Page 163 of Colt

“So does feeling your feelings,” Colt says, tipping back his Shiner Bock. “But that’s another story for another day.”

“Amazing how much better you feel when you talk about shit,” I reply. “And I love talking about shit with you, Colt.”

“I love talking about shit with you too, Lainey.”

Nash lets out a low whistle. “Would you look at that! Two people openly communicating. Trying to understand each other. Giving a shit about how the other feels. Sounds like a solid foundation for a relationship to me.”

Mack gives him a look. “Okay, Dr. Phil.”

“I’m more of an Oprah,” Nash replies. “Deep thoughts, great hair.”

“Love me some Oprah,” Ryder says with a sigh.

I laugh. “I love y’all.”

It hits me that I’m able to be honest this way at this table because these people are my friends. Good friends. Friends who clearly give a fuck about me and want the best for me.

Billie meets eyes with me across the table. There’s a knowing gleam in hers, one that has my pulse skipping several beats.

She’s a smart cookie. I admire her tenacity and her appetite for risk. She’s taken a lot of big swings recently. The barrel racing, the whole dating-her-older-brother’s-best-friend thing. And how she’s building an animal therapy program from the ground up.

She’s risked everything, but now she has everything. There’s a lesson to be learned there.

Beck raises his beer. “Whatever you decide, Lainey, it’s been an absolute pleasure getting to know you. You’re truly something special, and I know that you’re gonna soar no matter where you end up.”

I feel Colt’s eyes on me as he raises his beer too. “He’s right, you know. I just hope you’ll let me be along for the ride.”

Christ in heaven, I’m a goner.

I raise my cocktail and quietly burst into tears when everyone clinks my glass.

I feel loved.

I feel seen.

I feel so happy I want to yell.

Who cares if my parents don’t get it? Who cares what Mom thinks? What if the only thing that matters is what I know about myself?

I know I’m happy in Hartsville.

I know I’m happy doing creative work that’s project-oriented.

I know I’m happy being part of Colt’s little family. Well, not so little, considering there’s nine of them. Ten if you count Ryder.

We drink and we laugh, and when the band comes on, we all head to the dance floor. On the way, I make a pit stop at the bar to say hi to Cash and Mollie.

“Lainey!” She throws up her arms and wraps me in a tight hug. “You still gotta come by the studio to get your boots! How are things, honey?”

It’s a simple pleasure, seeing a familiar face. But it’s a potent one too, because I’m smiling like an idiot as I pull back. “Things are good. Really good.”

“I heard through the grapevine you’re crushing your assignment.”

Sipping the watery dregs of my margarita, I set the empty glass on the bar. “Word travels fast around here.”

“Get used to it,” she replies with a smile.

“And you? Everything’s good?”