The weight of it, the responsibility of it, wraps around me, but it doesn’t feel like a burden. It feels like warmth.
I cover his hand with mine and give a squeeze, truly understanding what it meant when I whispered okay even though I was uncertain. He flips his hand and our fingers lace together like they never spent time not entwined.
My head tilts back and I let my eyes slide closed. I feel the nervousness, the anxiety, the fear, slide through me. I let it. It’s real.
But it doesn’t get to define this moment.
Then I feel the trust, the strength, the history that I share with the man I’m holding hands with. It’s real too and I’m going to let myself lean into it.
And give him trust right back.
I feel the truck turn, and I know where we are without opening my eyes. “Sagebrush,” I whisper, a dandelion seed on the breeze, and Everton squeezes my hand.
We let go, but only because he needs his hand. I don’t feel the loss because our fingers will tangle together again.
“Come on,” Rian’s voice is giddy as she practically jumps out of the truck too fast for anyone to stop her. Over her shoulder she throws out, “You want to get to the mac and cheese before I eat it all.”
My laughter fills the cab, punctuated by the door she’s thrown closed haphazardly. When I look at Everton, he’s watching me intently. I’m still not used to his focus being on me like it is right now.
Almost too intense.
Almost too much.
Except for the way it makes me feel seen in a way I haven’t been in years. Not since him. Not by anyone else.
Always him.
“Tell me, Tiny Dancer,” he demands, the words hoarse and commanding.
“I’m a little scared,” I whisper. I glance at the house, the same one where I spent so much time.
This family became like my own after a while. I knew this land. I knew these people.
And I walked away from all of it. I couldn’t look back. Not because I was better off.
Because it hurt too much.
I knew what I was missing. I knew what I left behind.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t need to do it.
“No one is mad at you,” he tells me, his voice earnest in a way that has my eyes snapping up to meet his. His whiskey-colored eyes are filled with conviction. “Everyone wanted you to make your dreams come true. And you did. There’s no resentment in this house,” his voice is a low lullaby my soul leans into, “only pride.”
When I hear the front door open again after it slammed closed after Rian ran in moments ago, I look up to find Ford Connors standing with his arm wrapped around his wife, Arden. I can’t help but bite my lip.
Everton reaches over and pulls it free before gripping my chin and turning my face back toward him. “Trust that people only want to witness you fly, not put you in a cage.”
I huff out a laugh and fight the tears filling my eyes because I don’t want them to fall. “When did you become a poet, Everton Connors?” My voice drops into something softer, something real, “When did you learn how to say all the right things and wrap every syllable with something unfathomable?”
The grin he flashes me is the same one from all those years ago. Boyish. Rakish. Sinful and sweet.
When I reach toward the door handle, he arches an eyebrow. The challenge is clear and I slowly pull my hand away. I swear I hear Ford chuckle as Everton bounds out of the truck and around to my side in no time at all. I can’t tear my eyes away from him; I don’t want to.
He helps me out of the truck and the warmth of his hand on the small of my back as he leads me to the house is grounding. Ford and Arden share a look before looking back at me with wide eyes. Well, Arden has wide eyes; Ford looks almost smug, even if it doesn’t make any sense.
“Brielle?” Arden’s voice is tentative when I’m close enough for her to reach out and pull me into a hug. If she were so inclined.
“Hi, Mrs. Connors,” I greet her softly, politely. Uncertainly.
