Chapter 1
Ethan’s knuckles whitened against the steering wheel as the “Welcome to Bayshore Cove” sign emerged from the morning mist. Ten years dissolved like smoke, and he was suddenly eighteen again, desperate to escape the suffocation of small-town expectations. Now he crawled back with his tail between his legs, a failed firefighter hauling the wreckage of his life in a U-Haul trailer.
“That’s the sign, buddy. We’re almost there.” His voice cracked from disuse after three hours of highway silence.
Jacob didn’t look up from his sketchbook, pencil moving in tight, controlled strokes. A nod—barely perceptible—was the only acknowledgment that he’d heard. Ethan swallowed the familiar knot of inadequacy that formed whenever he tried to reach across the growing chasm between them.
The truck rumbled past the town square, down streets with names his body remembered even as his mind struggled to place them. Morning painted the storefronts in soft amber light. A few early risers moved along the sidewalks—strangers now, though some of them had probably known him once.
Ethan checked the rearview mirror. “You hungry? We could stop somewhere for breakfast.”
Another shrug, this one accompanied by a mumbled, “Not really.”
Breakfast could wait. Jacob hadn’t wanted much of anything since the divorce papers hit the kitchen table six months ago. He picked at food, spoke only when necessary, and disappeared into his sketchbook like it was an escape hatch from a world that had betrayed him. Ethan understood the impulse all too well.
The truck rounded one final corner, and there it stood: the Cross family home, perched on the edge of town where forest began to claim more space than pavement. Two stories of faded blue clapboard, a wraparound porch with peeling paint, and a front yard that had surrendered to weeds in the years since his parents moved to Arizona.
Ethan eased into the cracked driveway and cut the engine. The sudden quiet hung heavy between them.
“So,” he said, tapping his fingers against the wheel, “this is it. Where I grew up.”
Jacob finally looked up. His eyes—deep brown like his mother’s—scanned the house with quiet assessment, taking in the crooked shutters and the missing slat in the porch railing.
“It’s… big,” Jacob said.
Relief washed through Ethan. Two syllables counted as a victory these days. “Yeah, bigger than our apartment.” Ethan caught himself. Not our apartment anymore. “Bigger than my old place, I mean.”
The distinction landed like a stone between them. Jacob returned to his drawing.
Ethan pushed open the door and stepped into the damp morning air. His boots crunched on gravel as he walked to the front of the truck, stretching muscles gone stiff from too many hours on the road. A breeze carried the scent of pine and wet earth, so different from the concrete and exhaust of his life in Portland. He filled his lungs with it, trying to find something familiar, something that said home.
Instead, he found only that peculiar ache of returning to a place you’d spent years trying to forget.
The porch steps creaked under his weight—the same loose third step that had betrayed curfew violations in high school. Ethan dug in his pocket for the key his mother had mailed, along with a terse note: It’s yours now. Do what you want with it. They hadn’t asked why he needed to come back. Some mercies were small but significant.
The door stuck and then surrendered with a groan. Dust motes swirled in the shafts of light cutting through grimy windows. The house smelled of disuse and faded memories—mothballs and old books and something else uniquely painful: the remnants of family dinners and Christmas mornings and homework at the kitchen table. A life built brick by brick, then abandoned.
Much like his marriage. Much like his career. Much like everything he’d ever built, then watched crumble between his fingers.
Ethan shook off the thought and moved through the living room, flipping light switches that yielded nothing. The electricity wouldn’t be turned on until later today. The furniture stood like museum exhibits beneath yellowed sheets—his mother’s precious antiques, deemed too fragile for desert living. Half-empty bookshelves lined one wall. A clock hung silent, its hands frozen at 3:42.
He pushed open the kitchen curtains, coughing at the dust that billowed from the fabric. The room revealed itself in gradual detail: faded linoleum, outdated appliances, empty cabinets with doors ajar. The breakfast nook where his father had read the newspaper every Sunday morning for thirty years. The counter where his mother had kneaded bread, her strong hands working the dough with practiced efficiency.
A hollow space opened beneath his ribs.
The sound of car doors slamming outside pulled him back. Jacob stood in the driveway, backpack slung over one shoulder, staring up at the unlit porch light.
“Light’s broken,” Ethan called, moving back toward the front door. “I’ll fix it.”
Another item for the endless list of repairs. Another promise he’d try to keep.
