San Sequoia, Gilbert Gardens Neighborhood
Douglas Residence
Craig had never liked quiet houses, but lately he’d come to crave them.
His parents’ place was just shy of silent—muffled hums from a distant washing machine, the occasional bark from the neighbor’s dog, floorboards settling like old sighs. But it wasn’t the oppressive hush of a prison cell or the eerie stillness of detox. It was normal quiet. Domestic quiet. Healing quiet.
The walls now were white. Not sterile rehab white—he’d left enough of those behind—but the kind of blank slate in an eggshell off-white that meant new beginnings. His room at his parents’ house had sat untouched for years, a time capsule of varsity medals and forgotten teen memories. Now it smelled faintly of fresh paint, clean sheets, and tentative hope.
Craig stood shirtless, a stripe of white paint on his jaw from brushing against the edge of the ladder. He’d been patching the ceiling when his mom stepped into the doorway and froze.
“You’ve been at this all morning,” she said softly. “It’s looking good.”
Craig smiled, brushing hair from his forehead as he climbed down. “Feels nice. Like I’m undoing something.”
“Don’t climb too fast,” she said, raising a supporting hand to his back, voice thinner than usual. Her eyes shimmered.
He climbed down slowly, dust in his hair, brow damp. “You alright, mom?”
She nodded too quickly. “Don’t worry, not bad news for once. Just got off the phone with your sister. Juliette’s got engaged.”
Craig blinked. “Jules? To that Henfordian author boyfriend?”
His mom nodded again, laughing softly now. “Laurence, yes. They are already planning a spring ceremony, I think. There goes that hope that she might move back, or at least closer. Sounds like she is nesting abroad. As much I like having my kids closer, I prefer them happy. Even if that means moving far away. I mean, my daughter marrying a lord has a certain ring. Lady Juliette Ashford, I like the way that sounds. Wait, would she automatically be a lady if she married him?”
Craig set down the paint tray and leaned against the wall, absorbing it like static in his ribs.
“Sorry mom, I wouldn’t know. Maybe ask Chris, his dad’s cousin married into royalty. And lady or not, I’m happy for Jules,” he said, and meant it. “She deserves good things. I guess I better start getting to know my future brother-in-law better then. I honestly didn’t think that was something long-term. He’s so …” he paused, almost said ‘lame’ instead said “… tame.”
“Tame. Oh Craig … he’s an aristocrat. He can’t be loud and obnoxious. I find him cute. They will have very pretty babies.”
“Oh God, mom, Jules barely got that ring on her finger and you are shopping for nurseries. But since he’s a lord, maybe as a dowry he could pay off my debts.”
Laughing, his mom stepped closer, kissed his temple like she used to when he was 10 and had a rough time with something. Now at 22 it felt just as calming as it had then.
“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered. “Really see you. For a while there you were … gone. I wasn’t so sure you would ever come back. But you have. That makes your dad and me so happy, you will never understand how much, unless maybe one day you are a father yourself and feel as deeply for another person. I love hearing you crack your admittedly very unfunny jokes again. We’re not going to ask Laurie to pay off your mess, you little brat! Now, if he were to offer …” she winked.
And Craig smiled—small, real.
But later, after she’d gone back downstairs and the house grew quiet again, he sat on the edge of his bed, wiped a smudge of paint from his elbow, and let himself think about Sloane.
Her laugh at his worst moments. The way she said “You’ve got so much potential if you ever stop standing in your own way.” Then she’d walked away—straight into Cadence’s brother’s arms. He didn’t even blame her. Not anymore. It still hurt, but a little bit less every day. Everyone was right. If she could turn her back on him so easily, it was never meant to be.
He showered, changed, and returned to his room only to find himself staring at a half-open box of old things. The top layer was a mess of tangled earbuds and hospital bracelets, but beneath that was a photo—worn, bent at the corners.
Cayla.
Their wedding had lasted barely four months. He was 21, heart-shattered from Sloane, drunk on pain, anger, loneliness and grief. Cayla had been Chris’s friend. Sweet. Overlooked. Available. A reckless impulse disguised as commitment. He’d been heartbroken, spiteful, trying to prove to himself he was still wanted. He’d used the first girl who’d have him to prove a point. Reckless.
But the photo stopped him cold. She wasn’t just filler in that image—she was glowing, laughing like she hadn’t yet learned the disaster he was. And God, she was pretty. He wasn’t sure why he’d never noticed it before. Maybe because he hadn’t been looking. Or maybe because back then, he’d been so wrapped in his own damage he couldn’t see much of anything outside it.
More photos followed. Colorful prints of trips down memory lane. Cayla Collins—grinning, windswept, wearing a sundress and Converse, holding his hand like she believed in something. Like she believed in him.
And beneath the wedding photo were older snapshots he didn’t remember posing for: Cayla at Chris’s birthday party, Cayla at some beach bonfire, Cayla clapping to Chris playing guitar in someone’s garage, sitting next to Craig. She’d been around. A part of the noise. And he’d never really looked at her. Never seen her. He stared at a photo where Cayla had kissed his cheek for some birthday, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and he’d grimaced like it was humiliation. But looking now, she’d been golden in the light. And he? He looked like a stranger. Just some guy who resembled him. Like he hadn’t actually been there.
