I feel dizzy, as if I’ve been suddenly transported to another dimension. My hand finds the edge of the island and clings to it.
It’s been over two years, and he looks the same yet different. Wearing plain navy swim trunks, his body is exquisite, with broad rippling shoulders that taper down to a muscled chest, a six-pack, and then a sharply defined V. He’s shockingly tan and healthy looking, a stark contrast to the pale, gaunt-faced man from before.
His height is around six-four, and his legs are slightly parted in a warrior stance. A towel is around his neck, and he reaches up with a muscled forearm to rub it over his face.
I look at his lips. That night, at certain moments, they were thin and tight, but now they’re plump, the bottom one lush and extravagant. That kissable mouth almost softens the scars on the left side of his face.
I don’t dwell on the scars or the jagged line down his face, although part of me appreciates them, wonders how they’ve changed him, if they’ve created depth. I itch to paint him, scars and all, but mostly, it was always his eyes that fascinated me. Tonight, they’re a blue-gray color, an icy winter storm. The night I met him, they were a hot gunmetal color, smoldering with heat.
Dark, straight brows frame his chiseled face, and his wet hair is slicked back. When it’s dry, it’s a mink-brown color, chin length, and wavy.
Someone—a pretty girl, twentyish—comes up between us, thank God, says something cutesy, and puts a glass of iced tea in his hands, and he murmurs a low “Thank you.” I use the time to gather myself as the girl chats him up. He never takes his gaze off me, though, the lines around his eyes tightening in a way that tells me he’s clocked me—he remembers.
An arc of electricity hums over my skin, and my breath quickens.
How is it possible that he’s here?
He doesn’t fit. I always pictured him still in New York, maybe in that penthouse room at the Mercer Hotel, lying on his stomach, his lips parted as he breathed the sleep of someone who’d had too much to drink. The top sheet was tangled around one of his legs, his bare ass taut and firm. One arm hung off the bed, the other curled under a pillow. He never stirred when I gathered my clothes and slipped out the door in the early hours of the morning. I ran through the hotel, and it wasn’t until I got in the cab that I let the tears fall. What I’d thought was special . . . wasn’t.
I used to gaze at his billboard in Times Square on my way to work. You’d see professional players hawking cologne or underwear or sneakers, but nope, his thing was literacy. TRANSPORT YOURSELF WITH READING. He sat on the steps of the New York Library with a book in his hands and a wide smile on his Henry Cavill face. It made my heart flutter.
He drapes his gaze over me, one that hints at keen intelligence. He lingers on my faded shirt, scans my joggers and black Converse, and then moves slowly back up to my face. He takes a sip of his drink, slow and easy. “You all right?”
Hell no.
I expected some mediocre ex-baller, and it’s him.
I open my mouth to say—
Miss Texas slyly eases the other girl vying for Ronan’s attention out of the way, then juts between me and him, a plate of chips and dip in her hands as she offers it to him. At my feet, Sparky, a great predictor of nice people, hisses, breaks my hold on his leash, and lunges for Miss Texas.
She shrieks as she drops the plate, and it shatters. Sparky screeches, darts between her legs, pauses for a moment to swipe at the flowy leg of her pantsuit, gets his claw stuck in the fabric, fights to release it, and then roars triumphantly when he gets free.
Back arched, he runs and hisses the entire way out the back door.
I have the insane urge to laugh but stifle it as I dash out the french doors to the open pool area, my head tumbling with thorny thoughts. Oh my God, I never would have come if I’d known it was him. Should have listened to Mrs. Meadows! I rub my forehead in disgust. Mrs. Meadows never said his first name, and since I haven’t kept up with the local gossip, I came in clueless. Brought a knife to a gunfight, as Mama used to say. Of course, she never told me about the new coach. She knew I was wary about our hometown team and the memories it brought.
