“Remind her of your history—all the years you have together.” A drop of sarcasm drips into my voice. “And most importantly, show her what an amazing guy you are.”
Stanton smirks. “That last part won’t be hard at all.”
I flick the brim of his hat with more enthusiasm than I’m feeling. “Go get her, cowboy.”
He turns, but pauses in the doorway. “Thanks, Sofia. For everythin’.”
And then he’s going down the stairs. With a big breath, I sit on his bed and get to work, all the while imagining what it would’ve been like if he had stayed.
11
Stanton
I pull up the drive, climb out of my truck, and lean back against it, arms folded, taking it all in.
Jenny’s parents’ place is like the land that time forgot—it never really changes. The white paint on the house is forever peeling in the exact same spots. The big oak tree on the side still hangs the same swing I used to push her on—and still has that one perfect branch that reaches just close enough to Jenn’s window to climb through.
Her family—like mine—has worked these acres for generations. But where cattle ranching is slightly more lucrative and dependable, crop farmers like the Monroes have a tougher time. You can harvest a thousand acres of corn, but if all you’re getting is pennies a pound, there won’t be much to show for it.
“Jenny!” Nana calls from her perch on the porch. “That boy is here again.”
That boy.
Nana was never exactly my biggest fan. She always eyed me with a certain suspicion—and annoyance. The way you’d watch a fly buzzing around your food, knowing exactly what his intentions are, just waiting for him to land.
So you can smack his guts out with a newspaper.
After Jenny got pregnant—after we didn’t get married—all bets were off. Nana became downright hostile. But the shotgun that’s lying across her lap as she rocks back and forth in her wicker chair—that’s not for me.
Well . . . it’s not just for me.
Nana’s husband died when Jenn was still in diapers. Thrown from a pissed-off horse, old Henry just happened to land the wrong way at the wrong time. Nana’s kept Henry’s shotgun with her ever since—she even sleeps with it. Should the day come that robbers, hooligans, or Yankees drop from the sky, Nana’s determined to take out as many of them as she can. It’s not loaded, and every member of Jenny’s family does their damnedest to keep it that way.
Some say Nana has dementia, but I don’t believe that for a second—her mind’s as sharp as her forked tongue. I think instead of walking softly and carrying a big stick, Nana just feels better stomping loudly and carrying a goddamn shotgun.
Jenny pokes her head out the screen door—hair tied up in a messy bun, still wearing pink hospital scrubs from the night shift she just got off working. She stares at me for several moments before the worry on her face slips into a small smile.
Friendly—a little guilty—but not surprised.
Now that we’ve both had a few days to cool off from our telephone conversation, she knew I’d come. I hold up the six-pack of Budweiser, raising my brows in question.
She nods, then jerks her head toward the inside of the house. “Let me just go get changed.”
This is our tradition. Since we were sixteen years old, whenever I’d come home, when we wanted to be alone or if there was something big we had to talk about—it was a six-pack of Bud and a ride to the river.
A blanket on the bank is our therapy couch. Hasn’t failed us yet, and I have no intention of letting it fail us now.
After Jenny disappears from the doorway, I climb slowly up the porch steps—the way you’d approach a hibernating, crotchety old bear. You’re fairly certain it’s safe, but it’s best to be ready to bolt just in case it has one good swipe of its claws left.
I tip my hat to Nana in greeting. “Ma’am.”
Her eyes thin to razor-sharp slits. “I don’t like you, boy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her crooked finger juts out at me. “You’re a Satan. Slitherin’ in to trick Eve out of Paradise.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My great-grandbaby is the best thing you ever done.”
One side of my mouth pulls up in a smirk. “Can’t say I disagree with you about that.”
“Shoulda shot you years ago,” she grumbles.
I take the seat beside her, bracing my hands on my spread knees—like I’m giving her statement its due consideration. “I don’t know . . . if you shot me, there’d be nobody left to bring you your favorite drink.”
I lift my shirt, flashing the small bottle of Maker’s Mark Cask Strength hidden beneath, like a drug dealer on a corner. Citing her health, Jenny’s mother cut Nana off from the bourbon years ago—or at least tried to. But Nana’s a sneaky, crafty old bird.
Like a vulture.
She stares at the bottle, licking her thin lips the way a man who’s sighted an oasis among miles of desert would do. It might seem unbecoming to bribe an old woman with liquor. Tasteless to pump her for information. But this isn’t about manners, or respect, or doing the right thing.
This is about fucking winning.
Plus . . . I would’ve brought Nana the revered Cask Strength anyhow. I’ve been sneaking her bottles of top-shelf brands for years. And she still hates me.
“Tell me about Jimmy Dean.”
