RHETT
Everyone bitches about growing up in a small town.
They say it suffocates you, boxes you in, kills all creativity.
Never allows for growth.
Cedarbrook has less than two thousand people—just a bunch of quiet streets with a handful of working red lights.
But I’ve never experienced the suffocating feeling everyone talks about.
I crave that closeness. The way eyes track you from porch swings as you drive by in your pickup truck. How everyone knows your family, accomplishments, even your scandals. You can’t vanish here. You can’t pretend to be someone you aren’t.
But when your truck dies on a country road, someone is there, pulling over before you can even dial for help. No questions asked, just some bitching at you to hold the light while they fix it.
That’s Cedarbrook.
That’s my home.
Thornwood Ranch lies at the town’s edge—acres of pastureland that have been in the family for generations. In the distance, there’s the pale outline of Cedarbrook’s water tower,with its bold white letters, and beyond it, is the faint spire from the church in a town where everyone knows everything.
I dress in the half-light, pulling on a clean white T-shirt and a plaid button-down, tucking them in tight to my jeans. Then I run a comb through my blond hair, taming it into obedient strands.
Before leaving my room, I grab my Stetson from the peg by the door and settle it on my head. The worn leather brim instantly straightens my posture. The hat belonged to Grandpa, and I rarely ever take it off.
The house is quiet, save for the faint sounds of movement in the kitchen. Framed photographs line the staircase wall—my dad, Eli Thornwood, in his mid twenties, grinning beside Uncle Luke and Grandpa Ben decades ago. Another one, where grandpa is shaking hands with the mayor at a town ceremony; and one of me at seventeen, holding a trophy at the baseball state championship.
In the kitchen, Mom stands at the stove in jeans and a crisp blouse, stirring a pot of oatmeal. Her phone is in her other hand, thumb scrolling. Grandpa sits at the table, nursing a cup of coffee, the morning newspaper lying untouched beside him. The rich scent of coffee and nutmeg hangs in the warm summer air.
“Morning,” I greet softly, my voice still rough from sleep.
Mom turns, her face brightening. “Morning, sweetheart. Up early as usual?”
Grandpa gives an approving grunt. “Beat the sun up again, did ya?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, grabbing a mug and pouring coffee. “Sun won’t catch me napping.”
“That’s my boy,” Grandpa says.
Mom holds up her phone, a slight crease between her brows. “Rhett, have you checked the Cedarbrook Community page this morning?”
“Not yet. Something happen?” I ask, bracing myself as I sip my coffee.
She sighs, tapping the screen. “Mrs. Potts posted photos from last night’s cookout. There’s one of you and Molly.”
She hands me the phone, and sure enough, on the screen, is a picture of me, standing beside Molly, by the fire’s glow. She’s looking up at me, smiling, and I’m … Well, I look like I’m posing for the camera, arm barely around her waist.
“You could look a little happier,” Mom says gently. “And stand closer to her, for goodness’ sake. She’s your girlfriend. People notice these things.”
I hand the phone back, forcing an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry, Mom. I was probably just tired.”
Molly Whitmore has been my girlfriend for three months now. She’s kind and pretty—exactly the kind of girl everyone expects me to date. I took her to the cookout because that’s what I’m supposed to do: show up with the sweet girl on my arm.
She leaned into me that night, head on my shoulder, as we talked to other people our age, and I stiffened up like a fence post. I tried to relax, be the boyfriend she deserves, but every nerve in my body was locked. It always happens when I get that close to her.
Mom gives a content nod, satisfied with my answer. “Alright, just keep it in mind. Girls like to feel wanted.”
“They sure do,” Grandpa interjects wryly.
