Epilogue 2
SHELBY
It's the first day of summer, and I'm already bored.
It happens this way every year. The second May rolls around, I get antsy. The seniors I coach have their last softball game. Last quiz. Last English final. They graduate. My friends, family, and I spend Memorial weekend on the river in pontoon boats.
And then? Nothing but free time,
Plenty of people live for it. My sister-in-law Cass, for instance, has been waiting all school year to turn off her alarm. My dad is retired and could fish, drink coffee, and smoke on the front porch all day. And he has since he couldn't work anymore.
But not me. I've been dreading this day since August.
I wish I could tell you why I'm like this.
If my schedule's not full, I panic. But I have a plan, one that doesn't involve turning off my alarm.
It does, however, include books, baking, and baseball.
I'll work more shifts at dispatch for the volunteer fire department.
Take care of some projects around the house. Hang out with Dad.
Plenty to do.
It doesn't ease my mind that all my friends are paired up and busy making out. Everybody but me and Tate.
Tate, my brother's best friend.
Tate, the shameless manwhore.
Tate, who's never taken anything seriously a day in his life.
Tate, who used to be mine.
We bicker like it's boxing. I don't know why he gets under my skin so bad.
Okay, that's a lie, but admitting that I'm butthurt because he quit being my friend in the eighth grade makes me sound ridiculous. But the truth is, once upon a time, he was my best friend too. And then, he wasn't. He was off with Wilder, and I got left in the cold.
Doesn't matter. The point is, he's the last person I want to get stuck with when the couples peel off from the group to two step or canoodle or fool around in the bar bathroom.
I don't know how many times in the last couple months Tate and I have been the last two at the table, watching our friends float around in happy pink love bubbles.
It sucks.
"You tryin' to get a fire going, or is something on your mind?" Dad asks from the couch over the familiar hum of the baseball game on TV.
"Hmm?"
"I think you sighed fifty times in the last five minutes. Gotta be some kinda record." His voice is easy and rough, his lips angled in the smirk my brother inherited.
"Just thinking about summer is all."
"Your favorite."
I huff a little laugh. "I'll get by. I've got big plans."
"Oh, yeah? How big?"
"Huge. Colossal. Don't even know how I'll do it all."
He watches me with that quiet, cavalier look on his face, but his eyes are sharp.
"You know it's okay to do nothing. Doing nothing still takes doing."
My nose wrinkles. "But you have to be doing something even when you're doing nothing."
He shrugs, shifting his gaze back to the TV. "I dunno. I do nothing a lot. Gives me time to think."
"See? That's what I mean. You're not doing nothing--you're thinking."
"Sure, but I made space to do it with the nothing."
"All right, Socrates," I say on a laugh. "Maybe someday I'll be chill like you, but until then, I bake."
"Sweetheart, I'll never tell you to stop that."
When I stand, I press a kiss to the top of his head and walk to the kitchen to do just that.
"Been meaning to tell you," he starts, "I ran into Tate the other day…"
I give him a weird look over my shoulder as I pull out mixing bowls. "You see him all the time. Unless you mean that you actually ran into him."
"No, nothing like that. He asked after you."
"I don't know why. It's not like I don't see him at baseball practice and games and the fire station and The Horseshoe. I literally hung out with him all weekend for the holiday. A couple hours is enough to pitch myself out of a moving vehicle. I'm surprised I'm not in traction."
He shakes his head at me. I crack eggs. "You sure are opinionated today."
Another shrug, a sip of his beer. "Just think he could use a friend."
"He has plenty of those. Tell him to call Wilder."
"Wilder's busy with Cass and Cricket."
"Remy--"
"Is busy playing ball and with his girl. And Grey is wrapped up too."
The frown on my face is mighty. "Tate and I aren't friends, Daddy."
"Used to be." He's pretending to watch the game, sipping his beer all casually. Faker.
"We were kids. He was likable when we were kids.
Now I'd rather spend the rest of my days mud hunting for frogs to kiss than hang out with Tate on purpose.
" Dad opens his mouth to argue, but I'm off on my rant.
"All he does is chase tail and laze around and needle me.
I can't get within two feet of him without one of us getting started. "
"Seen it for a decade, Shelby. He's like family."
I eye him. "What are you getting at, Daddy?"
"We don't leave family out in the cold."
The doorbell rings, and in a huff, I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and head for the door.
"I don't know what you're on about, but if Tate needs a friend, he can keep looking, because it couldn't be me."
I pull open the door in a whoosh, the air blowing back to disturb my hair, brush my cheeks, and wipe the look off my face.
Because on my doorstep is Tatum Rhodes, tall and gorgeous and smirking at me. His skin is golden tan, his dusty brown hair threaded with gold. His crisp, blue eyes pin me down, stick me to the spot like a bug in a case.
And in his arms is a box full of his things, a stuffed duffel bag slung across his broad, muscular chest.
"Good morning to you too, roomie."