“We better get going,” Wren says. “We’re supposed to be meeting Grey and Finley in a few minutes.”
She leans in to give me a hug and I wrap an arm around her, too, breathing in the fruity scent of her. She smells like summer, familiar. Guilt nicks at me for feeling frustrated with her when I know that she’s just trying to look out for me, but it doesn’t completely erase the nagging sense of frustration I feel either. We need to talk. When we’re not surrounded by her kids or all of our neighbors in the local bar. But we’ve barely had any alone time in the four years since she started dating Holden, when she became a stepmom then got pregnant.
“I love you,” she whispers into my hair, and I say it back. She pulls back, looking me in the eye. “Call me, okay?”
I nod and promise I will, my chest still tight with all the emotions I can’t quite name.
I watch them disappear into the crowd for just a moment before turning back to Jack. The couple in front of us is finishing up, and we should be moving forward, but he’s standing still, eyes only on me.
“You good?” he asks.
I could tell him no, that I’m upset. Explain all the thoughts that have been filling my head. But he’s watching me so intently, looking for all the world like he wants only to make sure I’m alright. And for some reason, it helps. It burns away some of the sadness and frustration and longing that have been swirling inside of me, leaving behind only a pleasant warmth.
So I tell him, “Yeah, I’m okay.”
And I mean it.
Ihaven’tbeenableto stop watching Stevie since the phone call with her parents or the conversation with Wren. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could feel Stevie tensing beside me, sense the way whatever was being said had bothered her. I wondered if Wren saw it, too, if she cared. From what Stevie has told me about her, she’s a great person, and they are closer to sisters than friends. But I know from personal experience how siblings can hurt one another for good reasons.
And so I’ve kept my focus on her throughout the day, and I’ve told myself it’s just out of concern. I’m lying to myself, I know that. Iamconcerned, but I also like the way her hair looks in the waning sunlight and how her lips curl in the barest of smiles. I like the curve of muscle beneath her clothes and how she smells earthy and almost a little masculine, but it’s intoxicating nonetheless.
“I feel like I need to eat something with substance,” Stevie says, hours later. The sun has set, taking the warmth with it, leaving the air crisp but still comfortable beneath our layers.
Stevie’s nose is red above her paper cup of cider, steam billowing above it.
“I saw a booth for fried corn on the cob earlier,” I tell her.
She shoots me a sardonic look. “Not quite what I had in mind.”
“I doubt you’re going to find a salad here.”
We’ve made our way through town, stopping at booths selling homemade crafts and baked goods, and warmed up by the bonfire in the park. We wandered for too long in a corn maze, unable to find our way out. And we’ve eaten. A lot.
There hasn’t been a single nutritious option, unless you count the potato salad they were selling at a barbeque truck.
She huffs out a breath of air, and I can see it in the cold. “You’re right. I should probably just get a funnel cake.”
“That’s the attitude.”
Her eyes land on mine, pointed. “You still haven’t bought anything.”
She bought several items as we wandered around. A quilted coaster. A pumpkin scented beeswax candle. A vintage silver ring that she slipped onto her thumb.
“And I won’t,” I say. Not for the first time.
She juts out her bottom lip, and I can’t help but laugh. It feels like taking a shot of whiskey, warming me from the inside out.
“We’ve already discussed this. I only have as much stuff as will fit in my Jeep. I travel too much and don’t have a permanent address.”
Her shoulder bumps into mine. “You need something to remember your trip here.”
We’re walking slow, meandering through the crowd of people at a snail’s pace. Touching from shoulder to hip. It’s how, even in only the dim glow of the streetlights, I can still pick out the shades of green in her hazel eyes.
“I won’t forget this trip.” My voice is a scrape of sandpaper, and I wonder if she can read between the lines of what I’m not saying. I’m not sure I want her to.
She swallows, a thick bob of her throat, and I can’t help it. The way my eyes dip to her lips for just a moment before settling back on her eyes.
“Still,” she says. “You need something from Fontana Ridge to take with you when you leave.” Her eyes are soft, her smile even softer. There Re freckles beneath the redness on her cheeks. Light glowing beneath her irises. Streaks of gold in her dark hair.