I heave out a deep, weighted sigh. Holy . . . he’s been here for a year! Sure, I came home periodically to see Mama and Sabine, but things were usually hectic . . . and he was just next door. At Christmas I noticed that someone had renovated the house, and when I asked Mama about it, her reply was A Mr. Smith from out of town. Such a common name.
You’d think someone might have mentioned the coach while I’ve been here, and maybe they did, but my mind has been a hazy cloud. Yesterday, I stared at a can of green beans for ten minutes at the Piggly Wiggly.
I make for a group of chaise lounges under a pergola where I see the end of Sparky’s leash. I bend down and scoop him up and tap him on the nose, a reprimand for hissing. His eyes say, Miss Texas is a bitch, and I tell him that we don’t call women those names and that we’ll discuss it later.
“Hey, Nova!” calls a male voice, and I glance over my shoulder. I’d know that handsome square face and wavy auburn hair anywhere. Wearing jeans and a maroon Bobcats polo is Bruce Hamilton, a.k.a. Skeeter because he moved like a mosquito on the field. Relief rolls over me.
“Heard you were in town,” he says in a slow drawl.
“Yep.” I glance behind me. Ronan hasn’t come out. Maybe he’s organizing a cleanup of chips and guac in the kitchen. Maybe Mrs. Meadows is running interference. I ease back into a slice of a shadow created by the purple wisteria vines that drape from the top of the pergola.
Skeeter follows. “How are you?”
“Great!” I say brightly. Terrible! I really want to get out of here!
“I heard you came back. I can’t believe you’re staying.”
I nod. This is the same conversation I’ve been having since I arrived. Everyone expects me to pack up Sabine and move her to New York.
“How are you?” I ask him.
“Still single and living with my mom. Happy as a pig. For real.” He smirks, shrugging broad shoulders. “She cooks me breakfast every morning, packs my lunch for work, and doesn’t complain when I leave my underwear on the floor.”
“Basically, it’s Club Med,” I say with a smile. It is good to see him. And he hasn’t changed a bit since we went to school together.
“I knew you’d be a coach someday,” I say as he fills me in on his position as a coach for the Bobcats. He’s in the middle of giving me a play-by-play from last night’s game when I sense someone walking up.
“Nova, right?” comes Ronan’s voice from behind me, unmistakable, rich, and husky.
“I met your mom,” he says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I turn slowly. “Hmm. Yes. I’m your new neighbor. Thank you. Mom never mentioned you were a coach.” I mentally shake my fist at her in heaven.
He’s grabbed a white T-shirt, and it sticks to his damp chest. The towel is still in his grip and hangs next to his leg. He clutches it with strong hands and long talented fingers. I can still see him on TV, catching the hike, jogging back to throw the football, and then letting a perfect pass fly. He took Michigan State to a national championship, won the Heisman, was drafted as the number-one pick in the draft, and then brought home three Super Bowl trophies to the Pythons. He was Peyton Manning and Tom Brady on crack.
After working at the preschool, I bartended at night at the Baller. The bar was a private club, with a clientele of mostly professional athletes, yet he was never one of our customers. I never gave up hope that he’d walk in one day. My fascination wasn’t with how hot he looked in football pants—which he did—no, it was about the masterful way he played the game. You’d think that after my heart was broken in college by my first love, Andrew, I’d be jaded about the game, but when you grow up in a Texas small town, football is ingrained in your soul.
“Ah, I see,” he says in a distant tone as he glances around at the party. “Nice to meet you.”
Wait . . .
Really?
We’ve “met.”
I frown, and he notices, a quizzical look appearing on his face as our eyes cling . . . and oh my God . . . not a hint of recognition is there. Nada.
Did I misinterpret in the kitchen?
I step out of the shadows, and his face doesn’t change. Not a flicker of I know you.
I should say, Nice to meet you too—it’s the proper southern thing to do before I bring up the roses—but . . .
