“Those sorts of things never last. People get bored and move on to the next piece of gossip that’s put out there,” Mom insisted.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said weakly, acknowledging her attempt to dwindle the situation.
“And what about Stetson? Have you two talked?” she asked, clearly having no issue getting right to the point, because I knew my mom and I knew she was dying to know.
“We’ve talked. Briefly. Only about my article and his new album. I actually finished my piece about him and sent it off just as you two showed up.”
Her eyes told me she wanted to ask more, but her mouth never did.
“How do you feel about how the article turned out?” Dad questioned.
“Actually, I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. If anything, after everything is said and done, at least I poured my heart and soul into my words and let them speak for themselves. I’m proud to be able to showcase who Stetson Walker is and why I think the world owes it to him to give him another chance.”
“I can’t wait to read it. We’re so proud of you,” Mom said.
“We really couldn’t be prouder,” Dad added. “Now, why don’t you go put on some clothes other than the ones that you’ve been wearing for god knows how long and we’ll grab a bite to eat to celebrate. Say, The Wheel?”
“That sounds perfect. I didn’t have breakfast, I’m starving,” I said, trudging out of my blanket and into my bedroom.
After lunch, Dad started begging me to take him to Rolling Meadows for a quick ride.
“Scarlett, please. It’s been far too long since I had my ass in a saddle and felt the wind in my hair and the sun on my face.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m serious,” he pressed. “Florida is great, and pickleball really is as fun as they say, but sometimes your old man just needs to feel his country roots.”
I knew he wasn’t giving up until I gave in.
“Mom?” I shot a glance at her through the rearview mirror. Her only answer was a twisted smirk and a shrug of hershoulders. “Fine,” I agreed. “But I should probably let George know.”
“Since when do you tell George when you’re coming over for a ride?” Dad questioned.
I don’t.
It wasn’t George I was worried about.
“Yeah, you’re right.” I pretended to be unbothered as my thoughts invaded my head. “He’ll be so surprised to see you both.”
And he would be. I just hoped he’d be the only one who was surprised.
Dad rolled down the window of my Jeep. “Damn, I’ve missed this smell.”
The gravel under the tires signaled we weren’t far.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” We rolled to a stop, and I knew what Dad had spotted. “Never STOP trusting who you are,” he said, his voice wrangled with suggestion. “Ain’t that some words of wisdom we all need to live by. Someone really intellectual must’ve written that.”
“Oh yeah, black Sharpie on a beat-up old Stop sign really screams intellect,” I joked.
“Don’t underestimate a few words scribbled on some old metal. Those tend to outlive any fancy art you could buy,” he said, the tone of his voice more serious than before.
Although, he wasn’t wrong.
I tucked those words into a distant part of my brain as my eyes stuck to the property line like glue, patiently awaiting the barn to come into view. There it was, finally. And there was that souped-up black truck I’d become so familiar with.
“Dammit,” I muttered under my breath.
“Huh?” Dad asked.
