As soon as she closes the door, it opens again, and her parents walk outside with smiles on their faces. “We are proud of you,” Mrs. Thompson says, giving me a hug.
“That we are.” Mr. Thompson shakes my hand.
“Thank you,” I say, not able to express in words how much their support has always meant over the years. Most of the time, it’s like they support and believe in me more than my own dad does, but every time I have that thought, I shake it out of my head. I don’t like thinking badly about my dad, even if he doesn’t show me much support.
Rylee walks up, looping her arms over each of her parents’ shoulders. “We are going for a drive.”
They nod. “Have fun,” her mom says before walking back inside.
Her dad reaches for my hand again, putting money in my palm. “Go celebrate, on me.”
My hand grasps the money, and I nod. “Thank you.” Even though I’ve nearly seen this family every day for the last several years, it’s still foreign to me how much they are encouraging and supportive. My mom is similar, but my dad is nothing like Mr. Thompson. My dad believes in being hard on his son because he says he wants to make me into a better man.
Getting in the truck, I back up and go to the end of the driveway. “Where to?”
“McDonald's, of course.” She puts her feet on my dash and immediately turns on the radio.
I chuckle, turning left to get her a milkshake.
7
RYLEE: NOW
Holding my grocery tote bags,I can’t help but marvel at what each vendor is selling. The farmers market is where I love getting produce, and I’m in no rush to get home. My eyes scan the booths looking for hidden treasures. I pick up a wooden spatula and listen to the whole spiel about how it’s handcrafted from walnut. I could use a good distraction after running into Clayton last night. I watched as he left the bar, and my heart was torn between relief and sadness. We had to run into each other at some point, but no matter how much time has passed, nothing could have prepared me. Part of me screamed to launch into his arms, but the stronger part of me was angry, and that part usually wins. I was lucky it took three months after I moved back, but it’s been almost seven years since I’ve spoken to him. I couldn’t even focus enough to read after getting home. My eyes kept glazing over when I would have memories of our past come to the forefront of my mind.
All I could think about was what he looked like sitting right in front of me after all these years. My heart ached. His dark blonde hair peeked out from under his hat—curled a little at the ears and the base of his neck. He’s always had an athletic build,and now it seems the upper half of his body has been worked hard. No doubt the years have shaped him, and now he’s taken over my dad’s construction business. The most noticeable difference though, was the scar across his eyebrow. It made me wonder about the parts of his life I’ve missed. My gut clenches knowing it was deep enough to cause that kind of mark. Clayton was still the same, though, quiet and reserved as always. I didn’t miss his fists clenching as he left, his obvious stress tell. Even though it’s been years, I know he went for a run as soon as he was out the door. Some things don’t change, no matter how long it’s been.
Walking up to a vendor, she smiles. “Need another half gallon?”
“Yes, that’ll be great.” I always buy fresh cow’s milk from her, and she saves me a glass bottle. There’s nothing like having that fresh cream added to your coffee in the morning. I put the jar in my insulated tote and smile my thanks after paying her.
I walk, enjoying the bite in my forearm from the straps of my bags. It keeps me present. A few tents down, someone sells large watermelons piled on a wooden table, and my mouth instantly waters, making my footsteps quicken. With my ear next to the melon, I knock. The hollow sound echoes inside, and I attempt to pick it up.
The lady selling them comes over. “Did you find one you like?”
“Yes, this one.” I place my hand on the green melon.
“Perfect. That’ll be eight dollars.”
I give her the money and go to pick it up again, but my bags work against me. Setting it back down, I sigh, knowing there’s no way for me to take it right now. I hate making multiple trips, but it’s unavoidable this time. It sounds too good to pass up. My shoulders sag as I say, “I’ll have to come back. Is that okay?”
She looks at me, lines forming on her forehead as her brows furrow.
“I need to drop off my bags so I don’t drop them.”
She smiles. “That’s not a problem. I’ll put it behind the table for you.”
“Thank you.”
“That won't be necessary,” a deep, familiar voice says from over my shoulder, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
I whirl around, my expression turning sour.
Clayton doesn’t look at me as he says to the vendor, “I’ll carry it for her.” He takes the watermelon from in front of me and begins walking—not bothering to say a word to me.
I gape after him before turning back to her. She looks at me with wide eyes like she isn’t sure what to do. I scoff as I storm after him, but his strides are much larger, especially with my bags weighing me down. I don’t like getting help, even though my mom always tells me I should accept it, but I especially don’t want it from him.
“Clayton,” I call after him.
