“I love you.” A grin appeared across my face.
“There she is.” She smiled back, taking a bite of her muffin. “While this bagel is bringing you an immense sense of joy, I figured I might ask…”
I laid the side eye on thick. “What?”
“Booker’s having a party this weekend.”
Her silence lingered.
“Go on…” I replied.
“He texted me, asking if I wanted to come, but I haven’t responded because I absolutely will not show up by myself.”
“Do you want to go?” I asked.
Her mouth fell open, but she looked like she was fumbling for words.
“Magnolia Nelson, are you trying to wrangle Booker Baker?”
“I mean, have you seen the man? He runs that ranch of his like a well-oiled machine. Coming into The Wheel every Friday in those Levi’s and dirty cowboy boots should be a sin.” Her palm flew to her mouth, trying to grasp the words that had just slipped out.
“Oh, my hell. You’re smitten,” I teased.
“I mean, yes and no. But—”
“But nothing. I’m in.”
She blinked a few times. “Wait, really?”
“Really,” I responded. My response was not in the least what I expected to come out, but I knew it was the right one. “You’re right. It’s probably time I reenter society. Wouldn’t want people to start to worry.”
“Well, that was easier than I expected it to be…” She paused. “I have a shift at The Wheel until seven on Saturday, then I’ll swing by and pick you up?”
“Perfect.” My eagerness was already starting to feel forced, but I couldn’t take it back now. “Speaking of, has Wilson said anything about me not being at the bar? I need to reach out to him.”
My savings from bartending had provided me with stability since the wedding, but it was dwindling fast and I needed to figure out my next move.
“He understands. Wants you to take your time. Said your job will always be there for you whenever you’re ready to come back.”
“Of course he did. That man is too pure.”
“That he is,” she said, collecting her keys from the coffee table. “Have you been writing?”
She must’ve thrown her keys down next to my leather-bound journal when she got here. Although, I wasn’t sure anyone besides her and me would’ve been able to identify it as that. The leather was warped in more places than one, with mysterious discoloration spots on it and various scratches from years of being taken everywhere with me.
Although, sometime after meeting Zane, it got tucked away, and little by little, it faded into the background of my life, rarely seeing the light of day. That was, until I stumbled upon it a few weeks ago and felt compelled to open it up again.
“I mean, I’m not sure you’d call it writing, but I’ve put some words on paper.”
“That’s something,” she said. She and I both knew that getting the words out of my head and onto the paper had always been my way of healing. “I know we’ll chat before, but I’ll see you around seven fifteen on Saturday night.”
“Okay, love you.”
“Love you.”
The door shut behind her and the realization of what I’d just agreed to came barreling into view. I leaned back on the couch, pressing my thumbs into my temples. I didn’t want to go, but I also didn’tnotwant to go.
On the one hand, I felt guilty. Guilty that despite not being the one to call off the wedding, I wasn’t nearly as heartbroken as I probably should’ve been. But then, on the other hand, the idea of finally re-entering society, especially at a party where everyone would be focused on other things, seemed like the perfect opportunity to start moving on.
