Page 58 of What Remains of Grace

“Stop it.”

But Emmie only laughed, and Jenna pretended it didn’t rattle her every single time—even though it did. In ways she didn’t want to explore too closely.

And through all of it, Cole never once commented on how she looked.

He didn’t have to.

The way he paced himself to her, shifted to the street side of the trail when traffic picked up, and quietly handed her his extra water bottle without comment lodged under her ribs deeper than compliments would’ve.

She would be lying, though, if she said she didn’t long for them. After that, the invitations kept coming.

Piano night at Sunset Beach—

“You ever been?” he asked one afternoon, scribbling numbers on his clipboard.

When she said no, he just nodded toward the water. “Six thirty. Bring Emmie if she wants, or don’t.”

Emmie immediately told her that she didn’t need to bring her emotional-support teenager on a date.

“It’s not a date,” Jenna insisted while trying, and failing, to braid Emmie’s hair.

“Uh-huh,” Emmie smirked at her reflection. “Tell that to the man who carries extra water bottles just for you.”

Jenna flicked her ear. “He does not.”

“He does! I saw it yesterday. He literally brings the premium stuff for you and peels the label off like no one will notice. That’s love language behavior.”

“Premium water?” Jenna huffed out a laugh.

“Yes. ‘Potentially hazardous levels of microplastics for you, pure mountain spring water for Jenna,’” she said in her best imitation of Cole’s deep voice, and they both laughed.

Emmie did tag along that night, but with friends. Jenna showed up a little late, sand cool under her bare feet, the sky streaked with the last washed-out purples of dusk. A glossy black grand piano sat right on the sand, its legs braced for the uneven ground, lanterns scattered around it like fireflies. Someone played “Tiny Dancer,” the notes drifting over the crowd and out toward the water where the sun was dissolving into the horizon. People hummed along from their beach chairs, couples swayed barefoot, kids curled into towels.

Cole stood off to the side near one of the tall yellow flags, arms folded, expression loose in a way she’d mostly only seen around his crew.

When he noticed her, he didn’t wave her over or call attention, just tipped his chin, a small gesture that carved out a place beside him like he’d been saving it.

They didn’t talk about big things. They didn’t talk about grief or fear or whatever it meant that her heart sped up when his shoulder pressed into hers. They talked about Emmie’s latest obsession with iced coffee, about the way tourists always underestimated the power of the tide, and about which songs should be retired from all public pianos forever.

“‘Don’t Stop Believin’,’” Jenna said without hesitation.

He winced. “Strong opener.”

“‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”

“You just want to watch the world burn.”

“‘Piano Man.’”

He put a hand to his chest. “Low blow, Hart.”

She’d laughed, and he’d laughed with her, and the sound rolled out over the water as if it belonged there. When the sun finally dropped, and the beach shifted from color to gray, he checked his watch, squeezed her shoulder once in a quick, friendly gesture, and said, “We should get you two home before the no-see-ums put you on the buffet.”

Jenna had forgotten how vicious the little gnats could be at dusk, the way they swarmed your ankles and somehow found every inch of exposed skin.

As soon as the sky turned from dusk to full night, he was gone. Every time. It became a pattern.

First Friday downtown in Tarpon Springs was filled with music on the street, vendors lining the sidewalks, and kids running around, sticky-fingered, with shaved ice. He met her by the fountain, hands in his pockets while wearing a faded Tarpon Springs Spongers T-shirt that did unfair things to her concentration. They wandered the booths, shared a cone of garlic Parmesan fries, and argued good-naturedly about which bands were actually good versus just loud.