He’d been too hollow to hold anything at all. Even then. And the drugs that came later didn’t help. They made his shallowness worse. No wonder Sloane ran fast and far. He wouldn’t date the old him. Shocking he was able to keep friends for so long—then realizing it was probably Chris who had always been the glue. At some point Chris had decided he liked Craig and he was loyal to a fault.
The shame was sharp. Not because of the breakup—it was mutual, inevitable—but because he’d missed the entire point of her. She had offered connection. He’d taken all she offered and given her collapse in return.
His therapist’s words echoed: “Forgiveness isn’t permission—it’s clarity.” His therapist also always said the first forgiveness needed to land on himself. Only then he could make it right with others. But maybe—just maybe—he could start with her.
Craig grabbed his hoodie, keys and was halfway to the door before he saw it—that ridiculous enamel mug from rehab, sitting on the counter like it had something to say. Let’s talk when I’m human again. He sighed, walked over, and took it without thinking, slipping it into his hoodie pocket.
San Sequoia, Hopewell Hills Neighborhood
Collins Residence
Craig rode his bike through Hopewell Hills with burning thighs and a heart full of static. The famous red bridge behind him shimmered against the fading sun, the San Sequoia breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and wet concrete. It wasn’t romantic. It was sober. Bruisingly clear. The road tilted upward, unforgiving. Each pedal a reckoning. It felt less like travel and more like penance—an uphill battle in every sense.
Craig turned down the street he hadn’t seen in years—the one that led to the Collins residence. For a moment, he wondered if Cayla even still lived there. The last time he’d been inside was some high school party years ago, when he’d used the bathroom and never looked around. Most hangouts happened at Chris’s place anyway, and even during the brief “marriage,” he and Cayla had orbited separate worlds—separate campuses, separate lives. He knew she had graduated college, but didn’t know where she moved to. Then he spotted her car—familiar, worn, quietly reliable. She’d just parked and was hauling grocery bags from the trunk when she turned at the sound of his bike skidding to a careful stop.
Their eyes met.
He swung off the saddle and—almost too quickly—stepped forward. “Let me,” he said, reaching for the bags with a mix of instinct and guilt.
Cayla hesitated, blinking once before releasing them. Her silence pressed against his ribs.
“I wish I had some great opening now, but I didn’t plan this,” he said. “Well—I kind of did. I just didn’t think it through.”
She crossed her arms. “Craig…”
“Please, I just wanna talk. Just tell you a few things that I need you to hear—and I think you’ll want to hear them. I know I don’t deserve anything from you, but I hope you’ll give me a chance anyway.”
Her jaw tensed, but she didn’t look away.
“How athletic of you with the bike,” she said finally. “Still trying to impress with your stamina?”
She turned and walked toward the door—slow, unreadable. Craig followed, nerves tightening with every step. While she unlocked it, he felt like he was auditioning for the role of his life.
“Not really,” he said. “My muscles are begging for mercy. Lost my license, not allowed to reapply yet. And Uber’s not in my financial vocabulary at the moment. Also fallout from my dumbassery.”
She gave a soft, bitter chuckle but didn’t respond.
“Look, I don’t expect you to forgive me or let me in—or even talk to me again,” he continued, voice low. “I just needed to say a few truths. Ones I couldn’t say before.”
Cayla stepped inside, then turned in the doorway and hesitated.
The pause lasted just long enough to sting. Then, finally, she moved aside—shoulder barely brushing the doorframe, leaving enough space for him to enter.
“Fine,” she said. “You can come in. Just… don’t make me regret it.”
Craig stepped inside, sneakers squeaking faintly on hardwood. It was the furthest he’d ever been into Cayla’s house—past the porch, past the threshold of borrowed time—and suddenly he was standing in a space that had never included him. They’d never lived together. After the courthouse vows, they’d gone straight back to separate dorms, separate routines, separate silences that stretched too long between texts.
Her parents’ house was quiet, intentional. Every framed photo and carefully folded throw blanket marked a rhythm he’d never been part of. It felt unfair how familiar this all was to her. How removed he was from it.
He followed her into the kitchen, unsure if he was meant to keep pace or trail behind like a guest. He set the grocery bags down gently, like proof he could handle something without breaking it. The kitchen was neat, worn in—like real life had already happened here, and he’d missed the memo.
He reached into the bag, started to unpack, then paused. He didn’t know where anything went. It felt symbolic to him about his own life.
He stood there like a guest in a memory, unsure where to begin. Then, almost unconsciously, he pulled the enamel mug from his hoodie pocket and set it down beside the sink. Cayla noticed it—a white enamel mug, battered and unyielding, the kind rehab facilities buy in bulk because they won’t crack under heat or fists.
She reached for it without speaking, turning it in her hands. The words printed across it stared back: ‘Let’s talk when I’m human again’. Her thumb drifted across a dent near the handle.
“Is this from rehab?”