Jacob trudged up the steps, keeping a careful distance as he edged past Ethan into the house. He paused in the living room, taking in the shrouded furniture and dust-covered surfaces.
“It’s just temporary,” Ethan assured him quickly. “Until I get things figured out.”
Jacob’s shoulders tensed beneath his too-big hoodie. The words “temporary” and “figured out” had lost meaning over the last six months of upheaval. Everything in their lives had become provisional, uncertain.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Let’s check out your room. It used to be mine, actually.”
He led the way upstairs, testing each step before fully committing his weight. The house had stood empty for almost two years—plenty of time for wood to warp, for minor problems to become major ones. The second floor hallway stretched before them, doors closed like sealed time capsules.
Ethan opened the first door on the right. “Here we go.”
The room looked smaller than he remembered. Navy blue walls his mother had never repainted. A twin bed with a stripped mattress. Empty shelves where his trophies had once displayed his achievements. The closet door with height measurements penciled along the frame, stopping abruptly at sixteen.
Jacob stepped inside, set his backpack down, and stood with his hands in his pockets.
“We can paint it whatever color you want,” Ethan offered. “Get some new furniture.”
“It’s fine,” Jacob said, moving to the window. He looked out at the backyard where an ancient oak tree held the skeletal remains of a treehouse. His finger traced something on the sill—initials carved into the wood. EC was still visible beneath years of paint.
“I did that when I was about your age,” Ethan said, moving closer but stopping short of touching his son’s shoulder. “Got in huge trouble.”
Jacob’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Mom would’ve grounded me for a year.”
The mention of Lisa hung in the air between them. Jacob’s quiet assessment wasn’t wrong; his ex-wife ran a tight ship, rules clear and consequences certain. Ethan had been the one who slipped Jacob extra dessert, who extended bedtime on school nights, who said yes when Lisa said no. The fun parent. The irresponsible one.
A role he couldn’t play anymore. Not when he was all Jacob had for the next year.
“Listen, Jake,” Ethan began, then faltered. What could he possibly say that would matter? I’m sorry I ruined everything? I’m sorry your mom needed space? I’m sorry I couldn’t be what either of you needed?
Jacob’s expression closed again. “Can I unpack my stuff?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Ethan backed toward the door. “I’ll get the boxes from the truck.”
Outside, he leaned against the U-Haul and pulled in a deep breath. Three hours in town, and he was already drowning. He’d thought—hoped—that coming back would be a reset. A chance to build something solid after watching his life in Portland collapse. The divorce. The suspension from the department. The mandatory counseling that had scraped him hollow.
He’d imagined a fresh start, not this suffocating sense of stepping backward in time while carrying the weight of a decade’s worth of failures.
Ethan yanked open the trailer and stared at the stacked boxes—their life reduced to cardboard containers labeled in his hurried scrawl. Kitchen. Bedroom. Jacob’s stuff. He grabbed the closest one and headed back inside, moving on autopilot.
In the kitchen, he set the box on the counter and tore it open. Dishes wrapped in newspaper. A coffee maker. The box of cereal Jacob had been eating the morning everything fell apart. Ethan’s stomach twisted. He should have thrown that out.
The sound of footsteps on the porch drew his attention. Through the window, he saw a middle-aged woman with a covered dish in her hands. Mrs. Sullivan—his parents’ former next-door neighbor. Her hair had gone completely gray, but her determined walk was unmistakable.
Ethan wiped his palms on his jeans and opened the door before she could knock.
“Ethan Cross.” Her smile transformed her face, erasing years. “So the rumors are true. You’re back.”
“News travels fast,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Small town.” She shrugged, holding out the dish. “Chicken casserole. Figured you and your boy might be hungry after the drive.”
The kindness hit him like a physical blow. “Thanks. That’s… thank you.”
“Your mama called, said you might need looking in on.”
Of course she had. His mother’s network of informants remained intact despite the geographic distance. “We’re okay. Just getting settled.”
Mrs. Sullivan peered past him into the dusty interior. “Place needs a woman’s touch, that’s for sure.” Her expression softened. “Heard about your divorce. Terrible shame.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Jake’s upstairs unpacking.”
She caught the deflection and nodded. “Well, let him know I’ve got chocolate chip cookies with his name on them whenever he wants to come by. And the community center’s looking for volunteers for the rebuilding project. Good way to meet people, if you’re interested.”
