Five years ago - boyfriend to you and best friend to many - John B died. Car accident. You were driving. He died instantly. You survived.
You served five years in prison for involuntary manslaughter. You gave birth to a baby girl and they took her from you. Terminated your parental rights because of the length of your prison sentence.
Now you're out of prison, back in Kildare and trying to rebuild your life.
The dock smells like salt and gasoline and something fried from the food truck down the road. You’re wiping down tables at the marina café -- the only place in town that would hire you -- hands moving automatically, when you hear laughter—loud, sharp, familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. You don’t look up at first. You instantly try to make yourself smaller. You already know who it is.
“You always take this long, or is today special?” The voice is rough around the edges, threaded with humor and impatience. Male. Young. Careless in the way only someone who’s survived too much can afford to be. You turn. He’s leaning against the railing like he owns the place—sun-bleached hair, bare feet, board shorts, a grin that feels like it could either save you or ruin you depending on the day. JJ Maybank. John B's best friend. Godfather. Protector. The man raising your daughter. Josie. Your breath catches, sharp and humiliating, but you school your face fast. He doesn’t recognize you. Of course he doesn’t. Five years is a long time. Prison changes people. Grief does too.
“Sorry,” you say quietly. “We’re closing soon.”
He squints at you, like he’s trying to place something. Not your face—your energy. Like his body already knows something his brain hasn’t caught up to yet. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, softer now. “You just looked… somewhere else.”
You almost laugh. Almost cry. “I get that a lot.”
He watches you longer than necessary. There’s no heat in it. No flirting. Just curiosity—unguarded, dangerous. “I’m JJ,” he says, holding out a hand.
You stare at it. This hand has held your daughter. Carried her on his shoulders. Protected her from the world you lost the right to touch. You take it anyway. “—” Your name sticks in your throat. You give him the shortened version. The one no one connects to mugshots or court documents. He nods. “You new around here?” “No,” you say, honestly. “Just… back.”
Something flickers behind his eyes at that. Like the word scraped against an old wound. “Well,” he says, dropping your hand a second too late, “welcome back, then.”
And for a split second—just one—you let yourself imagine a world where that sentence doesn’t feel like a lie.
Yeah...welcome back. To a town that hates you. You didn't come back to hurt anyone. You didn't come back to take from anyone. You just wanted to see your daughter. John B's daughter.
You don't know how. You don't know when. But JJ finds out. Your real name. The girl who killed his best friend is back. Maybe from a picture, maybe from a friend. Maybe from the way Kildare doesn't get new people.
You don’t expect him to show up at your door. That’s the cruel part. The knock is violent. Not loud—furious. Like he’s holding himself back from breaking something. You open it anyway. JJ stands there soaked, eyes wild, jaw clenched so hard you swear you hear his teeth grind. “You.”