He nodded. “Detox, actually. That thing survived four days I barely did. My gift to you, in case you ever feel like talking to me again. I mean, really talking.”
Cayla didn’t look up. Just kept studying it, then slowly set it back down. “I appreciate the notion, but you keep the cup, as a reminder. But I still have that terrible apple-cinnamon tea you liked,” she said quietly. “Want me to fill that cup?”
“Yeah,” Craig said. “I’d like that.”
He rinsed the mug under warm water while she filled the kettle, the soft clatter of grocery bags being emptied then filling the air between them. He pulled things out and handed them to her, she put them away.
“I looked at our wedding photos earlier,” he said quietly.
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I looked at your smile, you looked so happy. And beautiful. And it hit me—I didn’t deserve you. Didn’t even try to.”
Cayla leaned against the counter. “No, you didn’t. You married me like I was an escape hatch. Not even as much as second choice. Just an … overreaction you regretted.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“And then you acted like I didn’t exist.”
Craig swallowed. “I wish I could say I didn’t mean to. But the truth is—I did. I just didn’t have the guts to own how broken I was.”
Silence. Not angry this time—more like a pause that might evolve.
He stepped closer, not invading, just honest. “I’m not asking for anything. Not another chance. Not redemption. I just want you to know… I see you now. I’m trying to make things right. And I never should’ve hurt you the way I did. I want you to know none of this was your fault. It’s all on me and I am finally in a place where I can own that.”
Cayla watched him, posture cautious, eyes searching.
“Look, I am to blame too. I should never have said yes when you suddenly asked me to marry you. I was stupid too. What did I think was going to happen? So, if you want forgiveness, you have it. Hopefully you can continue to heal. I know the drug thing was pretty new, but there was something wrong with you for a long time, Craig, and maybe you needed to fall before you could get better. I am happy for you that you are finally getting the help you needed. I just wish I hadn’t mistaken being convenient for being seen.”
“Me too. Just wish it could have happened a different way, without having to take everyone down with me.”
“Makes two of us.” She turned, poured the hot water into the cups.
Tea & Truth
The steam from Cayla’s green tea created little steam twirls as she sat across from Craig, hands wrapped around her mug like a shield.
He took a sip from his own—unsweetened apple-cinnamon flavored, barely touched—then set it down. His voice was low, hoarse from too many hard conversations and years of not having enough.
“If it makes you feel any better…” he started, eyes flicking to the rim of his mug, “I got punished. A hundred different ways for all the stuff I did wrong.”
Cayla didn’t react.
“Prison sucked. Rehab sucked worse. Got beat up twice. Almost OD’d again. Screwed up one of my lungs. Lost my license. Failed out of college. Lost my job. Created a mound of debt that will take me forever to pay off. Lost—everyone, pretty much. At least for a while.”
He glanced up, tried to force a grin that felt too shallow for the weight in his chest. “So, you know. Karma.”
Cayla was quiet. She tapped her fingernail once against the side of the mug.
“You really think seeing you miserable makes me feel better?” she said.
Craig hesitated. “I thought maybe. You are fully entitled to glee.”
“Well, it doesn’t.” She looked directly at him now. “Because even if the circumstances were messed up, my feelings for you were real. Say nothing, I know yours never were.”
Craig opened his mouth, shut it.
“Yeah, I had a crush on you since ninth grade,” she said. Her voice stayed steady—matter-of-fact, almost clinical. “You didn’t see me. Not really. Then Sloane dumped you and suddenly, you did. And for a second I thought maybe you’d finally gotten past all that. That maybe you saw me.”
She shrugged, like she wasn’t trying to make it hurt. “Obviously, that was stupid—wishful thinking. Teenage fantasy stuff. The kind that works in rom-coms, but only barely.”
Craig’s stomach dropped. He wanted to say ‘I see you now’, but even in his head it felt flat.
“We both made mistakes and have regrets,” she finished softly. Not bitter. Not theatrical. Just… honest.
And it gutted him.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But everything in his head felt like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.
Before he could find the words, the lock on the front door turned.
Isabella Collins stepped in, purse on her arm, keys jangling, phone pressed to her ear until she ended the call. She froze the moment she saw Craig on the couch. Her expression was composed—friendly, even—but her posture stiffened like a door snapping closed.
“Craig,” she said politely. “Now that’s a surprise. I was wondering whose bike was in the driveway.”
“Hey, Mrs. Collins,” he muttered, rising from the couch too fast, to shake her hand but changed his mind. Too awkward.
She glanced at Cayla—who stayed seated, unreadable—then moved past them toward the kitchen.
Craig didn’t need more cues.
“I should go,” he said quickly, grabbing his mug. “Thanks for the tea. And for listening.”
Cayla nodded once. Not cold. Not warm. Just… distant.
San Sequoia, Hopewell Hills Neighborhood
Cameron Residence
Ten minutes later, Craig was coasting up the incline toward the Cameron house, legs aching from the ride, throat raw from a conversation that hadn’t gone the way he wanted—but maybe the way he needed. Deep down, everyone is a dreamer and hopes for certain outcomes, no matter how outlandish. Craig was no exception.
