Page 102 of Sundown Somewhere

Sighing, Aunt Hattie rolls her eyes. “A lady does not flaunt her rebound.”

A sharp nod of her head and an even sharper turn on her heel and she’s off again, ending the conversation.

“He’s not a rebound,” I say.

Only my voice isn’t as loud as it was before, barely reaching a few inches in front of me, much less all the way to the crowd she’s getting lost in. As if my own vocal cords don’t believe me when I say it. Don’t have the conviction to fight.

Hux Hayes isn’t a rebound. He’s endgame. My endgame.

Question is—am I his?

26

HUX

“Here you go, Mrs. Phillips,” I say, stepping around Pongo and handing her the plate of food.

The fire department pup looks up at me expectantly, and for a split second I wonder if I should have snuck him a plate too. Oh, who am I kidding, half of what is on the town matriarch’s plate is going to end up being snuck to him. Despite what Mrs. Burch might have implied about him bothering the ninety-seven-year-old woman, these two are buddies. Everyone in town knows it.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she coos.

Almost immediately, she breaks off a piece of biscuit, slipping it to Pongo. Not even bothering to try and hide it. Yup, called it.

Looking up at me, Mrs. Phillips tilts her head, as if she’s silently asking a question. I smile politely, already one step ahead of her.

“I’m Huxley.”

At ninety-seven, Mrs. Phillips is truly the town matriarch. Her late husband was the police chief for decades, and their four children went on to all either hold prominent positions in town or marry someone who did. Her youngest son is still the town fire chief. Not to mention then all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I think there might even be a great-great-grandchild now. Honestly, I’ve lost track.

Which is why I don’t hold it against her that she has a hard time telling my brothers and me apart.

“I know which one you are,” she scolds. “You’re the one who took Opal for a ride.”

That’s me…

I nod, holding in my smirk. The night Dolly and I borrowed her grandfather’s T-bird in high school is one of my favorite memories. To the point where if Tinker Bell and Peter Pan really did show up with pixie dust and told me all I had to do was think of a happy memory so that I could fly, that would be the one I would go to. I can still hear her laugh as we rolled down the streets of Hickory Hills, the sweet high of independence coursing through us.

Or maybe that was the thrill of thinking we got away with something.

Either way, that same exhilaration rushes through my veins at the mere thought of that moment. I would give anything to be able to recreate it.

“The one keeping our Dolly’s wild child alive.”

Yeah, that’s me too…

I nod, her words feeling like a knife being driven into me and then twisted. There’s a part of me that wants to be proud of fostering Dolly’s spirit—it’s part of what I love about her. But then I think better of it. That’s probably not something I should be proud of.

Because that’s a major part of why I’m not good enough for her.

After all, it was Grandma Dolly who said so.

“I am, ma’am,” I confirm, owning up to it.

The reminder that she deserves so much better than me is salt in an open wound, stinging deep within me. All I can do is hope that someday I can prove to them—to this whole damn town—that I am going to do everything I can to be worthy of her. That the boy they once wanted to pair her with is now the man they should still want for her. That my feelings for her are real.

“Well, every girl needs a rip in her jeans…” She winks, taking a bite of her biscuit and then handing another piece to Pongo.

I have no idea what that is supposed to mean. But I also don’t think I’m supposed to question the town matriarch as she exposes what sounds like words of wisdom. Maybe Dolly will know. Hopefully she has some sort of great-grandmother decoder ring. If not, well, here’s to never knowing.