Chapter 11 #2
"Musta been why it took us so long to get engaged," she said, almost to herself. "Set a date. I mean, we're over thirty. We been together almost twenty years." She gave a soft, humorless laugh. "I think we both knew. But it was so easy. So comfortable."
The word comfortable hung in the humid air.
I took another drink to buy myself time.
"Comfortable isn't bad," I said carefully.
"No," she agreed. "It's not. But it's not… wildfire either."
Her gaze slid to the horizon, toward the pastures. Toward the barn.
"I don't want easy," she admitted quietly. "I want the kind of love that makes you feel like the world could end and you'd still be okay because that person's there. I want someone who sees me. Like really sees me. Not just the girl who's always been there."
That.
That right there.
I felt something shift in my chest.
Because she wasn't talking about Brody.
Not really.
She was talking about wanting more.
Wanting depth. Fire. Devotion.
And I'd seen the way she and Rhett circled each other earlier like magnets pretending the pull wouldn't inevitably snap them together.
I studied her profile.
She wasn't heartbroken.
She was… disappointed.
At the version of love she'd accepted.
"You don't sound angry," I said.
She shrugged. "I was. For like a minute." A small smile curved her lips. "But Brody doesn't do anything halfway. If he called it off, it's because he thought he was doin' the right thing. Even if he's wrong."
There was affection in her voice. Deep. Old.
But not longing.
That was the difference.
"And you?" she asked suddenly, turning those sharp green eyes on me. "What do you want?"
I almost deflected.
Almost made a joke.
But something about the way she asked—no judgment, no challenge—stopped me.
"I don't stay long enough to want more than exactly what I got."
"That sounds lonely."
"It's strategic."
She studied me. "You don't strike me as someone who runs because she doesn't feel. You strike me as someone who runs because she feels too much."
Damn.
I finished my beer and set it down.
"I don't mess with men who are still tangled up," I said.
"He's not tangled," she replied softly. "He's… untethered."
And that felt different.
"Just don't play with him if you're doing it ‘cause you’re bored," she said, gentle but firm. "He's got a big heart. Bigger than he lets on. And he's already feelin' like shit."
That did it.
Not jealousy.
Not warning.
A quiet plea.
And for the first time since I'd rolled into this town, I didn't feel like I was stepping into someone else's mess.
I felt like the path might actually be clear.
Maybe friend-zoning him hadn't been necessary.
Maybe he wasn't hung up.
Maybe he'd just been… brave.
The screen door banged open hard enough to rattle the frame.
Rhett stepped out onto the porch like a storm cloud in boots, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. Whatever had gone down inside with Mr. Calloway had clearly left a mark.
He didn't say anything at first. Just scrubbed a hand down his face and exhaled through his nose.
Sassy's head tipped slightly at the sound, but she didn't rush to him. Didn't ask questions.
She just shifted over on the wicker sofa.
Rhett hesitated half a beat before crossing the porch and dropping down beside her. The tension in him didn't vanish, but it bent. Softened. His arm stretched across the back of the couch behind her like it had lived there for years.
She leaned into his side without looking at him.
Like he was her gravity.
Rhett grabbed a can from the case without saying a word, cracked it open, and chugged til it was empty. His face twisted into a grimace. "I ain't drinkin' this piss in a can all night," he said, tossing the empty can in the still-full box. "Let's go."
"Yes!" Sassy shrieked, clapped her hands, and sprang to her feet. "The BP!"
"That's the bar, right?"
Sassy cackled and looped her arm through mine. "Yep. I haven't been since I've been back, and this one"—she tossed a thumb over her shoulder at Rhett—"never wants to go out. Acts like he's ninety." She stage-whispered the last part.
"I heard that!" Rhett barked behind us.
We were halfway down the porch steps when he called out again.
"Sass."
She didn't stop walking.
"What?" she hollered back.
"You ain't wearin' shoes."
She looked down at her bare feet like this was brand new information. "Oh."
Rhett sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who had clearly done this before. "Go grab some."
"You grab some!" she shot back without missing a beat.
He stared at her.
She stared right back.
Then she wiggled her toes at him.
And damn if he didn't turn around and head back inside.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
Domestic.
Effortless.
He returned with a pair of worn sandals dangling from two fingers. Instead of handing them to her, he crouched and set them at her feet like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Like this was routine.
Like he'd always done it.
She hopped in the backseat with me and pulled out what I can only describe as a satchel full of girly shit. Like she practically lived outta the damn bag.
"Sit still," she said.
I startled a bit as she started applying makeup to my face. She fixed me with a glare, so I sat still. "Fine. But make the eyes dark and the lips red."
She grinned at me and got to work. I wasn't normally one for this girly bonding shit, but there was something about this little pixie that made me wanna keep 'er.
And when we belted out Shania Twain songs at the top of our lungs with the windows rolled down all the way into town, I thought I just might.