in months. Like a person who has friends and drinks coffee and talks about small things without a constant undercurrent of dread.
