Nash — Age 12
The creek’s the only place quiet enough to hear my own thinking.
At home it’s all boots and brothers and Daddy’s voice, that grit-through-gravel kind that sounds like orders even when he’s saying pass the salt. Mama’s soft but tired. Crewe runs us like a squad. Mack bets chores on dares. Sin watches everything. Banks is already scheming about flipping junk trucks. Jace will sign up for the Marines the day they’ll take him, I can see it. Colt’s half wild and already talking about living in the mountains.
Me? I don’t know what I am besides the oldest. (Crewe calls that “the pack mule.”)
But here with Delaney, everything lines up. The rope, the dock, the slow water. Her laugh. The way she looks at the future like a fence she’s going to build straight and true with her own two hands. When she said she’d keep the ranch good, it got under my ribs and lodged there. I don’t have words for it, so I say what I can:Always.
I flip the pocketknife closed for her, careful of fingers. We sit hip to hip and make up names for constellations that only make sense in Valor Springs—Bootspur, Longhorn, The Stubborn Heifer. When the coyotes yip far off, she leans into my shoulder like I’m a post that won’t give. I let her. I want to be.
I trace the carving once more.N + D—come home.It ain’t pretty. It’s permanent. That’s enough.
“See you tomorrow,” she says.
“Yep.”
We say it like it’s nothing. Like there aren’t a thousand ways to lose a promise between now and grown.
I walk her up the path, keep my flashlight low so we don’t spook the horses. At the fence line I lift my hand. She lifts hers. I think about kissing her and my stomach flips like I’m at the top of the swing again. I don’t. Not tonight. Not yet.
Later, I think. Later I’ll have a plan.
Delaney — Graduation Night
The creek looks smaller now, or maybe I got bigger.
There’s a paper hat from the diner on my head because my friends insisted on milkshakes after the ceremony, and I’m still wearing the white dress Mama pressed twice. It’s hot and the air tastes like June. The fireflies came back, lighting up the shadows under the pecans. The rope swing is frayed and familiar.
Nash is waiting on the dock post, tall now, shoulders broad enough to block out half the stars. He’s got that calm he getsbefore a bronc opens the chute—quiet and sure, even if the world bucks.
“You made it,” he says.
“You think I’d miss it?” I tease, but my voice shakes. We’ve been circling this for weeks. Months. Maybe years.
He reaches up and adjusts the dumb paper hat like it’s a crown. I swat his hand and he catches mine like he was hoping I’d try. His palm is warm and callused and the whole world narrows to the point where our fingers touch. He looks at my mouth. I look at his.
“Laney,” he says, like a warning.
“Nash.”
We lean in. The rope creaks. The creek hums. Our noses bump. We laugh against each other’s breath. He cups my cheek, and I curl my free hand into his shirt. We tip toward that first kiss— and the flashing lights rip the night open.
A cop rushes toward us. “Nash, you need to head home now,” he screams out.
Nash closes his eyes, lets his forehead rest against mine for a beat that is not long enough. When he opens them, they’re all business, Hawthorne steel with a soft edge that’s only for me.
“What’s going on?” Nash asks the cop.
The cop stalls for a second before answering, “It’s your dad. There’s been an accident.”
We run for our trucks. Heading toward the Hawthorne house at the edge of town. Cops litter the driveway, and I hold Nash’shand as he’s told his father’s dead. An accident. Down by the river’s mouth.
I hold his hand the entire time. And then the next day he’s decided he’s leaving. Enlisting. Needs to prove himself.
“I’ve got to go,” he says.
“Of course.” I’m already turning.