Chris’s car was parked out front.
Craig knocked twice. Keira opened the door mid-phone call, waving him in with a distracted smile. She pointed up the stairs. Craig nodded and started the climb, muscles screaming.
Upstairs, he knocked.
A muffled “Yeah?” came from inside, followed by a thump and the shuffle of textbooks.
Chris sat cross-legged at his desk, surrounded by open review books and color-coded flashcards. His hoodie was wrinkled, and a half-eaten granola bar balanced on the edge of his laptop.
“Mr. Douglas himself, what an honor. You here and not in Hollywood?” he asked, flipping a page without looking up. “Dude, I wish you called, I can’t hang. I’ve got like three mock patients in my head, two oral exams to prep for, and a brain that’s leaking anatomy terms.”
Craig plopped onto the couch, trying to arrange his limbs into something chill.
“Juliette’s engaged,” he said. “To that limp biscuit Henfordian lord author dude.”
“Cool, congrats,” Chris muttered without looking up.
“I’m almost done redoing my room.”
“Even better,” he mumbled, flipping a flashcard. His tone said it all: this conversation was on borrowed time, and frankly, it should’ve been a text.
Craig leaned back. “I went to see Cayla.”
Chris’s head snapped up like someone hit a nerve with a tuning fork.
“Craaaaaig…”
“I know. I know, alright? But they tell you to make amends. This is me making amends.”
Chris narrowed his eyes.
“I really feel like crap about how I played her,” Craig said quietly. “She said something that just… stuck. Did you know she liked me? Like—really liked me. Since ninth grade?”
Chris let out a slow breath. “Craig… come on. Everyone knew that. Everyone except you, obviously. Why else do you think did she married your dumb ass when you finally acknowledged her existence after fifteen-some years? I have been dating Cadence for 2 years and change, but what do you think she would tell me if I hauled her off on a couple’s vacation and tried to slap a ball and chain on her without even telling our families? Put that in perspective.”
Craig winced.
Chris sat back, eyes narrowed like he was still measuring how much grace to give. “You’re still on thin ice with me about all things Cayla. Not to beat a dead horse here but you didn’t just elope with someone you hadn’t dated—you married one of my oldest friends and didn’t tell anyone. Not me. Not your own damn parents. I get that you were deep in it, but that doesn’t make it less reckless. It makes it worse. So, the topic of Cayla is still a sore subject with me, dude.”
Craig nodded, the motion tight and defensive.
“And yeah, I gave her hell for it too. She knew better. But I also knew how hard she fell for you. It was that kind of blind, hopeful love that hits early and sticks for too long.” He paused, voice softening. “We’ve all been there. Doesn’t make it less messy.”
Craig didn’t smile—but he didn’t look away either.
Chris shook his head. “So what now? You apologized and all is well again in Craig-land?”
“Well, yeah, but no,” Craig murmured. “Look, I looked at old pics, from the wedding and from back when we were all kids and I realized I never ever saw her. I think she is a cool girl and strangely pretty and I kinda want to … get to know her better.”
Chris closed his eyes, then slammed his hands against his face, shaking his head.
“Dude, you are killing me.”
He looked up at Craig, sternly.
“Listen, I’m glad you said your piece to her,” Chris said. “But let that be the end of it. Cayla’s quiet—she fades into the background without trying. You’re… the opposite. Loud, kinetic, hard to tune out. And yeah, opposites can attract, but you already ran that experiment.” He flipped a flashcard. “What ever happened to that girl from Strangerville? Jo?”
“Nothing happened with Jo. I like her – a lot. She’s nice enough to me, laughs at my dumb jokes, but I feel like I could vanish mid-sentence and I don’t think she’d notice. Cayla though, Cayla remembers stuff I said years ago. I think she gets me—or wants to.”
“Craig Matteo Douglas,” Chris groaned. “Stop. You are killing me, brother. Pick a team and stick it with! First you can’t hear anything but static over the Sloane drama, enter Cayla, exit Cayla, then everything is Jo, now we’re back at Cayla. Maybe we need to get your testosterone levels checked, you are worse than a cat in heat, my man.”
Craig opened his mouth to respond, but Chris’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, then sighed loudly. Looked up, deadpan. Craig smirked.
“It’s her, isn’t it? What did she say?”
Chris raised the phone like a prop. “She wrote: ‘Hey Chris, your friend Craig is the biggest douchebag I’ve ever met and—’” His smirk gave him away.
Craig lunged.
The two wrestled like they were sixteen again, shoving and grunting until Craig got the upper hand, twisted away, and read the screen aloud:
“Craig came by. Help me, please. I think I’m falling again. Talk me out of it before I do something stupid again.”
He froze. Stared. The message sat heavy between them, lit up like a wound.
“She said falling again,” he whispered.
Chris rubbed a hand down his face. “Dude…”
Craig looked up, stricken. “I thought it was over. I didn’t even … but she did offer me tea.”
Chris leaned back in his chair and exhaled.