“Maybe,” Ethan said, though the thought of small talk and curious stares made his skin crawl. “Thanks for the food.”
After she left, Ethan carried the casserole to the kitchen. No electricity meant no microwave, but they could eat it cold. He set it on the counter beside a stack of paper plates he’d packed for their first night.
“Jake,” he called up the stairs. “Food’s here, if you’re hungry.”
No response. Ethan sighed and climbed the steps, finding Jacob’s door closed. He knocked softly.
“Hey. Got some dinner. Lady next door brought it over.”
“Not hungry,” came the muffled reply.
Ethan rested his forehead against the door. “You need to eat something. We’ve been on the road all day.”
Silence stretched between them. Then: “I’ll come down later.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
Ethan withdrew, recognizing the need for space. He’d been the same at that age—retreating into himself when emotions became too complicated to navigate. Like father, like son. The thought wasn’t reassuring.
Back downstairs, he continued unpacking, working methodically through box after box, building order from chaos. The physical labor helped quiet his mind, gave his hands purpose. He made the living room habitable first, uncovering furniture and wiping down surfaces. Found sheets for their beds and towels for the bathroom. Located the box with Jacob’s favorite video games and set up the console on the ancient television.
Small gestures. Inadequate, but all he had to offer.
As afternoon slid toward evening, a metallic thunk announced the electricity coming on. Lights flickered to life, and the refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. One small victory.
Ethan stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by half-empty boxes and the ghosts of his childhood. Through the window, he could see the town lights beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk. Bayshore Cove, waking up for the night.
He’d left at eighteen, certain the town had nothing to offer but limitation and judgment. Now he was back, hat in hand, hoping it might offer him something else: redemption. Forgiveness. A chance to rebuild not just a home, but a relationship with his son. A new beginning, even if it sprouted from scorched earth.
The sound of Jacob’s door opening broke through his thoughts. Footsteps on the stairs, hesitant but coming closer. Ethan straightened, brushed dust from his shirt.
His son appeared in the doorway, sketchbook clutched against his chest like armor. Ten years old and already carrying burdens no child should bear. Ethan’s chest ached with the need to protect him, to fix what was broken between them.
“The casserole still on the counter?” Jacob asked, voice small but present.
“Yeah.” Ethan nodded. “Should be. You want some?”
Jacob nodded, and Ethan followed him into the kitchen. They moved around each other awkwardly, two planets in uncertain orbit. Ethan found forks in a drawer, served two portions onto paper plates. They sat at the kitchen table without speaking, the only sound the scrape of plastic forks against plates.
“It’s good,” Jacob mumbled, breaking the silence.
“Yeah. Better cold than I expected.”
Jacob pushed food around his plate. “Mom called. While you were outside.”
Ethan set down his fork. “Everything okay?”
“She wanted to make sure we got here.” Jacob kept his eyes on his plate. “Asked if I liked the house.”
“What did you tell her?”
Jacob shrugged. “That it’s okay. Different.”
“Different could be good,” Ethan ventured.
“Could be,” Jacob agreed quietly, though his tone suggested otherwise.
After dinner, they retreated to separate corners of the house—Jacob back upstairs, Ethan to the porch with a beer he didn’t really want but drank anyway. The night air carried the scent of woodsmoke and something floral from Mrs. Sullivan’s garden. Crickets pulsed in the darkness, a rhythm he’d forgotten existed.
The broken porch light cast erratic shadows as it flickered. Tomorrow he’d replace the bulb. Tomorrow he’d clear the yard. Tomorrow he’d figure out how to talk to his son without feeling like each word might shatter something fragile.
Tomorrow stretched before him, a road as uncertain as the one that had led them here.
But tonight, they were under the same roof. Jacob had come downstairs for dinner. Had spoken more than two words at a time. Small victories, but Ethan clung to them with desperate hope.
He tilted his face up to the stars—brighter here than in the city, a canopy of light against infinite darkness. Somewhere in that vastness, there had to be answers. A path forward. A way to heal what had been broken.
Ethan Cross might be a failure as a husband. Might have screwed up his career. Might have returned to Bayshore Cove with nothing but regret and uncertainty.
But he was still Jacob’s father. And this time—this last chance—he wouldn’t fail.
That much, at least, he promised the stars.