She tilts back with confusion. “The sausage? We got some in the freezer.”
I roll my eyes. “No, the guy Jenny thinks she’s marrying—James Dean.”
And it’s like I’ve spoken the magic words. Years fade from Nana’s countenance as her scowl falls away and a dreamy smile takes its place. The first one I’ve seen in decades.
“You mean JD? Mmm-hmm, he’s a fine specimen of a man. If I were forty years younger, I’d make a play for him myself. Handsome, polite . . . he’s a good boy.” Then the familiar glower is back in place. “Not like you—Satan.”
I just chuckle. “What’s good ole JD do for a livin’?”
“He teaches at the high school. Chemistry or such . . . He’s a smart man. And talented—only been there this past year and he’s already assistant football coach. When that Dallas Henry gets booted from the head coachin’ position, I imagine JD’ll take his place.”
Mmm . . . old Sausage Link is coaching football at the same school where he used to be the jock-strap collector. There’s irony for you.
Nana eyes my hand as it rubs the bottle of bourbon, like a genie might spring out of it.
“What else?” I push.
She sighs, mulling it over. “His daddy passed on a few months ago. JD sold their farm and is havin’ a great big house built, brand new, in that fancy development out on 529. That’s where he’s takin’ Jenny to live . . . and Presley.”
My boot hits the porch with an angry thud. Over my dead fucking body.
Nana reads me well. “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy. You got no one to blame but yerself.” She folds her arms and straightens with a haughty sniff. “You’re not a bad daddy, I’ll give ya that much. But . . . Jenny needs a man . . . a man who’s here.”
“I am here,” I tell her softly.
“Humph. And from what I hear told, you’re not alone. Brought a pretty little city girl with ya. A La-tina.”
Jenny’s mother’s voice hollers from inside the house, proving once again that a small town is a lot like the Mafia—ears everywhere.
“Momma! Be nice.”
Nana gives as good as she gets. “Don’t you tell me how to be!” Then she offers me a pearl of wisdom. “One good thing about dyin’—you don’t need to be nice to no one.”
Oh yeah—Nana’s dying. For as long as I can remember. She’s just taking her time actually getting to the dead part.
“I did bring someone,” I confess. “A friend—Sofia. You two will get on real well—she doesn’t suffer fools any more than you do.”
I tap the bottle of Maker’s Mark with my fin
ger. “Now tell me somethin’ . . . uncommon about JD. Somethin’ the whole town’s not privy to.”
She looks at me thirstily. And admits, “Well . . . he don’t drink much. Can’t hold his liquor. But I don’t think that’s a bad quality in a man—nobody likes a drunk.”
That’s interesting.
“Anything else?” I nudge.
She strains her memory for a moment. “Oh—he’s allergic to peppers. His face blows up like an overfed tick if he tastes just one.”
And that’s even more interesting.
Satisfied, I hold the bottle of bourbon out to Nana, keeping my hand low, out of the view of the window behind us just in case Jenny’s momma is looking. She snatches it from me like a spoiled child takes candy, slipping it under the blanket across her lap.
Jenny steps outside, dressed in cutoff denim shorts and a simple white T-shirt, as toned and fresh faced as she was at eighteen. I may be pissed at her, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s sexy as hell, and sweet, and . . . I’ve missed her.
“Ready?” she asks.
I stand and tip my hat to Nana. “Always a pleasure, ma’am.”
Her only farewell is a frown.
Jenny walks to her grandma and kisses her cheek. Then I hear her whisper, “Don’t let Momma smell that bourbon on your breath. She’ll send you to bed without supper.”
Nana cackles and taps Jenn’s cheek with love.
We walk toward the truck, but pause at the bottom of the porch steps when Jenny’s momma comes out. Despite the deep laugh and worry lines that wrinkle June Monroe’s face, she’s a good-looking woman—attractively full figured, long blond hair with streaks of silver.
She gives me a tight, forced smile. “Stanton. You’re lookin’ well.”
“Thanks, June. It’s good to be home.”
June doesn’t hate me as much as her mother does, but I wouldn’t say she particularly likes me either. Unlike Wayne, Jenn’s daddy—I’ve always been the son he never had. But I doubt either one is thrilled to have me back, disrupting the grand wedding plans. Ruby still lives with her parents too—five kids and counting—so I imagine the Monroes would be happy to have at least one of their daughters married off and out of the house.
“Jenny,” her mother says, high pitched with warning, “we have the dress fittin’ this afternoon. Can’t be late.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before Presley gets home from practice.”
I hold the truck door open. Shutting it behind Jenn, I climb into the driver’s seat and we head to the river.
• • •