Page 111 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

The job. The town. The man.

The life I want for myself.

All of it.

“That’s a look,” Mell comments, glancing up from her phone. “What’s up?”

“I know. I know.”

“Know what?”

I don’t have to think. I know

Holding my breath, I let my lungs burn for a second as we drive past the center of town. There’s an energy already buzzing, palpable as soon as you hit the Knox County line, that grows the closer we get to Newton Field. Many of the decorations are already up for Rhythm and Brews, the town in full-on prep mode for the big event this weekend.

“You sure you want me to drop you at Newton and not Pour Decisions?” Mrs. Quinn asks as we round the town square. “Woulda thought you’d want to go home and crash.”

“Yeah,” I say with a nod, leaving it at that.

I love Mrs. Quinn; she’s like another mother to me. But she doesn’t need any additional details. She’s already more up to date than she should be, since she was driving as I word vomited to Mell about my fight with Brandt and my last-minute decision to join their trip to Texas. She even chimed in with her opinion here and there, which was to be expected. As was the extra “advice” she gave me on the way home since it was just her and me.

So no, she does not need to be brought up to speed on my plan now that we’re back in Hickory Hills.

Looking down at my phone, I click over to my texts, scrolling through my conversation with Willa once again, stopping at her most recent message from last night. I’ve read it about twenty times at this point and could probably recite it, but on the off chance it’s changed, I read it one more time.

Willa: Brandt will be at Newton all day setting up for R&B. You know, in case that’s where you start. Or avoid.

Willa Hayes is a mysterious animal, to say the least. One I’m glad is on my side.

First thing first though. I need to talk to Brandt. To his credit, he respected my wishes and didn’t call or text. He gave me the space I asked for. Only problem, so did Milo. Leaving me not only wondering what happened between the two of them, but where it leaves him and me. My heart has been in various states of broken, wondering what I’m going to be walking into.

Putting the car in Park, Mrs. Quinn reaches over and gives me a hug, telling me how grateful she is that I decided to join them. Despite my best efforts, it takes a full five minutes to escape, with promises that I won’t be a stranger now that Mell is gone, and that I’ll see her this weekend at the festival. I can see the tears in her eyes, and it breaks me up inside, since I know she’s trying her best to put on a brave face about going back to her empty nest. She enjoyed having Mell home his summer more than either of them are willing to admit.

Pushing through the crowds of townspeople busy with the setup of stages, booths, tents, and games, I make my way over to the tennis courts. When Rhythm and Brews first started in the 1970s, the tennis courts were chosen as the beer tent, since it was easiest to place all the drink vendors there. When Southern Brothers took over as the brew sponsor of the event, they made this their headquarters. However, as the festival has grown, so has the need for outposts. If I remember correctly, last year they were up to six total beer tents, including the main one.

Before I’m even through the tall, chain link fence, I can hear Brandt’s voice. He’s giving orders to someone about how far apart the tables should be so that the lines will flow properly and making sure that we have enough space for the kegs. I laugh, knowing that they have this down to a science at this point, and that whoever this volunteer is should know better than to think otherwise.

I stop, waiting for my brother to look over toward me. I don’t feel the need to interrupt. He’ll see me eventually.

“Just keep that in the corner; it’s an extra. We probably won’t need it, but it’s here on the off chance that—” Brandt spins, coming to an immediate halt as he sees me. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

He rushes toward me, closing the space between us in what feel like record time. Next thing I know his arms are around me, holding me against him tight, like I’m four years old all over again.

“I’m sorry, Bren. So, so sorry.”

I hug him back, tension releasing from me and into our embrace. Fuck, I missed him.

“For making it so I can’t breathe?” I quip.

“Oh, sorry.” He draws back, smiling from ear to ear. “Be right back, y’all!”

Slinging an arm around me, he leads me away from the courts. We dodge a large group of high school kids, and I sneak a glance at my phone, wondering if it’s late enough for them to be out of school already. When we make it to the well-worn track, we slow our pace, our shoes kicking up dust from the loop that is in much need of some TLC.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that.”