Page 99 of Falling Back to You

Chapter thirty-two

Noelle

I wasn’t a people person by nature, unless they were my people, but I was drowning in a loop of overthinking in the silence of the cottage. My brain kept replaying the parade when Cal publicly voiced his acceptance of me and our moment in the garage last night. I needed to focus on something else.

Something besides his smile and the way he carefully wrapped my hands and taught me to throw a proper punch.

Something besides the way he held me tenderly, the strength of his arms holding me together while I broke down.

Anything besides the overwhelming urge to let him hug me again. Maybe for forever.

So I’d driven to Donovan’s Downto’n in hopes the loud music and greasy-nacho aroma would distract me.

Downto’n was always a warm place. A community effort. I perched on the worn brown leather barstool and leaned against the live edge counter, watching the dance floor. The thrum of the bass speaker echoed through me while a half dozen couples line danced.

One particular couple caught my eye.

It was Cal’s teammate, Max, and judging by the lavender space buns, their PR girl, Bells. If the look on Max’s face was any indication, he was smitten. Bells, though . . . That was harder to tell. But I wasn’t in the mood to chat, so I kept my head down and decided not to meddle in their romantic affairs.

The sharp hiss of glass sliding across the counter cut into my thoughts, and a drink paused in front of me.

My head jerked up, and Marcel stood on the opposite side of the counter, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Coke with a squirt of lime,” he said simply.

“You remember?”

He huffed, crossing his tattooed arms over his faded grey tee and leather biker vest. “Any bartender worth his salt never forgets his favourite customers.” He nodded at me. “I heard a curly blonde Julia Roberts was sitting at my counter. Figured that could only be you.”

I laughed weakly. “Talk of the town lately. I’m pretty sure there are three threads on The Vine dedicated to the topic.”

“Four,” he deadpanned, lips twitching under his bushy beard, and I groaned. He tugged a rag from his apron pocket and started polishing a glass. “It’s hard coming home.”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered.

No one knew quite where Marcel had come from. In a small town, that was virtually unheard of. How the man managed to remain an enigma despite the fact he’d been in residence longer than I’d been alive was a mystery. One I’d like to learn.

“New York been good to you?” he asked gruffly.

How to answer that? I sipped the drink. Perfection. And it must have been the sugar because I found myself telling him about my job, my friends, the accident, and Nate.

Marcel rarely talked, but he was a good soul. He hummed or grunted at appropriate junctions but let me get it all out.

“Word of advice?” he said when I finished.

I shrugged, staring at my empty glass.

His grey eyes were serious as they locked on me. “Don’t let the regrets eat away your hope. We’ve all made mistakes.” He motioned vaguely around the room. “All of us. Don’t let them convince you otherwise. You messed up, but you owned it. You came to right the past. But don’t give the devil a toehold to tie you up in guilt. Don’t live in the past. Live in spite of it.”

“Like you do?” I asked softly.

Sadness and regret lingered at the corners of his eyes. “Gal, I’ve been paying for my sins longer than you’ve been breathing. I know a thing or two about atonement. But I also know about grace. Guilt is a prison; grace is a key. Make amends but move forward.”

“Thanks, Marcel.”

He tipped his head with a grunt, his allotment of conversation used up. The man never minced words. Or wasted them. If you got more than a nod from him, you were something special. (And yes, there was a dedicated thread on The Vine for Marcel’s levels of chattiness on any given day.)

It warmed my heart knowing he’d chosen to use them talking to me.