“Since when does offering beverages to a guest have any double meaning? We do it all the time, Dad even invited the mailman in for a glass of cold water during the heat wave, and I don’t think he wants to date him. Tea doesn’t mean an invitation,” he said. “It just means she didn’t slam the door in your dumb face, like she maybe should have.”
Craig dropped the phone onto the couch like it burned.
“I didn’t think she’d feel anything for me anymore, not after … all that. I just… I wanted her to hear me out. That’s it.”
“She did. And now she’s spiraling. Good job, you want a cookie?” Chris looked like he wanted to be mad. But the fight had drained out of him.
Craig hunched forward, elbows on knees. “Maybe she’s like me. Trying to be better. And I’m just one more thing she doesn’t know how to handle.”
Chris nodded slowly. “Then at least don’t be another problem.”
Craig blinked, the words cutting clean.
“I mean it,” Chris said. “You said your piece. Good. Let her say hers in peace. Unless she reaches out directly—don’t text. Don’t show up. Let her choose. And if she does approach you for seconds, then so be it. That’s on her. I’ll stay out of that mess.”
Craig nodded. Quiet.
Chris glanced at his textbook. Flowcharts, dosage tables, cardiac rhythms—it used to mean precision. Now it felt like wallpaper behind Craig’s drama.
He snapped it shut.
“Forget it,” he muttered. “Studying’s out the window. I could spot atrial fibrillation in my sleep, but I can’t do it while you’re rehashing your ex-marriage like it’s a Netflix docuseries titled ‘Blink and You Missed It’.”
Chris stood, grabbed a folded tee and sweatpants off his dresser, tossed them at Craig.
“Text your parents, you’re crashing here. We’re ordering takeout, watching something brain-dead, and you’re not going to overanalyze that text like it’s Hamlet.”
Craig caught the clothing. “Can we at least order dumplings?”
“Obviously.” Chris was already out the door. “You coming?”
Craig grinned and jumped up, snatching Chris’s phone as he headed downstairs.
Netflix and … Emotional Debris
Craig shrugged from the couch, half-drowning in takeout cartons and dumpling wrappers.
“You’re the one who invited me to stay. So why won’t you answer my questions?”
“I said you’re crashing here,” Chris replied. “I didn’t sign up for heartbreak karaoke night. You heard me—that’s all I’ve got.”
He turned his attention back to Die Hard. A comfort classic. Bruce Willis, explosions, broken glass—something loud enough to drown Craig out.
Ten minutes in, Craig sighed loud enough to register.
“What if she really is falling again?”
Chris didn’t move.
Craig continued, relentless. “I mean, what if it’s not grief-echoes but real feelings? Like… new ones.”
“Watch the damn movie, dude.”
“I think I’m feeling something for her too. Something real. Unexpected. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not nothing.”
Chris hit pause.
Turned toward Craig slowly. “You wanna date a wallflower now?”
Craig blinked. “What?”
“Cayla’s always been quiet. Sweet. Supportive. A little invisible unless she’s trying not to be. You’re the opposite—like a viral TikTok. Loud, chaotic, three parts drama. You don’t date wallflowers.”
Craig frowned. “People change.”
“So what changed in you?” Chris asked. “Seriously. You’ve evolved, sure. But did your taste change too? Cayla’s my friend. I’m not throwing her to the wolves just because you’re test-driving emotional maturity.”
Craig didn’t answer. Before he could, the front door creaked open.
Keira entered first, followed by Connor—fresh off a shift, sleeves rolled, tie loose, takeout coffee in hand. It wasn’t unusual for them to carpool. Keira often flitted between home, her gallery, and the medical center all in one day, so it made sense. Plus, picking him up meant her husband didn’t vanish into endless overtime.
Connor scanned the scene: paused movie, food carnage, Craig slumped and haunted.
“Well this is a textbook study session,” he quipped.
“I was studying,” Chris said. “Then this guy shows up with a romantic autopsy. I’m troubleshooting his emotional carousel.”
Connor chuckled and stole the last potsticker off Chris’s plate.
“Jo from Strangerville?”
“Nope,” Chris said. “Our Craig-man here doesn’t feel seen enough by Jo now. Instead he’s contemplating dating Cayla. I almost said ‘again,’ but we skipped dating and fast-tracked to eloping last time.”
Connor paused mid-chew. Eyebrows shot up.
Keira blinked. “Wait—Cayla Cayla?”
Craig nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. Cayla Collins.”
“Nope—Cayla Douglas,” Chris corrected. “Far as I know she never changed her name back.”
Craig blinked. “She… didn’t?”
Craig glanced between them, like he’d misheard. She kept his name? Somehow that made him feel hot and tingly all over.
Connor shrugged, raised his brows. “Well, damn.”
Keira leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “Okay. Why?”
Craig sat up straighter, voice soft.
“Because… for the first time, I see her,” he said. “Not as a rebound or a regret. I don’t know why I didn’t before and why now. I just… do. And I really like what I see. She isn’t invisible. She’s deep. Kind. The kind of quiet that lingers. Her smile’s cautious—like she’s testing the air before trusting it. She tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous and acts like it’s nothing. And her freckles—God, her freckles. Like confetti scattered by sunlight. Her eyes are this soft chestnut after rain—warm and quietly mesmerizing. You wouldn’t notice them at first, but once you do, you can’t stop looking.”