He doesn’t recognize me. For real. Okay, okay, maybe I have put on a few (ten) pounds, have a few lines around my eyes, and am not dressed like some stupid princess from a galaxy far, far away, but obviously he’s the kind of guy who’s slept with so many women he can’t recall one—even the girl he called by the wrong name.
Bitterness rises. I’ve replayed the Awful One-Night Stand a million times in my head, berating myself for going to his hotel room, for believing we shared a connection.
He’d been drinking—okay, I’ll give him that—but the alcohol didn’t hinder his sexual performance, and he didn’t slur his words either.
You’re perfect. You’re safe with me. You’re mine . . .
We were effortless and natural, almost instinctive, two people sensing familiar souls, ones with cracks but not completely broken. And when he kissed me in the elevator . . . a long sigh comes from my lips. I wanted to be his.
My hands clench as I wrestle with my emotions. He really doesn’t remember me.
Skeeter slaps him on the back. “Ronan, this lady was the prettiest girl to ever attend Blue Belle High. We did some crazy shit together. Remember that time we put popcorn in the Huddersfield quarterback’s truck, Nova?” He glances at Ronan. “It was the night before our big game, and we popped about a hundred bags and dumped them in his car.”
I smile. “And our own cafeteria ladies let us in their kitchen to pop them. Five microwaves. We hit the jackpot.”
“I bet that jerk quarterback is still finding kernels in his car.” He chuckles as he glances at Ronan. “Me and Nova and Andrew. We got up to some trouble.”
I nod and smile. “Good times for sure.” But not all of them, especially with Andrew. I toss a quick glance around the pool area, a sigh of relief coming. He’s not here.
Ronan gives me his unmarred profile, his tone annoyed, seemingly uninterested in our reminiscences. “Ah, great. Look, Lois told me about the flower bed. Sorry. It was Jenny. She came in and made a scene—”
“Your girlfriend,” I state, my chin tilted up. “Young. Blonde. She said it was over, by the way, and she really meant it this time. She might have been chewing gum.”
He frowns and gives me his full attention. “Not my girlfriend. She showed up unannounced.”
“Tricky,” I reply. “What was she, then?”
His scowl deepens. “That’s none of your concern.”
I shrug. “Whatever. Sounds like a communication problem between you and her. I’d be upset, too, if I walked into this hen party.”
A long pause follows. “You’re angry with me.”
“Gold star for you.”
Hello. I don’t care that you’re a fancy-pants coach, nor do I care about your relationship status.
And . . .
Come on . . .
You don’t remember me?
Skeeter guffaws, his eyes darting between us. “Gotta give it to the boosters. If the party had been left up to me, we’d be out at the gravel pit shooting rattlesnakes. Maybe driving some four-wheelers through the mud.”
“That sounds like a real good time, Skeeter,” Ronan replies in a soft tone, but his gaze never leaves mine.
Whispering sweet words in his ear, I set Sparky down and cross my arms.
Ronan arches a brow as the cat sits at my feet and looks up at him.
“Look. Your Jenny in a Jeep took out my roses, just ran right over them, ones my mama planted for my first birthday and my sister’s. The yellow ones. She picked them out at the store in Austin, dug the holes herself, painted our names on a rock, wrote a sweet note to us, put it all in a little metal box, and then placed it inside with the bushes. Every birthday, we took a picture of us next to the roses. We have an album for them that sits on the coffee table.” I want him to know the significance. Every time I came home, I’d look at those lush, creamy blooms and know that no matter where I roamed or lived in the world, this was home. It’s where my life began. My roots are in those roses. “What are you going to do about it?”
He throws the towel on a lounger, and his hands go to his hips, his fingers clasping that V. “Lois said she’d take care of the flowers. Also, this party was a surprise to me. I don’t normally entertain. I’m sorry it inconvenienced you, all right? We good now?”
I smile tightly. “Absolutely. I see how it is. Send one of your boosters. Let everyone in Blue Belle bow and scrape to take care of your problems so you can keep on entertaining your guests and winning football games. I get why Mama never mentioned you. You’re a pompous jerk.”
