Page 16 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

sixteen

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Noah

I run because it clears my head.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I pound the pavement in near ninety-degree heat, sweating through a pair of shorts that lost their dignity—and waistband elasticity—two summers ago.

No music, no podcast—just me, my breath, and the dull thud of my feet on concrete.

A rhythm I can control. A rhythm that keeps me from overthinking.

Mostly.

My phone is strapped in my armband, vibrating like it wants to argue. It’s not even technically work hours, but apparently homicide waits for no man—and definitely not for one who’s trying to sweat his way through some emotional baggage.

Still, I don’t slow down.

I’m halfway through mile three when I realize I’ve somehow steered myself into Elle’s neighborhood.

Not intentional.

Not entirely unintentional, either.

Pink Peony Place.

A name so aggressively idyllic it makes my molars ache. This place hasn’t changed. Same matching mailboxes. Same HOA- regulated lawn lengths. Same perfectly manicured rosebushes and every front door has a welcome mat that feels vaguely passive-aggressive.

And there it is—our house. Her house.

I slow down, just a little. Not a full stop. Not a creep. Just a glance.

Her car’s not in the driveway.

It’s too early to take the kids to school. Did she change her mind about that guy and go to his house?

What did I expect?

That I could just pop up to the front door and knock? And we’d have some sort of ‘honey, I’m home’ situation play out?

I’m an idiot.

I pick up the pace and head for the large water feature in the center of the community.

I round the corner too fast, nearly colliding with a trio of aggressively power-walking women.

All three are in matching pastel athleisure and satellite-dish sized sunglasses, like some kind of suburban covert ops team.

From the looks of their velocity and synchronized steps, I’d put money on them having group text threads titled things like WINE BITCHES UNITE and HOT GIRL POWER WALK CLUB.

One of them lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a giggle. It cuts through the humid morning air like a car alarm.

“Oh my, Noah Grant, is that you?”

The voice alone makes my jaw tighten. High-pitched, sugar-soaked, and fake as hell. She sounds like she’s about to ask me if I’d like to join her “book” club where they don’t really read books, wink-wink.

Shit.

I try the classic jog-by nod. Doesn’t work. They swarm like heat-seeking missiles in pastel. Absolutely immune to personal boundaries.

“I didn’t realize you were back in town!” Book club squeals, clutching her water bottle like a microphone. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your… badge.”

Her gaze is nowhere near where my badge would be.

“Or his uniform apparently,” the second one adds, not even pretending to be subtle as she checks me out.

I offer a tight smile, the kind that says please don’t make me put you in a chokehold this early in the day. “Morning, ladies.”

“Oh, it’s definitely a good one now,” the third says, whipping out her phone like she’s about to livestream the encounter. “You know there’s a neighborhood social media page, right? You might want to check it later.”

Fanfuckingtastic.

A whole digital peanut gallery. Because what I really need right now is to trend on some neighborhood site under the hashtag #ThirstTrapDetective.

I flash them a keep-it-civil nod and break into a faster stride before they can start asking about my “relationship status” or “what really happened with Elle.” I can already picture the post:

NOAH GRANT SIGHTING

Followed by a blurry zoom-in of my abs and thirty-seven comments from women named Debbie. I should’ve worn a fucking shirt.

I clock another two miles before heading back toward the sad little hotel I currently call home. With sweat pouring down my back and my pulse somewhere in the range of cardiac arrest, I try to make peace with how badly that brief detour rattled me.

It wasn’t even a real interaction. Just a house. A car in a driveway. A quiet street and a trio of nosy moms with sharp eyes and louder opinions.

But my stomach’s still in knots.

Because every time I see that house, I think of her—barefoot on the porch, mug of coffee in her hand, hair up, eyes sleepy and sharp all at once.

I think of late-night arguments that turned into kisses.

Of laughter echoing down hallways. Of fights we didn’t know how to fix and things I should’ve said and didn’t.

I just have to remember, I’m here to win her back. To do it right this time. To take responsibility—for the way I pushed her away, for the way I never really showed up until it was too late.

I’m not here temporarily.

This isn’t a visit.

This is a start-over. A second chance.

And if she doesn’t want that—if she’s moved on, if the door is really closed—then fine. I’ll respect that.

That’s a lie.

Not only will I not respect it, but I’ll do everything in my power to destroy it. We belong together and if that’s slipped her mind somehow, then it’s up to me to remind her.

My phone buzzes again just as I reach the edge of the parking lot. Probably another call, another mess someone else made that I must clean up.

But this thing with Elle? That’s my mess. And I’m done running from it.