Chris made puking sounds, followed by “Oh my God …”
Keira’s expression shifted, softened.
“Well,” she said. “I like that answer. Okay. I can mentally entertain this.”
Chris groaned. “Great. You’ve activated Mom’s romcom-mode. Poor dad.”
Connor grinned. “Yeah, poor all of us. She’ll start planning the next wedding for ya, Craig, if you keep pouring it on.”
Keira swatted at him, grinning.
Craig watched them. “I’m not trying to make anything happen. I just wanted her to know it wasn’t her fault. That I messed up. And if someday she wanted to try again—wanted to know me again—I’d show up different. Because I somehow see her differently now …”
Connor nodded. “That’s growth.”
Chris sat back down, reached for the remote. “Perfect. If Craig’s done growing then, can we go back to Bruce Willis walking barefoot through agony now?”
Craig shrugged. “I just had one more thought—”
Chris groaned and muted the TV again.
“Craig. If you say the word soulmate, I’m diagnosing you with romantic delusion and duct-tape you to a chair in a room with sports documentaries on loop for twenty-four hours straight.”
Keira laughed. Connor chimed in.
Craig held up his hands. “I wasn’t gonna. But okay. Okay. I’m done.”
Chris turned the movie back on, finally letting Bruce Willis carry the emotional labor.
Craig sat quietly—until five minutes later, when he whispered, “But what if—”
“NOPE!” the whole room shouted.
Chris sighed and shoved the Lo Mein box toward Craig without looking.
Keira, watching with tilted affection, murmured, “If she really is falling again… maybe this time, someone’s there to catch her right.”
Chris groaned “Mooooooom!”
Connor wiped his hands, voice even. “Just promise you’ll take it slow, Craig. Don’t chase redemption—earn it. Last thing you need is rush into new drama. Even keel, kid. You need to look at your future, not your past. And don’t try to drag things from the past into your future. If it happens organically, so be it, don’t be the driving force.”
Craig nodded, more grounded than before.
Chris glanced over. “Fine. You get a probationary green light. If Cayla approaches you, you have my blessing to react as you see fit. One douche move and you are on my shitlist shining brighter than any Christmas tree topper.”
Craig laughed under his breath. It wasn’t forgiveness. Or a push.
But it was permission.
Just enough.
San Sequoia, Gilbert Gardens Neighborhood
Douglas Residence
Early the next morning Craig coasted up the driveway, shoes thudding against the pavement as he hopped off the bike. His hoodie smelled faintly of dumplings and whatever laundry detergent Chris’ mom used on the bedding—probably something eucalyptus-based and clinical. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
The scent of warm toast and butter hung in the air. His parents sat across from each other at the table, reading separate parts of the newspaper like they were parsing state secrets. Carolina wore her soft robe, the one she always claimed made her feel “like a cloud with opinions.” Massimo was in workout gear, coffee in hand, tapping his finger along the edge of the mug like he was calculating jazz rhythms.
“Craig,” Carolina said warmly. “Good morning. Come eat.”
“Thanks mom, but I already ate at Chris’,” Craig muttered, then wandered toward the table, picked up his father’s mug, and downed the last of the coffee.
Massimo raised a brow. “If only you were offered breakfast.”
“I was,” Craig said, “just wanted some coffee with dad backwash in it. Yumm.”
Massimo grinned, stood, and grabbed a fresh mug from the cabinet.
Craig hesitated, then pulled the battered enamel cup from the pocket of his hoodie and set it gently beside the empty pot.
“I come prepared,” he said, like it was a joke—but not really.
Massimo blinked at it, then shook his head, amused and faintly curious.
“I’m not even gonna ask why you bring mugs to sleepovers at Chris’ now. Just quietly hope the Camerons didn’t run out of dishes,” he said. He rinsed it out without commentary, then filled it first, followed by his own and Craig’s mom’s. The coffee steamed quietly between them.
Craig picked up the warm enamel mug and wrapped his hands around it like he needed the grounding. The moment wasn’t big. But it mattered.
He slid into the chair. The table was warm, ordinary. But the moment felt anything but. Before his mom could ask the inevitable ‘how’s Chris doing with his finals?’ Craig spoke up.
“I went to see Cayla yesterday.”
It felt like earth paused.
“Cayla?” Carolina’s voice was quiet. But laced with alarm.
Massimo’s eyes narrowed, cautious.
“I didn’t plan on it,” Craig said quickly. “I wasn’t trying to stir things up. I just… I needed to say things. I needed her to hear me. Before you ask, it went pretty well.”
He glanced down at his fingers, then up.
“I went over to see Chris afterward, we talked, he looked about as thrilled as you both do now. But then he got a text from her. Said she thinks she’s falling again and begged him to talk her out of it.”
That got their full attention.