Even though I kept my voice low, there’s a lull in the conversations around us, and I can feel heads turning, eyes lingering on us. Mrs. Meadows makes one of her squeaks. Clearly, she hasn’t let me out of her sight.
Skeeter clears his throat. “Wow. Nice night. And the stars are so bright. This pool is amazing. That waterfall, man, love it . . .” His words trail off.
Ronan’s chest rises. “I’m a pompous jerk?”
“Oh, you’re so much more than that, but children are present, so I’ll temper my language,” I say.
Skeeter’s forehead furrows as he looks around. “I thought this was an adults-only party.”
“She means the women,” Ronan says, his jaw popping.
“Oh, yeah, um, lots of them here . . . ,” Skeeter replies and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Think I’ll go get some chicken fingers. Be right back. Good to see you, Nova.”
He isn’t coming back.
Ronan shifts on his feet, then takes a step closer to me. He smells like summer, sun, and man. My heart does a flip-flop in my chest, but it’s because I’m pissed. Several moments tick by as we stare at each other.
“Perhaps we should talk in private, Ms. Morgan,” he says curtly.
I’m not sure I can handle being alone with him. Not without some armor, and by armor, I mean a kick-ass dress and stilettos. Maybe that would get his attention.
He takes my elbow before I move, surprising me. I let him guide me and Sparky past staring girls in bikinis, through the french doors, into the den, and down a hallway to a door. He opens it and ushers me inside. I step in as he stalks around me to a big oak desk, crosses his arms, and leans on it, a flat expression on his face. “Now we can chat without either of us causing any more chaos tonight.” He looks at Sparky.
I ignore him and gaze around.
It’s a trophy room—an office but huge, maybe twenty by twenty feet. There’s a lot to take in. Shiny golden football statues sit on a shelf on the wall behind him, and holy football legends . . . there’s the Heisman.
Framed photos of him are on the right side of the walls, him and his team accepting the Super Bowl trophy. I see Tuck and wince. Ouch. There’s a memory . . .
The left side of the room is full of memorabilia. Signed movie scripts under glass with lights on them, autographed posters of the Star Wars actors, Funko Pop figurines, a model starship. It’s like the galaxy threw up.
In the back is an elaborately carved pool table, a movie screen, and several theater-style recliners. My eyes flare when I see a life-size Chewbacca and Darth Vader in the corner side by side, looming at each other. I huff out a laugh.
“Is something funny, Ms. Morgan?”
Ignoring him, I leave Sparky to waltz around the room, heading to the trophies, grazing my fingers over the Heisman. About fourteen inches tall, it’s smaller than I thought it would be.
“Go ahead. Pick it up,” he says.
Biting my bottom lip, I pick up the trophy and gasp at the heaviness, then carefully set it back on the shelf.
“It weighs forty-five pounds. Cast bronze,” he says gruffly. “I nearly dropped it when they gave it to me.” There’s a hint of emotion in his voice, and I recall the way he accepted it at twenty-one, his jawline sculpted perfectly, a devilish light in his eyes, a man born in the inner city who climbed to the top, ready to take on the world and win.
What must it feel like to lose it all?
I throw a look at him. “It’s only given to one player out of hundreds and represents talent, integrity, diligence, and perseverance. Do you still have those qualities?”
His tone is dry. “My talent is gone, sadly. I wasn’t aware my integrity was in question. It’s this party and your annoyance with it. Please say your piece, and we’ll be done.” He moves his hands in a “Give it to me” motion.
“I said it already. You’re a jerk.” I wave my hand at the hairy monster in the corner. “How tall is that thing?”
“That thing is Chewie. He’s seven feet, five inches. He’s a Wookiee, a mechanic, a smuggler, and Han Solo’s copilot. Darth Vader, the man in black, is the bad guy. He’s six-eight. Would you like to see my Princess Leia?”
