“Sure.” Brooke’s eyes glint. “Or maybe you just couldn’t hack it in the city.”
The words land like little cuts.
She has no idea—about the burned-out boss, the hospital bills, the way I stared at spreadsheets at 2 a.m. and wondered if I’d traded every part of myself that mattered for a salary and a view.
She doesn’tneedto know.
Nash moves.
Not much.
Just enough that his knee bumps mine under the table and stays there. A steady pressure. An anchor.
“Delaney always could hack whatever she wanted,” he says, voice even but edged. “City. Ranch. Any room she walks into. Anybody who knew her back in school remembers that.”
Brooke laughs. “Sure. She was stubborn. That’s not the same as special.”
The old insecurity hits like a ghost hand—high school whispers, nasty notes in lockers, girls who hated me for raising my hand too much and boys who hated me for not letting them copy my homework.
Before I can respond, Nash leans forward, forearms on the table, eyes locked on Brooke.
“This town hasn’t been the same since she left,” he says quietly.
The words punch right through me.
Brooke blinks.
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. He keeps his gaze on her, calm and unflinching.
“You remember what Rodeo Days was like senior year?” he asks. “Who kept it from falling apart when the main sponsor backed out? Who rounded up volunteers? Who got half the county to donate prizes so the kids’ events didn’t get canceled?”
Brooke shifts, uncomfortable. “That was?—”
“That was Delaney,” he says. “She’s the reason this town has a scholarship fund big enough to matter. She’s the reason the 4H kids got to keep their trailer after the storm. She’s the reason your little cousin got to go to Ag school, if I remember right.”
Brooke’s mouth snaps shut.
A flush creeps up her neck.
The satisfaction is petty and glorious.
I stare at Nash.
He shrugs slightly. “We all leave. We all come back different. But don’t stand here and act like her coming home is some kind of failure. This place should be damn grateful.”
The other women mumble something about needing to check on someone inside. Brooke coughs out an awkward laugh, mutters, “Well, okay then,” and retreats.
We sit in the wake of it, the air around our little table humming.
My heart is in my throat.
“That was…” I start, then falter.
“Too much?” he asks, mouth twitching.
“Unexpected.”
“Untrue?”