“And I kinda begged him not to talk her out of it. I told Chris everything that’s been going on in my head of late, about my choices, about Cayla and about how seeing her again, sober this time, hit totally different. And then I told Connor and Keira. And I asked what they thought. Connor said take it slow. Keira actually kind of liked how I see Cayla now and feels there is potential. And Chris—he was kinda lukewarm, didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no either.”
He looked directly at them.
“What do you two think? Be honest, because I am starting to think … things.”
Silence.
Then Carolina spoke first. “That girl loved you, Craig. And you hurt her. Quietly. Not with shouting or betrayal, but with the kind of silence that makes someone question their worth.”
Massimo nodded, but his voice was gentler. “You were hurting. We know that. She knows that. Chris knows that. But so was she. And I think you’re asking us for permission when what you really need is accountability. What do YOU want, son?”
“I don’t know yet, dad. I think a chance is what I want. To see how she and I do when I am really me.”
Carolina leaned forward. “Well, I am probably biased here, because I really liked her, as a person, as a daughter-in-law even though that never really played out the way a mother thinks of it, and I liked her for you. I liked Sloane too, but after everything I think her type could lead you down the wrong path again, with her partying and exuberance. I think you need someone quieter, grounding, to keep you level in future. A supporter, not a party girl who may end up exposing you to temptations and all it takes is one weak moment and you are back down the slope. So, if Cayla falls again, and if you really like her the way she deserves, you better be steady enough to catch her. Not because you’re lonely or wanna right a wrong you did to her. Not because you need forgiveness. But because you see her and treasure her. Every single day. As a girl, a person with feelings, opinions, thoughts.”
Massimo offered the final word.
“I agree with your mother. You told her you’d show up different this time. So put your money where your mouth is, kid. Long term. Or don’t do anything at all. THAT is your choice.”
Craig nodded slowly.
Then lifted the mug. “I’ll start by not stealing your coffee next time.”
Massimo smirked. “One step closer to redemption.”
A few days later
It was the end of a long, weird Tuesday. He’d just gotten off a call with a community college counselor, and his brain still hurt from phrases like transfer equivalency and credit forgiveness. Apparently, finishing his degree was doable, but the mountain ahead looked steep—and not exactly dirt-cheap. Still, he’d told the counselor he was ready. Said it like someone practicing adulthood in front of a mirror.
Then his phone lit up.
CAYLA MOBILE.
In his rush to grab it, the thing slipped, spun, and smacked face-down onto the carpet. The screen didn’t crack, but the call had ended. Missed.
Craig stared at the floor like it had betrayed him. Then scrambled to call her back.
She picked up quick.
“You just hung up on me?” she said, dry, cool—classic Cayla when she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or block you.
“No! God, no. I dropped my damn phone. Like—literally fumbled it. My coordination isn’t what it used to be. Sorry about that.”
He heard her inhale. Heard her not laugh but… soften. Just a little.
“Yeah, I’ve done that before. That tracks.”
“Still over here trying,” he added. Then, quieter: “I just got through talking to a college counselor. About finishing school. It’s kind of a mess.”
“You gonna do it? Go back and finish your degree?”
“I think so. Gotta talk to my parents about footing the bill and add it to the running tally of what I have to pay them back for before I can sign up. My life is great right now.”
There was a pause. Then the words he had been dying to hear, but honoring Chris wishes he had not approached Cayla. But now she made the first step.
“You free tonight?”
San Sequoia Downtown
They met at 6:30 at a café Cayla liked—quiet, warm lighting, no flyers about obscure music collectives cluttering the windows. Not trendy, but timeless. A place where conversation didn’t have to compete with espresso machines or curated playlists.
Craig was already there. Clean hoodie, unscuffed shoes, and a posture that said I’m trying. Not performative—just smaller than the version of himself she remembered. It made her pause a beat before opening the door.
No grand gestures when he saw her. No charm turned up to eleven. He looked nervous. That part was new—and grounding.
But then something shifted—just slightly—in his expression. Like he’d caught sunlight where he didn’t expect it.
She wasn’t overdressed. Just intentional. A soft gloss on her lips, earrings that caught the light, hair tucked in a way that framed her face gently rather than trying too hard. Her entire appearance—it was simple, but flattering in ways Craig had never bothered to notice before.
She looked… lovely. Not showstopping. Not “wow” like the girls he’d once chased for attention.
Just lovely in a way that made him feel stupid for never having really looked.
When she sat down, he didn’t launch into a monologue. He asked about her day. About this and that. Even her cat, which he used to forget existed.
“How’s Meowtini?” he said, stirring his coffee like it needed emotional support.
“Still hates everyone. Randomly attacked Seth this morning. My poor bro’s hand looks like it lost a bar fight. But she’s thriving.”
“At least someone is. I envy your cat.”
She laughed—just enough for her shoulders to drop half an inch.
The talk stayed light for a while—books, life in general, some podcast she couldn’t explain but liked anyway.
Then she leaned back in her chair, wrapped both hands around her mug, and just watched him.
Not flirtation. Not confrontation. Just quiet study.
It took him a moment to notice. When he did, he shifted in his seat, clearing his throat.
