He shrugs, looking at his boots. “Yeah. But she planted roots before we met.”
”She said the air was growing on her. Maybe other things will too.”
TWO
HANNAH
Two days after I arrive, the barn is hot and filled with the sharp sound of curling irons. Sela spreads out Willa’s dress on a steamer rack, circling it and frowning at the bodice like the lace might attack her. I’m squeezed by the window, helping Willa pin her hair. Sela’s bobby pins keep my own auburn hair in a low bun.
“Three,” Willa says. She holds up her fingers, trembling a little. “Three hours until I sign a government form and become a Gamble forever. And I already miss my own name.”
“At least you can keep your email,” I say. “No point changing it everywhere now.”
She giggles. The nerves wash away for a second as she glances at Sela, who is now spritzing the hem with a water bottle and smoothing out invisible creases.
“Sela, it’s a prairie wedding, not a Vogue shoot,” I say.
Sela puts her hands on her hips. “Photos live online forever if anything’s off. Facebook, Pinterest—the works.”
Willa grabs my hand and squeezes. “Hannah, tell her it’s fine. You know what I like.”
“I do,” I say, and I mean it. We’ve been friends since our first day at Northwestern. We met in the middle of all that chaos, and life hasn’t really slowed down since.
I wander the barn while Sela fusses, touching the hand-tied bouquets in mason jars—sunflowers, purple verbena, and bits of Indian paintbrush. Sela’s always been easy to read. She likes people who are honest and direct, who’ll tell you if your eyeliner is smudged or your ex is no good. I used to wish I could keep people at a distance like she does, but I’m not made that way.
Willa’s mom sweeps in with a tray of scones—cheese and jalapeño, which she claims is the secret to a lasting marriage. She air-kisses everyone and tells us, “You girls should consider freezing your eggs. Even if you’re not thinking babies now.” She says it with all the assertiveness of someone who’s researched IVF success rates for fun.
Sela makes a face but doesn’t argue. She just smooths the skirt again.
My phone buzzes. There are two new voicemails from a client in Denver, both marked urgent. I feel a twinge of guilt, but I put my phone away. Today belongs to Willa. Work can wait for once.
Sela leans in. “I’d never live here. I looked for espresso and ended up at a coffee shop. Cotton—behind the counter—had no oat milk. I asked for almond milk. He told me to milk my own almonds.”
“Cotton Mercer is harmless,” Willa answers while curling her lashes. “His mom owns the coffee shop, and he’s probably helping her out so she can get her hair done in time for thewedding. Nothing wrong with a man who takes care of his mama.”
Sela almost smiles. “He should remind his mama that some people can’t do dairy.”
Willa’s voice goes soft from the makeup chair. “The stillness got me. I didn’t even know I was looking for it.”
She catches my eye in the mirror and holds it a beat too long.
“You’ll visit, though. For the holidays, at least?”
Her question sounds simple, but I know what she really means. She’s wondering if our friendship will last with the distance, if I’ll just fade into her past. I know because I’ve been avoiding the same thought. I say, “Of course,” but I don’t admit the truth: part of me doesn’t want to leave after three days. That surprises me.
I help Willa into her dress, holding out the sleeves for her shaky arms. The dress is simple, with no crystals or corset, just soft silk and tiny buttons down the back. Sela zips it up and steps back to check her work. We’re all holding our breath.
Willa spins slowly, the dress catching the sunlight in soft blurs. “So?” she asks.
“Perfect,” I say, and it’s true.
Just as the last word leaves my lips, a voice calls for me from outside. One of the farmhands needs help carrying beverage tubs; my shoes are flat enough to pitch in, so I promise Willa I'll be right back and duck out the side door, where the early sun is already blinding.
Rhett Calder is at the loading dock, twisting a bottle opener in his hand. He looks different than he did last night—button-down shirt instead of a tee, hair combed but still somehow wild. He loads the last of the sparkling waters into ice and wipes his hands on his jeans.
“Morning,” he says.
“Don’t you ever take a day off?” I ask.