I start, then spin around. “Where?”
“In the closet.”
Now that just hurts my feelings.
He heads to a door near the back, and I trail behind him.
The door opens, and I blink, my heart flipping over. My costume didn’t look that good. “You don’t make out with it, do you? Like those blow-up dolls? A synthetic partner?”
“No,” he says on an exhale. “I like real women.”
I cock my head, studying the wax Carrie Fisher look-alike.
“The bra is copper, and the bottoms have a metal plate at the front and back.” He fingers the links around her neck. “The chain and collar bound her to Jabba the Hutt.”
“Who?”
He glares at me. “A big ugly alien crime lord who captured Leia. She used it to kill him. Any more questions?”
“I know who they are,” I say rather defensively. “I’ve never watched the movies, though. I’m a unicorn.” I smile at him. Just because.
“Fascinating.”
“You’re a geek.” A grumpy geek god. I always knew it. I kind of liked it. Not anymore.
“Unapologetically. Now . . .” His words trail off as I leave him. I hear him huff as I pass a glass case mounted on the wall—what the . . . ? I back up. There’s a golden snake cuff inside the case, looking small next to a poster of the white-clad Princess Leia.
That cuff is mine. I reach out to touch—
“Ms. Morgan, please don’t touch anything.”
I place my finger on it, smear it, and then turn around. “Oops.”
“You’re trying to antagonize me.”
“Your brain is, like, super amazing.”
“Why make the effort to be rude, Ms. Morgan? Is there something about me you don’t care for?” His eyes glitter at me.
Oh, I like poking at him. A lot. He’s kind of infuriating, but underneath . . . my skin shivers. He’s a wild man. Vicious. A beast. I remember.
I smile knowingly at him.
He blinks, then frowns. “Have we met before?”
Someone knocks on the door, and it swings open, Miss Texas poking her head in. She poses in the doorway and gazes at Ronan. “We’re about to light the candles and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Are you ready?” She gives me a cool glance, then checks the dainty Rolex on her wrist. “It’s getting late, and some of the guests are wanting to get started.”
I pick up Sparky and move toward the door and slip out. Honestly? I need away from him to recover myself. I put on a good front, but underneath there’s a mix of anger and sharp disappointment simmering . . .
Anger is just sad lashing out, Mama would say.
God. I miss her.
“Ms. Morgan. Wait—” he calls after me, but I’m gone.
By the time I find my way back to the kitchen—the house is a maze—Miss Texas has beaten me and holds a sheet cake, the fancy kind you get at a bakery. There’s a carefully detailed football field with little players and people in the stadium on top of it. WE LOVE YOU, COACH SMITH, it reads. Another girl lights the candles.
“Leaving so soon?” Miss Texas asks me sweetly.
A quick scan tells me Ronan is back outside, surrounded by women, waiting for the cake to come out, I guess. He captures my eyes, a scowl deepening on his chiseled face. Nope, not going to get caught in a staring contest.
I flip around and brush past Miss Texas, giving her a smirk. “Tell Marla—and Brad—I said hi.”
Mrs. Meadows follows me into the foyer, a look of sympathy on her face, one that’s surprising, and I deflate slowly, my shoulders slumping. “Did I cause a scene?”
“It wasn’t too bad. You got his attention, that’s for sure, which is more than I can say for most women.” She searches my face. “There seemed to be some . . . long pauses and tension between y’all. You both lived in New York at the same time. I’m wondering if you ever came across him?”
She is the last person I want to know about my night with Ronan. “Never.”
“Ah, I see, hmm. Anyway, breakfast tomorrow—you and him? I can set it up. Just to mend fences. Maybe freshen up a bit when you come. Wear some makeup.”
“I have no interest in being one of the women you throw at Ronan.” Been there, fucked him. It wasn’t great.
“Ronan, is it?”
