With only a moment’s hesitation, she slides her hand into the crook of my elbow. Satin brushes my sleeve.
And I know.
Walking into that fundraiser with her on my arm isn’t going to be simple.
It’s going to be everything.
The drive into town is quiet at first, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It’s comfortable. Familiar. Wren fidgets in her seat, flicking through songs on my playlist until she finds one she’s vibing with. Fleetwood Mac fills the cab. Not any song, one of the songs that feels like summer. A lost memory of the two of us.
Her face lights up instantly.
“I love this song,” she breathes, like she’s found a lost treasure. “You have this on your playlist?”
How do I tell her I have all her favorite songs on my playlist? Even though we haven’t been together in ten years, I still find myself listening to her favorites, wishing she were riding shotgun, begging the world to give me another chance with her.
She turns it up and settles back into her seat, hands waving through the air as she vibes along with the rhythm.
I try my damndest to keep my eyes on the road, but it’s impossible not to glance over.
She’s riding shotgun the same way she always used to—window cracked, chin slightly tipped toward the breeze, hair shiftingwith the movement of the truck. For a split second, I’m not driving into town as an adult with scars and regrets.
I’m a teenager in love with my best friend. Windows down, sunburned arms resting on the wheel with my girl beside me. Her laughter loud and reckless as she sings along, getting half the words wrong, her body thrown out the open window as she lived carefree.
Summer days felt endless.
Back to a time when the world hadn’t broken us yet.
My chest tightens as I watch her for longer than I should, memorizing the way her mouth moves with the lyrics, the way her body shimmies to the beat like the song lives in her bones.
She feels it. I know she does, because her eyes flick to mine, catching me watching her.
“Eyes on the road, J,” she teases with a smirk.God, I love my nickname on her lips.
“Can’t help it,” I admit. “You always had good taste in music.”
“Have.” She laughs, warm and easy, turning the music down to a low hum beneath us, rather than filling the space.
I ease on the brakes as we drive along Main Street, turning onto a side street as I navigate us to the hall. The music fades as I turn down the volume.
But the feeling lingers.
Pulling into the lot, I kill the engine as the June sun sits high enough to wash everything in its golden glow. Wren reaches for the handle, but I place a gentle hand on her forearm to stop her.
“Stay,” I say, soft but firm.
She stares at me as I step out and round the hood, opening her door. The sunlight catches the green of her dress, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. As she looks up at me, something unreadable flickers across her face before she smiles.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I nod, offering her my arm. She hesitates for the briefest of seconds, but it’s long enough for me to recognize the concern inher eyes. She’s worried about who’s watching and what they’ll say. This damn town and their gossip. Is this what her life was like in California? Being on a reality show, in the spotlight, wouldn’t have been easy. And here she is, in a small town with busybodies who rival paparazzi.
I’m close to opening my mouth and reassuring her when she slips her hand into the crook of my elbow. Heat blossoms at our contact like a shot straight to the heart.
I guide her across the lot, aware of how effortlessly we move together. I admire the way her dress glows in the sunlight and how a few people near the entrance glance our way, not bothering to look away.
By the time we reach the doors, the talking around us has softened to curious whispers.
Betty Jones is stationed inside the door at the welcome table. Wire glasses sit perched on the tip of her nose as she checks people in. Her eyes flick up when we approach, her mouth tightening into something that isn’t quite a smile.