“What?”
“Can I not look at you?” she said, eyebrow raised. “I thought you thrived on girls staring at your awesomeness.”
“Used to,” he muttered. “Right now I feel like something under Chris’ microscope. One of those weird slides—maybe fungal. Definitely underqualified.”
She laughed again, and this time it reached her eyes. “Fungal is a bold choice.”
Craig cracked a smile. “I like to keep expectations low.”
Silence settled, not awkward but… aware.
Then she asked, like tossing a stone into still water: “What made you call the counselor?”
Craig looked down, thumb brushing the side of his cup.
“I need to do something with my life. I can’t get a job to save my life, not with my history and not even a degree. Plus, truth be told I didn’t want to be the guy who peaked in high school.”
“So this is… self-improvement?” she said, head tilted.
“It’s regret. And effort. And maybe realizing I was always the problem.”
That landed harder than he meant it to. She blinked. Looked away briefly, then back.
“You were always an enigma,” she said softly. “When we split, you said it wasn’t me. Just bad timing.”
“It was also bad habits. Mine.”
He didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t lean closer, didn’t reach. He just let it sit. Let silence make it real.
Then Cayla broke it—not with accusation, just clarity.
“You used to brag that you’d been with half of Westside before senior year,” she said, the corner of her mouth barely tugging. “But you didn’t know I hadn’t been with anyone. Still a virgin at 21. You didn’t know that our wedding night was… my first.”
Craig froze, breath catching.
She wasn’t looking for a reaction. Just stating fact, like letting go of a secret that had lingered too long.
“I didn’t tell you,” she continued. “Part because I was kind of ashamed. But also because back then I thought love made things sacred automatically. I thought you’d feel it somehow, that you’d just … know. And maybe then I’d be … special to you.”
He didn’t speak right away. Just blinked—slow, stunned—not because she’d been inexperienced, but because he realized he’d mishandled something quietly monumental.
“I didn’t know,” he said finally. “God. Cayla, I didn’t know.” And the twist of guilt that followed—the sharp kind that hollowed him out, that used to be his cue. Used to be where he’d reach for a bottle, a pill, whatever dulled the edges enough to fake peace.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he had to feel it. Own it. Sit across from the woman he’d bruised with ignorance and careless recklessness and be the version of himself who didn’t run anymore.
“You weren’t cruel about it,” she said. “Just … mechanical. “To me it was very special, to you it seemed routine. I was giving you something, and you just wanted to take the edge off—scratch an itch like so many times before. New territory for me, but for you, just another night. That stung. We were just too different. I wanted to feel connected. You were busy staying disconnected.”
That landed with more weight than any accusation ever could.
Craig exhaled. “I feel like I ruined something I didn’t even recognize was special.”
“You didn’t ruin it,” she said. “You just … missed it.”
Craig listened. Eyes steady. Hands still. Processing.
The conversation halted for a moment, then switched back to more commonplace topics.
By the end of the night, he walked her to her car.
“Wish I could drive you home and walk you to your door like a gentleman, but… well.”
“How did you get here?”
He motioned toward a bike stand. She smiled.
“Get your bike, toss it in the trunk. I’ll drive you home.”
Craig wanted to decline but wasn’t ready for goodbye. Twenty more minutes with her felt earned.
The drive was silent in a way that soothed. At his place, he unloaded the bike. Hovered a bit.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” she offered, as if to balance whatever this was.
They reached his steps. He hesitated with the keys, acknowledging how backwards this felt. She leaned against the railing, waiting. So, he spoke.
“Thanks. For calling. For tonight. For listening. For talking. Even though I have to admit… this is very different.”
“We’re both different now, Craig.”
“True.” He glanced at the keys in his hand, then looked up. “Can I see you again?”
She didn’t answer right away. Took in the question. The man. The flicker of uncertainty that hadn’t existed back then.
“I’ll let you know,” she said.
A pause. Then, quieter: “You’re not the only one who had to change. I had to grow up too and for better or worse, you helped me get there faster.”
He nodded. Didn’t push. Just smiled, something small and honest.
She leaned in, kissed him once. Light. Deliberate. Not nostalgic. Not romantic. Just a touch of now. A touch of hope.
He inhaled like the moment carried oxygen.
But when he moved to follow up, with a real kiss, one he could put everything he currently felt into, she pressed a hand to his chest and turned her head away—not dismissive, just a boundary.
“Slow, remember? Thanks for tonight. And for… trying. I like what I see, keep it up.”
He stepped back, trying not to let his disappointment show. “Right. Okay. Goodnight, Cayla.”
She moved toward her car. Just before climbing in, he called out “Is it true you kept my last name?”
She paused. Half turned. Let a smile skim her lips, and said nothing.
Just got in, started the engine, and drove off.
Craig stood on the porch in silence. Didn’t rush the lights. Didn’t grab his phone to tell Chris how it went. Just pressed two fingers to his lips.
Not to relive the kiss. To remember what it felt like to earn something. Something that somehow felt special. Something worth pursuing.
EchoesOfLegacy 