Exhaustion flares, and I inch toward the front door to exit. “See you later.”
She frowns. “Are you okay, dear?”
I’m really not okay.
And it’s not just Ronan. It’s Mama’s death, Sabine, the house, being in my hometown with painful memories I can’t seem to shake, the total upheaval of my life. I left behind two good jobs and a nice apartment, and now I’m starting all over from scratch. Sure, I’ve done it before, but I was younger and more optimistic. Blue Belle needs to stick.
I push up a smile. “I’m fine.”
Leaving her there, still watching me, I walk through the foyer and out to the front porch as a chorus of female voices sings “Happy Birthday.”
“Hope it’s a good one,” I mutter as I take the sidewalk and let Sparky down. He prisses in front of me, his tail twitching.
“Have fun, hmm?” I ask him.
He throws me a look. If he had eyebrows, one would be arched.
I recall him stuck in the pantsuit, and a grin curls my lips. “You’re my ride or die, Sparky. Forever and always.”
Sabine stands on our steps as I come up to our house. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a baggy Bobcats shirt. Her face is a replica of Mama’s, high cheekbones and pointy chin, mercurial hazel eyes. With deep-chestnut hair that’s long and thick with a slight wave to it, she’s startlingly beautiful with an IQ that makes me feel like an idiot. Born a month after our dad died, she didn’t speak until she was three, and then it was in complete sentences. She taught herself to read by four.
Her head cocks. “You went for a long walk. Why?”
“Met some neighbors.” They suck.
“There’s one hundred and seventy-nine days of darkness in Antarctica. Most of it is covered in ice over a mile thick.”
My heart swells at her dedication to geography. She has stacks of books in her room, all about different countries and locales. “Want to move there?”
She sets down the paint cans she was holding but doesn’t let them get too far. Like me, she’s an artist, and painting her bedroom different colors has been her therapy after Mama’s death. We go to Ace Hardware and pick out new colors every other day.
“No. This is where I was born, and this is where I want to live.”
“I was kidding.”
“I knew that.” She shrugs.
“I hate the cold anyway.” I inhale the September air, catching the scent of the magnolia trees nearby. The familiar sounds of crickets and frogs surround us, and it loosens some of the tension in my chest. “Did you come to find me? You wanna talk?” I sit down next to her on the steps.
We’ve talked a lot. Mama is gone. I’m here. I won’t leave you. Ever.
She rubs the jewelry on her finger, a white quartz ring with a gold band that Mama gave her. Diagnosed with high-functioning autism when she was five, she uses the ring to release stress. “What happened to the flower bed?”
“Ah, someone accidentally drove over them.” I briefly explain about the Jeep and the coach’s party, skating around the part about me confronting Ronan. She tells me she’s been upstairs in her room painting with headphones on.
“Mama would be pissed.”
She learned pissed from me. Must do better.
“Coach Smith is not your usual coach,” she adds.
“Oh? You’ve talked to him?”
“He’s my World History teacher.”
Mr. Smith was on her course list. I give myself a facepalm. School’s been in session for only two weeks, and we haven’t had an open house yet, but . . . “How did I miss that? You didn’t think to tell me he was the football coach?”
“Why would I? Everyone knows.”
Right. She assumes that if she knows it, then I should.
“We almost won state last year. We would have, but Huddersfield took the title. Football is the most exciting thing in Blue Belle.”
“Yet I missed him being the coach.”
“You stare off into space a lot,” she says.
“I’m working on that.”
“In eighth grade, when I took US History, Coach Mitchell sat at his desk and told us to read the chapter and answer the questions at the end. It was tedious and pointless. I don’t think my classmates learned anything about our country. Coach Smith talks to us; he explains.” She pauses. “Did you find a job today?”
