“She wasn’t all that,” I said, guilt creeping up my neck. My “estranged” wife would be so hurt if she heard me say that. But if my mom heard? She’d twist my ear off. Mom despised a liar. Almost drowned Bowen once, washing his mouth out with dish soap when she caught him lying. And saying Juliette wasn’t all that was the biggest lie I’d ever told. Jules was everything. And every day we were apart, I felt myself dying a little more.
But I had to stay strong. Had to outlast her if I wanted her back. Jules and I were locked in an intense game of chicken, and I needed her to swerve soon. Needed her to realize that, like me, she was dying inside, too.
“Uh-huh,” Boone deadpanned. “If that’s true, why do you look so forlorn?”
“Forlorn? M’kay. What kind of word is that? Have you been watching Anne of Green Gables again?”
He jammed his elbow into my side. “Don’t knock it till you watch it. Besides, women love a man who’s comfortable in his masculinity. Forlorn,” he said in his thesaurus voice. “Pitifully sad and abandoned or lonely.” He paused like he was turning a page. “Also, unlikely to succeed or be fulfilled; hopeless. That’s exactly what you are.”
“Unlikely to succeed or be fulfilled? Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“If the shoe fits.”
“Pfft.Tell me again why you turned down Harvard to become a hotshot.”
“Easy. Harvard was seven miles from home. This is two thousand nine hundred and fifteen.”
“Exactly.” I shoved him. “I despise home as much as you do.”
“Nah. Unlike me, you have a great family that you miss. I see you checking their socials every night. Texting James, Theo, Cash, and now Bowen.” He shook his head again. “I don’t get it. Why punish yourself out here, when you could be back there living in the lap of luxury?”
“Because.”
“Because?”
“Just because.”
“How about we trade?” He snapped his fingers. “Like in that Richard Gere movie. I’ll take your name, dye my hair red, and magically grow six inches. I’ll pass as you while you rot out here in this jail?—”
“Jail?” I waved my hand over the amazing sunset.
He grabbed the back of my neck and angled my head down to the charred valley below. “You just gave the last four months of your life to that. So yes, jail is the correct term.” He shook his head. “As I said, you stay here, and I’ll go back toSeddledowne, eat your Granny’s pie, throw the football around withtheBlue Bishop, be in a spy movie with your gorgeous aunt?—”
“Who’s married and way too old for you,” I said.
“—record a song with your best friend. Or better yet, your best friend and your uncle, Ford Freaking Dupree—who has how many Grammys?”
“Four thousand three hundred and seventy-seven,” I said flatly.
“So many Grammys you’ve lost count,” he said, as if I’d never spoken. “And listen to another aunt and uncle read their latest work in progress—sure to be a bestseller—every evening, all while sitting by a fire pit overlooking Lake A. Then, when that’s over, I’ll head home to make love to your wife who is literally a supermodel.”
The thought of Boone making love to my wife made me want to break his face. “I thought you had a crush on my sister.”
“It was hypothetical, dweebus. And I don’t even know your sister. Yet. We already established that.”
“You’re not making love to her either. Let’s get that straight right now.”
“Oh.” He slapped his thigh. “I forgot one. And instead of being a self-sabotaging clown, I’d go ahead and make up with your other best friend Liam. Then I’d get season tickets and go to every one of his NFL games.”
“Ex-best friend,” I growled. “And you’d be yawning the entire season while you watched him sit the bench on a losing team. You know you’re about one more word from going over this cliff.”
Boone threw his hands up. “What’re you doing here, Griff? Go home.”
“I’m finding myself,” I snapped. “Not every Dupree has to live in Seddledowne, all right?” Boone opened his mouth toannoy me some more, so I cut him off. “First of all, that Richard Gere movie is called ‘Somersby.’” His brows flicked up, impressed. “It was filmed a half-hour from my house,” I admitted. “And second?—”
“Secondly,” he corrected.
“Andsecond,” I said, in a grating, redneck accent. “Jack Somersby, aka Horace Townsend, dies at the end of the movie?—”
