"Farthest we've been apart. You'll come home for spring break still, right?"
"Promise." I pull up to the curb across the street from the Horseshoe and park the car. "Okay, Mom--I just got here. I love you so much, okay? Tell Daddy I said hi."
"All right, honey. Call me when you get home, okay?"
"Okay," I answer, smiling despite the obligation.
Because I'm about to meet Cass and her friends to hang out, and nothing can bring me down from that.
CHAPTER 4
HAPPY HOUR AND HOMEWORK
MOLLY
The Horseshoe is nestled in the heart of Main Street, a quaint little bar with all the small-town charm I've come to expect from Roseville. It's unassuming enough from the outside, sharing a wall and owners with The Filly next door. It’s the fanciest restaurant in town, touting a mean salad bar with fancy olives and everything. The inside of The Horseshoe is a wash of honey blonde wood from walls to floor, complete with sawdust and peanut shells everywhere but the dance floor, which is currently empty. But I see old Bud Collier eyeing it from the end of the bar as George Strait plays on. Last time I was here, he was out there two-stepping alone, drunk as a skunk. If I knew how to two-step, I would have joined him just so he didn't look so lonely.
Cass is just sitting down and waves at me, and the gang turns and smiles, greeting me as I approach. My cheeks warm with my smile, my heart filled with a giddy gratitude for finding a place in the group of friends.
"Hey, y'all," I say, taking the seat next to Shelby and across from Cass, who's sitting between her best friend Jessa and her husband, Wilder. "Look at you two, out on a school night."
"I know!" Cass says with a smile. "Gonna get cray-zay."
Wilder smirks at her, his eyes all lovey dovey. He hands her the beer he just poured her from one of the foamy, golden pitchers on the table. "Thursday night crazy?"
She shrugs as she takes it. "Why not?" When she brings it to her lips and takes a sip, she closes her eyes and hums. "Man, that's good."
I want that feeling. But beer smells so bad, I can't fathom that particular beverage bringing that kind of vibe to the party in my mouth.
"How was work, Molly?" Jessa asks from the other side of Cass in that lovely British accent. She looks like a doll, with golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes and flawless, porcelain skin.
"Well, a second grader smuggled his class guinea pig into the library for story time by way of his hoodie pocket, which caused a lot of ruckus when she escaped and ran off. Oh, and, during quiet reading, one of Cass's first graders announced real loud that he farted in the non-fiction. The kids nearly lost their minds."
A chuckle rolls around the table even down to where Tate and Carlin sit. The bartender, Leo, brings me a Shirley Temple, slipping it onto the table with a wink. I whisper a thank you.
Cass shakes her head. "Ethan Martin. He brought his mom's bra to show and tell last week and told the class it was a sling shot for big kids."
Remy barks a laugh. "Wonder what his mama thought of that when you told her."
"Are you kidding?" Cass's brow arches. "I'm not about to tell Carrie her son brought her underwear to school for show and tell. I made him promise to go home, put it back where hefound it, and then never, ever speak of it again. I swear, he says everything he thinks out loud. In the middle of a lesson about the silent e, he raised his hand and asked,Is the e silent because it's dead?"
Shelby sighs next to me. "At least yours do wild shit because they're little. Mine are just wild."
"Oh no," Jessa says. "What happened?"
"So much." Shelby sounds exhausted. "The highlights? Two players are fighting over one of the varsity baseball boys. Our freshman pitching prodigy quit cheerleading to play softball and hasn't told her mom. And two other players are fighting over said ex-cheerleader. One of these days, I'm just going to let them smack each other around, but I'm afraid I'll lose half my team to broken hands and orthodontist appointments."
"Tate almost burned the fire station down yesterday," Wilder says with a smug look on his face.
Tate groans, rolling his eyes. "You are so dramatic, dude. It wasn't even that big of a deal."
"So," Wilder continues, "Tate has this big idea that he's gonna cook dinner, right? Except he can't cook for shit. Honestly, it's probably my fault. I should have assigned him a handler."
"It was spaghetti, for god's sake," Tate notes. "Not rocket science."
"And yet your dumbass didn't drain the three pounds of meat you cooked, then left the sauce cooking on high with no lid. Grease was splattering all over the place, and we have a gas range."
"You are such a baby. It was just a little grease fire."
