I stare at him. “How the hell have I known you my whole life and I’ve never known that?”
Boone’s eyes flick back toward the field. “It wasn’t exactly something I was proud of when I was young,” he says. “Nobody knew for a long time.”
I watch him, something soft unfurling in my chest. “I didn’t…”
He shakes his head, dismissing it. “I got it. Don’t worry.”
I nod, my throat feeling tighter than it should. “Okay. Thank you.”
I wave at Hudson before I turn to leave. He catches my eye from across the field and gives me a nod—barely perceptible, like it pains him to acknowledge me in public. He’s too cool to wave to his mom now. I shake my head with a smile as I turn toward my car.
By the time I get home, I’m already tugging my hair into a high ponytail, the muscles in my shoulders tight, like they know I need to run before I do. I rifle through my drawers, pulling out a pair of leggings and a sports brathat hasn’t seen the light of day in way too long. As I lace up my running shoes, I press my palms into my thighs and take a slow, steadying breath.
When was the last time I did this?
Really did this—let my body move, let myself just exist in motion instead of holding the weight of everything, all at once?
I step outside, and the air is thick with the scent of sun-warmed pavement, of cut grass and distant honeysuckle. The sky is baby blue, the last of the sun slipping lower, stretching golden light across the rooftops of town. I take off at a steady pace, feet hitting the pavement, arms pumping, muscles pulling tight and then releasing.
The tension in my chest eases, my breath finds its rhythm. The thing about running is that it’s predictable—one foot in front of the other, over and over, until you don’t have to think about it anymore. It’s the only thing that’s ever felt close to an escape.
I passMcKee’s Hardware, the sign still sun-faded, still hanging at a slight tilt. The door is propped open, and the faint jingle of the bell stirs something in me, pulling up a memory I hadn’t reached for in years.
I was fifteen, standing outside this very store, the summer heat melting my strawberry ice cream faster than I could eat it, sticky rivulets sliding down my wrist. Boone stood beside me, sunburnt and grinning, a quarter flicking effortlessly between his fingers like he was deciding our fate with a coin toss.
Heads, we take the long way home. Tails, we race to the creek.
It had landed on tails.
I remember sprinting through town, the laughter sharp in my chest, Boone just behind me, close enough that I could hear his breath, feel the heat of his body when he nearly caught me. He had grabbed my wrist at the last second, sending us both tumbling into the tall grass, my ice cream long forgotten, his dimples flashing when he landed on top of me.
Guess I win, he’d murmured, his breath warm against my cheek.
And then he’d leaned in, close enough that the scent of spearmint gum and sunscreen-covered skin filled my senses. Close enough that I could feel the curve of his smile just before his lips met mine.
Boone had always been a good kisser, even back then—slow and certain, like he knew exactly how to make me melt. Like he’d spent years memorizing every way to undo me. His hand would find my jaw, tilting my face just the way he wanted, deepening the kiss until my head was spinning, until I forgot anything existed outside of him.
I wonder if he still kisses like that.
I blink, shaking the memory away, my feet pounding harder against the pavement.
Then I passJoe’s Auto Repair, where Boone’s truck used to be practically a permanent resident, always in need of something because he drove it like he had a personal vendetta against the engine.
I think about hot, sticky days with my feet propped up on the dash, the warm air whipping through the open windows as Luke Bryan or Brooks & Dunn crackled through the old speakers. A cold, half-finished Diet Coke sat between us, passed back and forth like it belonged to neither of us and both of us at the same time. I would sing—loud, off-key, with zero shame—and Boone would laugh, shaking his head.
I’d whip toward him, indignant. “What’s so funny?”
He’d smirk, eyes still on the road. “You can’t sing for shit.”
I’d smack him hard in the shoulder, which only made him laugh harder. Then his hand would find mine, lacing our fingers together, his thumb grazing my knuckles. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love it, though.”
I push harder, my thighs burning, my breath coming faster now.
Why does he still have this effect on me?
Boone is back. Boone is good with Hudson. Boone makes me laugh in ways I forgot I could.
But Boone also left. He left Summit Springs. He leftme.