The preschool in town is fully staffed, Piggly Wiggly doesn’t need cashiers, Randy’s Roadhouse has enough waitstaff, and the Mini Mart said I was overqualified. That fear skates down my spine again, and I swallow as I tighten my messy bun and feign confidence. Sabine has sensory issues, elastic in her clothing is a big no-no, and social interactions can baffle her, but she’s more intuitive than all the books I’ve read would suggest. Maybe it’s because she’s my sister. Maybe her diagnosis gives her a special psychic superpower. Whatever it is, she senses when I’m worried no matter the brave face I wear. “It could have been better, but it will work out,” I say.
I pull the keys to the Cadillac out of my joggers. “I’m in the mood for ice cream. How about me and you head to Dairy Queen?” We limit her sugar, but their menu has options. “There’s a car behind us, but we’re Mighty Morgan Girls, and nothing keeps us from a Blizzard.”
“Can we do the drive from the Dairy Queen to the Pig?”
Ah, the old cruising loop in Blue Belle. “You want to see who’s out and about?”
She ticks off her fingers. “I am a teenager. I do have social interests. It is Saturday night. Toby has a car. I might see him.”
“Toby?”
“He’s a football player. Quarterback.” She smirks. “I asked him if he liked me, and he said yes. Then he touched my hair and twirled it around his finger.”
No. Jesus. I’m going to kill him.
“Of course he’s an athlete,” I mutter under my breath.
“We sit together in study hall. He’s very hot. Great ass.”
A long sigh comes from me. “Oh, Sabine. You remind me of . . . me.”
“Am I old enough to date?”
“I . . . don’t . . . know.” I was allowed to date at fifteen, but what’s the norm now? I want to protect her, but I’m not sure how . . .
“Mama gave me an anatomy book when I turned fourteen, but it didn’t go into detail about sexual intercourse. I read the entire thing. It was four hundred and sixty pages long with pictures. Not the dirty kind, just diagrams. It was skimpy about orgasms. It’s harder for women to have them, and I have questions.”
“And I want to answer them, but can we discuss this later?”
“When is later?”
“Let me think on it, okay?”
“When will you be finished thinking on it?” She’s very exact.
“Give me a week.”
She nods. “One week, starting now.”
We stand up and pile into Mama’s car. She straps herself in, then reminds me to do mine.
Using the mirrors and her help, I back up as far as I can get without dinging the car blocking us, then pull forward and turn the wheel into the yard. Being easy on the accelerator, we ease forward to the porch and skirt around a big holly bush.
“Thelma and Louise!” I call out as I drive through the yard and over the sidewalk, hit the curb, and then plop down on the street.
“Who are they?”
“Female road trip movie. Excellent. Sadly, we don’t have Brad Pitt with us—oh, and don’t worry, we won’t drive off a cliff.”
“Joke. Funny.” She rolls down her window and looks up at the stars. “I woke up this morning and forgot Mama was gone. I thought everything was the same; then I remembered it wasn’t. Can we sing Dolly in the morning like she used to do when I had breakfast? Her singing—” Her voice stops, and I reach out and take her hand.
I swallow thickly. “You bet.”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re just happy Grandpa isn’t your guardian.”
“He smells like peppermint and farts a lot.”
“And he lives in Phoenix,” I add.
She nods. “Everything will be fine. We’re different flowers from the same garden, but we’re perfect together. Mama always said so.”
Mama did say that, not necessarily because of Sabine’s diagnosis but because we’re opposites in personality and have a fourteen-year age difference between us. She had me at twenty-six and tried for years to have another baby, gave up, and then got pregnant at forty. Then my dad had a massive heart attack while mowing the lawn.
It’s just been me and Mama and Sabine for fifteen years, the Mighty Morgan Girls, and I try to cling to that thought, to be strong . . . like Mama.
She’s going to be a lot to live up to.
We’re different flowers from the same garden, but we’re perfect together.
My throat tightens with grief, with fear that I’m not enough, at the trust I heard in Sabine’s words . . .
We’re going to be okay.
Maybe if I keep saying it, it will be true.
