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Worst case scenario, I can delete them. Best case, I’ll have some hot images to remember a fun, crazy night with my new friends.
This is definitely one of those experiences Mom is always telling me I need to have. But this one is just mine. Not the blog’s, not for my followers. But for me to pull out of my memory bank when I’m old and gray and smile at the wild child I was, if only for one second.
When I feel like I’ve got the shot, I pull fresh clothes on and open the door. Excited eyes meet mine. “That was terrifying,” I gush. “I’m so glad I did it.”
Suddenly, we’re all hugging, bonded through some strange thread of friendship forged under unusual circumstances.
“Finally,” Shayanne huffs. “I’m a hugger, but Bobby put the fear of Baarbara in me if I didn’t let you hug me first.”
“It’s okay, I’m a hugger too. Everybody needs hugs, and every day needs hugs.”
Shayanne smiles, and I can tell she likes Mom’s theory.
“Not to break this up, but . . . I gotta go,” Katelyn suddenly says, holding up her phone.
I can see the screen where she sent a close-up of her cleavage, just an extreme close-up of the line between her breasts. Out of context of this evening, you might not even know what it is. Beneath the picture is a reply that simply says, Home. Now.
Everyone laughs, but Katelyn is nearly bolting for the door as she shoves her makeup into her purse. “Anybody riding home with me had better get in the truck. Mark’s waiting on me.”
“It’s fine. Hurry home like a good wifey,” Shayanne teases her, her laughter growing at Katelyn’s whirlwind exit. To me, she rolls her eyes. “You get used to them.”
Confused, I ask, “What do you mean?”
The grins tell me there’s a lot more to this story. “Well, some folks think Mark is bossy. And that’s true for sure, but it’s definitely something she enjoys. She sent that picture on purpose because she knows how to push his buttons just right.”
“Oh.” I have no response, my brain blank. After a second . . . “Oh!”
The women laugh, and shortly thereafter, we wrap up the evening.
“I’ll go through the images and send them to you. Tonight was . . . fun.”
It’s the lamest description, but it’s all I can come up with because I truly had a good time tonight with them. I felt accepted, welcomed, a part of something bigger than myself.
And it did keep me distracted for the evening from the one thing I thought I’d be thinking about nonstop . . . how Bobby’s meeting is going.
I consider sending him a text, maybe a sexy selfie like Katelyn did, and even go so far as to pick up my phone. But instead of opening the camera, I open my photo files and find that the last two shots are of me sleeping blissfully. Bobby must’ve taken these, I realize with a smile. I look . . . happy, worn out from our lovemaking, and smiling even in sleep.
I flip through my last several shots, finding several of Bobby—him on stage, him driving his truck and singing with the radio, him against a backdrop of green trees.
After a few minutes, I do open my camera and take a close-up, off-centered shot of my smile.
Click.
I post it to my blog with a caption that reads, Happy. I found home.
I fall asleep before the first heart or comment comes in.
Chapter 19
Willow
“He’s going to be here any minute. Get that table set, boys.” Mama Louise’s instructions are nothing to argue with, and Mark and Luke hustle a little faster around the table with the glasses and silverware.
“The sign’s crooked on the right. Cooper?” I’m not sure how she expects the little boy to fix the sign that’s hanging three feet above his head, but like the rest of the guys, he’s on it. He pushes a stool over, climbs up, and makes the needed adjustments.
“Better?” he asks, looking for approval.
Mama Louise looks over her shoulder. “Perfect. Good job problem solving.” I see her smile as she returns to her cooking.
She’s amazing, in charge of everything and everyone without breaking a sweat. She’s sweet and kind, warm and welcoming, but I get the sense that she’d beat you at your own game if you tried to pull one over on her.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, having finished my assigned job of slathering butter on the biscuit tops and sliding them into the pre-heated oven.
Mama Louise scans the room, looking for something, and gives me a new job. “Stand over here by me and help me with this chicken. This bowl is the egg wash.”
I listen to her intently, not wanting to get a single thing wrong. After several minutes, I realize that everyone else is watching her closely too.
