I can swallow down my misery and hold back pity for a few more hours—until I’m back in my temporary bedroom, playing sappy music and having a good cry. Seven more weeks. Seven more weeks, and I’m gone. This time for good. I’ll drive around the whole damn county just to avoid passing through Sagebrush again.
Nine
Logan
We eat in silence for a while, perched on an antique bench near Poquito Poquito. Every time someone walks by, Sierra ducks her head, tilting her ridiculous cowboy hat so the brim shields her face. Between passersby, she picks at her burrito with tiny bites, barely chewing. Every swallow looks painful.
The day was going well. It was like no time had passed, only better. We were getting along. I thought we were making progress. But now she’s shutting down again.
I sigh and set my burrito down. “I know you don’t want to talk about it—”
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“But I think we need to. Sierra, look at me.”
I wait until she finally lifts her gaze. Her big brown eyes are so dark and haunted, I almost drop it. But it suddenly feels important that she knows I have ulterior motives for helpingher.
“If not today, then soon.”
We eat the rest of our burritos in silence.
“Are they still together?” she asks finally. “The Hillermans.”
“No,” I say simply. “They divorced soon after. They don’t even live here anymore—not sure where they went.”
Good riddance. The older I get, the more horrifying it seems. John Hillerman was the kind of guy who sounded great on paper—successful business owner, respected town council member, devoted husband with two kids.
Turns out he was also a predator.
As Sierra’s neighbor, he knew Sierra’s mom was off on a bender. He knew that Sierra’s petty, dickhead boyfriend—me—whose family provided a lot of extra support to her, lost his temper over something stupid and broke up with her to punish her. She was vulnerable. Alone. And he took advantage of that.
It still pisses me off that he never faced justice for sleeping with an underage girl. It pisses me off more that I helped make her a target.
“I’m surprised they divorced,” she says. “She loved him so much.”
“You think? I’m not sure I could forgive my spouse for what he did.”
Sierra flinches. “Everything about it was unforgivable.” She stands and brushes her hands over her shorts. “We should call it a day then.”
I picture her hiding in her room for the next seven weeks, avoiding me. No way. We can’t start like this, or she’ll never open up to me. “Let’s go wine tasting.”
“Wine tasting?”
“Oh, come on. You can’t visit the new and improved Sagebrush without doing the bougie wine-tasting thing. It’s half the reason people come here now.”
“Why is there wine tasting? There are no vineyards here!”
“Yet,” I say. Arizona does have some vineyards, such as those located to the west of us and south of Tucson, but those areas have a lot of open, flat space suitable for that type of cultivation. Here? Not so much.
“We’re in the middle of a desert canyon,” Sierra insists, as if I’m unaware of the climate and terrain.
“Your point is? Come on. It’s a Tuesday night—it’ll only be tourists there with us. I know a great place.”
Moan and Wine is a little hole in the wall between Ada’s Antiques and an art gallery. It looks like the owner purchased a complete saloon set from Old Tucson Studios and hauled it up here. The only things missing are a honky-tonk piano and a couple of gunslingers hunched over a game of poker. Instead, two bachelorette groups and a handful of stylish couples huddle around oak barrel tables, swirling reds while jazzy covers of top hits pipe softly through the speakers.
“This place is my favorite,” I say. “Not only because of the wine—which is delicious—but because of this.” I head to the bookcase in the back and pull out a Connect Four game.
Sierra laughs. “Oh, man! That takes me back. You know I’m going to destroy you.”
