Jesus. When did I become someone who lived a lie?
“I’m calling Tacoma,” Papaw announced, pulling out his phone as we walked into the living room. “We’re throwing you a proper welcome-home party at the clubhouse.”
My stomach dropped. “Papaw, no. I really don’t want?—”
“Baby girl,” he interrupted, his tone making it clear this wasn’t up for negotiation. “My only granddaughter comes home after eight years, and you think we’re not gonna celebrate? The prodigal granddaughter has returned, and by God, we’re gonna party.”
Oh boy.
“Pete Jackson, you put that phone down this instant,” Granny scolded from the kitchen. “Can’t you see the girl is tired? She needs food and rest, not a bunch of rowdy bikers whooping and hollering all night.”
“Jean, darlin’, with all due respect, this is happening,” Papaw said, already dialing. “The whole club’s been waiting for this day.”
The whole club. That meant...
No.
I wasn’t going to think about him, or wonder if he’d be there, or what he’d look like after all these years, or if he’d even want to see me. I was over all that. I had been for a long time.
“Besides,” Papaw continued, “these girls need some meat on their bones. Look at ‘em, Jean. They’re wasting away.”
Granny poked her head out of the kitchen, flour still dusting her hands. “I can fix that. Y’all just sit yourselves down and let me take care of you.”
“Actually,” I said, grabbing Sondra’s hand. “I’m going to show Sondra to the guest room, and then I desperately need a shower. I feel disgusting.”
“Of course, baby,” Granny said warmly. “You know where everything is. Clean towels are in the linen closet.”
I led Sondra up the narrow staircase, the old wooden steps creaking under our feet just like they did when I was a kid. The guest room was at the end of the hall, bright and airy with yellow eyelet curtains and a pink and yellow patchwork quilt that Granny had made by hand.
“This is really nice,” Sondra said, setting her bag on the bed and looking around with genuine appreciation.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up for some reason.
Sondra nodded, still taking it all in. “It all makes sense now,” she added softly.
“What does?”
“You. The way you always want to take care of everyone. Your traditional values. How you never curse in front of older people.” She smiled. “I can see it now.”
That put a warm feeling in my chest that spread all the way down to my toes. Taking care of people was my love language—it always had been. Even when I was little, I was the kid who brought home stray cats and wounded birds.
“Get some rest,” I told her. “Granny’s going to stuff us full of food whether we like it or not.”
“I like it already,” Sondra said with a grin.
I made my way down the hallway to my old room, pausing with my hand on the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, I pushed it open and stepped inside.
Everything was exactly how I’d left it. The walls were still covered with posters of Faith Hill, Shania Twain, and the Dixie Chicks. My old guitar was propped in the corner, gathering dust. The pink chenille bedspread I’d begged Granny for when I turned sixteen was still stretched across my twin bed.
It was like stepping back in time.
I flopped down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling where I’d stuck glow-in-the-dark stars when I was thirteen. How many nights had I laid there, dreaming about becoming a famous singer? How many times had I practiced acceptance speeches in this mirror, clutching my hairbrush like a Grammy?
And how many nights had I second guessed it all because all I wanted in life was Weston Basham?
Sighing, I pushed myself up off the bed and headed for the bathroom. A hot shower was exactly what I needed to wash off the grime and clear my head.
Twenty minutes later, I felt human again. I’d scrubbed off all the leftover stage makeup and airplane funk. My hair was clean and smelled like the sunflower shampoo I’d used back in high school—apparently Granny still kept it stocked.
