Page 22 of Sundown Somewhere

“We had no way of knowing that the Hoopers had gotten a puppy and that Mr. Hooper would be walking the thing in the middle of night!” I laugh, still unable to believe our dumb luck all these years later.

“Still, had I taken a right…”

“We would have driven straight past the center of town and the fire station—and my great-uncle, who absolutely would have recognized his brother-in-law’s car,” I remind him.

Because that’s how small towns work. Everyone knows everyone. Especially when you’re the son of the largest employer in town, and the daughter of the town lawyer, granddaughter of the retired police chief, and great-niece of the fire chief.

We’d gotten our wrists slapped pretty good for that one. Gramps covered for us—as much as he could—saying that he knew we had taken it, and that it was all in the name of good fun. In the end we ended up with trash duty for Rhythm and Brews—the Hickory Hills beer and bluegrass festival held every Labor day weekend—which wasn’t fun but was better than the alternative.

“Touché. Turned out better than the night we accidently let the Griffins’ bull out,” Hux laughs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, turning away so he can’t see the guilty smile I’m trying to hide.

“Excuse you? Did you have a head injury I don’t know about?”

“Huxley Adams Hayes,” I feign seriousness, brushing windblown hair from my face. “I will, until my dying breath, deny that we let the Griffins’ bull out.”

Hux looks over at me, his expression incredulous at first, but then he bursts into laughter, the car swerving, causing him to have to straighten us out and focus back on the road. He knows exactly what I mean.

Because we most certainly did not let him out.

That very large, very angry beast crashed through the fence all by himself. Okay, so he might have been goaded by Hux, who very narrowly dodged out of the way while pretending to be a matador because he lost a bet. To me. But those are details that don’t need to be made public.

“That was not one of our better ideas,” he mutters.

“No, that one goes right on top of the stupid list. The slip and slide was our best.”

“Yes! We should do that again. Next hurricane, we bust out the tarps and go to town.”

I chuckle, trying to picture the adult versions of ourselves sliding down the muddy hill on the Hayes property the same way we did during Hurricane Frances in high school. It was a blast, the whole group of us in our bathing suits, soaked to the bone and covered in sticky, wet, red Georgia clay. I was sore for a week afterward, covered in all sorts of mystery bruises from sliding down the hill, bumping along the rocks and who knows what else under that tarp, but it was worth it. A redo would probably require a decent amount of ibuprofen. And some Southern Brothers.

“Let’s do it!” I say, excited about the idea.

“That’s my girl.”

I shiver, Hux’s words having more of an effect on me than they should. I tell myself that it’s because it’s been so long since he’s said something like that. As my bestie, he’s always been respectful of my relationship, even when I know he didn’t want to be. And that included not saying things like that’s my girl, even if all he meant was that’s my best friend.

Except, I don’t think that’s the only reason I’m reacting that way.

“See,” he says, reaching over and squeezing my thigh. “You needed this.”

I did…

I sigh, sitting back and letting myself simply enjoy the lightness that fills my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way. A really long time.

The idea of us escaping town to “get up to no good” sounded preposterous when Hux first floated it. Even more so when he texted me a list the next day of what to pack, but wouldn’t tell me where we were going. Even now, all packed and in the car en route to our unknown destination, I’m still not sure what he has up his sleeve.

I trust him. Wholeheartedly. Until my very last breath.

But that doesn’t mean I understand.

Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since I did anything that could even be considered close to the category of “no good.” Fuck, at this point in my life, I’d settle for staying out past my bedtime. That’s about as close as I’ve gotten over the last six years.

Looking over to my left, I take in my big, bearded lumberjack-esque small-town partner in crime. Once upon a time, if there was trouble, we’d find it. Or create it. We never met a curfew we didn’t break, or a window we didn’t try to at least figure out how to sneak out of. Skinny-dipping, bonfires, streaking, TP-ing the houses of someone who “deserved” it, tailgate lunches during our free periods on Friday in the school parking lot—you name it, we did it.

And while we weren’t the ones who spray-painted the town monument, we know who did. That’s another secret I’ll take to my grave.

We weren’t bad kids—we simply liked to know exactly where the line was, and nudge it some. Or a lot.