Marlowe’s eyes widen and her lips purse. She knows all about my feelings when it comes to the way my family views me. “How's that going?"
“Not so well." I roll my eyes. “And the most upsetting part is that they need my help." I lean forward on my forearms. "Real help. The drought is going to drown them"—I wince—"bad choice of words. The drought is going to kill them slowly. They have to start using that land for other purposes." I sit back roughly in my seat, trying to tame the fire reigniting in my heart.
"Have you talked to Wes?"
"He'll take my dad's side."
"You don't know that."
I tap the top of her hand. "Don't defend him just because you had a crush on him before he was married."
She laughs. "He wasn't the one I had a crush on."
I gasp. "You've never admitted to liking one of my brothers."
"Why do you think I was always driving all the way out there to see you?"
"I kind of thought it was for my excellent choice in old-school country music."
"That helped," she says, shrugging one shoulder.
"Which brother?"
Her chin whips back and forth. “Definitely not telling."
"They're married now, what does it matter?"
"You'd never let me forget it."
"True."
I go to Paula and get us one more round, and after that we decide we're more than ready for the curly fries at the Chute.
It's only a few blocks away, so we walk. The music reaches us long before we arrive at the front doors. Marlowe bumps her shoulder into mine. We walk into a roomful of bodies. Music from a few different speakers rains down over everyone. Vintage signs decorate the wooden walls, and the bar is near the back. We head there first, and I order for both of us.
The bartender asks for our IDs, and I hand it over. He looks at it, glances at me, and does this two more times.
"What?" I ask.
He shakes his head disbelievingly. "This is the best fake I've ever seen."
I frown. "That's because it's real."
He snorts. "Okay, sure."
Now I'm annoyed. "It is."
"No offense, but—"
"I really hate when people say that. You clearly know you're about to offend me, so you're already defending yourself." My arms cross and I wait for him to respond.
He swallows in this big way, as if to make sure I know how annoyed he is, but can't really tell me because he wants to keep his job. "I went to school with Wyatt. I remember when you tagged around him like a puppy. You were ababy. There's no way you're twenty-one.”
My fingers curl into a fist around my purse strap. Everyone else in the world is aging, why wouldn't I be too? “Do the math,” I say, at the same time a deeply male voice from down the bar says, "Why don't you call him?"
I know that voice. It makes my shoulders curl in a fraction, and my stomach clench.
I lean over the bar and peer down. Two seats over, with a basket of curly fries and a half-empty glass of red wine, sits Sawyer. He leans on one elbow, his thumb rubbing his upper lip, and his gaze settles over me.
