Rust starts down the stairs toward the barn. “I’ll show you.”
“Be right there!” Caleb turns to me, holding out acalloused hand. “Mighty fine to see you again, Tally. Missed you around here. I hope you know you’re always welcome back home.”
I stand up and shake his hand, hoping he doesn’t notice my clammy palm. “Look, I’m sorry I never called or explained why I didn’t come back. It hurt so much and I just wanted to forget, hide from the pain.”
His smile turns sad but his eyes don’t lose their warmth. “Can’t pretend I wasn’t upset, but I understand. Some things are too hard to talk about.” He lowers his voice. “And don’t worry. Your secret is safe. My lips are sealed tighter than a jar of my nana’s peach preserves. Ain’t nobody hearin’ about your visit from me.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. So much for my poker face. Caleb deciphered my terrified expression when he came up to the house, but he chose to be kind.
Maybe not everything about my hometown is bad.
He digs around in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled business card. “My number is on here. If y’all need anything, I’m just a call away. You guys are basically family.”
“Thanks, Caleb.” Blushing, I take the card and laugh. “You called your business‘Trash Talk?’”
“Uh-huh. Catchy, right?”
“It’s definitely memorable.”
Rust shouts from across the yard and Caleb saunters down the steps. He pauses at the bottom, looking back at me.
“I ain’t seen my best friend smile like he smiled at you since…” Caleb blows out a breath. “Not since he came back from Vegas alone. He won’t admit it, but he’s been hurtin’ something awful without you. I don’t know the whole story, I’m just happy you guys are talking again.”
Caleb jogs after Rust, leaving me speechless.
Realization lands like a blow to my ribs, putting a tiny crack in the armor I built around my heart.
My ex-husband was hurting without me.
17
RUST
“Are you in there?”Tally’s voice drifts from outside the barn.
Christ! I should’ve spent less time searching the chaotic shelves in the back for my on-the-go toolbox and more time hiding the evidence of my obsession with my wife.
She made her no-feelings-policy clear.
What will she think if she sees my old Ford F150, the same truck that we shared all our firsts in?
The first time I confessed my love to her and kissed her with only the summer rain as a witness.
The first time I took her on the bench seat, a sudden, mutually desperate surrender to the tension we’d been fighting for months.
I rush to grab a large tarp and fling it over the truck as the barn door creaks open. Tally strolls inside, purse slung over her shoulder and armed with a pout.
“I thought you were packing the truck, but I saw our bags still out on the porch.” She studies the space, eyes dangerously sharp. “What’s goin’ on in here?”
“N-nothing!”
I gesture wildly, trying to stall for time while I untangle the knot in my tongue. That’s when I lose my footing.
Fuck, I should’ve cleaned up that oil spill from last week.
My boot slides out from under me. Hollering, I flail and make a valiant—and vaguely painful—attempt at the splits before I catch myself on the tarp.
“I-I was looking for my tools,” I choke out. “No mechanic goes on a road trip without emergency tools.”
