Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“Of course there are,” I agree. Why deny it? “But… it’s kind of, sort of terrifying.”
“Why?” she asks, twirling her wedding band. Easy for her to ask when she’s found her happily ever after.
“Because you said it… I’m a big-city gal. In case you forgot, my life is in Washington. Sam’s life is here.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” she rebukes.
“What… you think he’s just going to pack up and move there with me?”
“Why not? His job is mobile. Have laptop, will travel.”
I shake my head, ignoring that small punch of hope that something like that could be a possibility. “No… Sam is Whynot. Whynot is Sam. He loves this place and would never leave, and even if he would, he’d be miserable. All of this was supposed to be temporary. I came back to help Muriel. Not to”—I gesture vaguely at the table, the town, the stars beginning to blink overhead—“fall for the guy next door.”
Her brows lift. “So, which is it? You fallin’ for him… or just visitin’?”
The question hangs heavy between us. I swirl my wine, watching the pale gold whirlpool catch the fading light. Somewhere behind us, a tractor engine sputters back to life, and the sound fills the silence I can’t seem to.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “Sam feels right in a way nothing in DC ever has. But that’s where my work is. It’s where I’ve built my purpose. When I’m there, I feel like I’m doing something important. When I’m here…” I glance around at the twinkle lights and the farmers laughing by the pumps. “I feel like I’m someone.”
Larkin studies me, her smile softening. “Maybe you’re both. Maybe you just need to figure out where your voice sounds loudest. You could take that passion and do something here with it. And selfishly, I’d kill for you to come back home for good.”
I snort, half amused, half touched. “You sure you don’t moonlight as a therapist?”
She clinks her glass against mine. “Nah, just Southern. We’re born with the gift of nosy wisdom.”
A burst of laughter escapes me. It feels good, easy. Around us, Whynot hums in that perfect, unpolished harmony it does best—trucks idling, cicadas warming up for their nightly concert, the faint hum of a country song leaking from someone’s cab.
Another farmer rolls up in a beat-up Chevy and tips his hat. “Don’t drink all the good stuff, ladies.”
Larkin waves. “Too late!”
He chuckles, shakes his head and shuffles inside. The scene could be painted on a postcard labeled Southern Contradictions: Exhibit A.
But even as I laugh, a knot of worry sits low in my chest. Sam and I are easy together—dangerously easy—and I can’t tell if that’s comfort or warning. I sip my wine and picture him on his porch swing, the way he listens when I talk, really listens, like my words have weight. The thought aches in all the right and wrong places.
By the time the bottle’s empty and the fairy lights threaded through the overhead pergola are glowing full strength, there are no barriers to our discussion. We talk more about love, particularly with Larkin’s new marriage to Deacon. She keeps pushing the notion of a forever with Sam and I just nod along at the possibility. And when it’s time to leave, I pull Larkin into a hug.
“This was so much fun,” she says as we squeeze each other. “Let’s plan another one soon.”
“Just tell me when,” I say as we pull apart.
“And seriously, Penny… I know I’m pushing this happily ever after with Sam, but it’s because I want you to know a really deep and true love. I’ve found it and it’s the best feeling in the world. I just want my best friend to have that too.”
Her last words stick with me as I drive to Sam’s. The road winds past fresh tilled fields that will soon be planted with cotton, soybeans and field corn. Sam grew up picking tobacco right from these very plots, a horrid summer job that many of my friends did to earn money. It’s part of our way of living.
I think about Sam, how very ingrained he is in this community. So much so, even with his own mother turning against him as a result of well-intentioned judgment, he’s not lost hope about this town.
My heart’s doing that fluttery, foolish thing it does when I let myself think this could last, because just like I told Larkin, I don’t know that Sam would be the same if he ever gave it up.
Just as I know now—it isn’t a simple fling. It never was.
Sam’s porch is lit by string lights and fireflies, the kind of magic no decorator could replicate. He’s stretched out on the swing when I pull up, one arm draped over the backrest.
“You’re late,” he calls, grinning as I climb the steps. “I was about to send a search party.”