guitar is mine. The mere fact that she let me hold it and didn’t freak out is more than I could say about Betty. Nobody touches her. Nobody but me.
I step between Willow’s knees, lightly laying my palms on her bare thighs. Looking her directly in the eye, I say with no reservation, “I saw you across the room a week ago and wanted to know, one, who the hell was behind Hank’s bar, and two, why the hell you weren’t already in my arms. I’ve been going crazy inside thinking it was just me. So no, I don’t think you’re crazy. Or if you are, I am too. Yeah, I feel it, Willow.”
I take her hand in mine and lay her palm on my chest, letting her feel the way my heart is racing. Slow and steady has left the building. Well, we’re outside, so there is no building, but the point’s the same. I’m going whole-hog, full-steam ahead, and praying she doesn’t slam shut the door she cracked open.
“Oh.” Her eyes are locked on our layered hands on my chest, but the edge of a smile lifts her lips.
I press a kiss to her forehead, not wanting to push too far, too fast. “Take a few shots of the city lights while I get our picnic set up, ’kay?”
She nods silently, and I give her a little space to get comfortable with where we are now. I had a little hidey-hole carved out, but now I’m hauling in one of those big, fluffy La-Z-Boy recliners and making myself right at home in her heart.
In the cab of the truck, I send a quick text to Brody.
Don’t wait up.
He wouldn’t, but it’s only polite to let your roomie know when you’re not coming home. Besides, I know Brody and Rix would love to have the house to themselves for the night. It’s awkward when we both still live in our family home, though Brody did finally move into the main bedroom.
Then I shoot one to Brutal.
You’re on your own in the morning.
Brody replies first with his usual response . . . a middle finger emoji which translates to everything from ‘okay’ to ‘fuck you’ to ‘I love you, bro’. Brutal texts back too.
About damn time. Can’t wait to meet her. She like chicken?
The seemingly nonsensical question is anything but. It’s a sort of code in the Bennett family and now ours. If you pass the family litmus test, Mama Louise gives her approval by showing you how to make her famous fried chicken. If you fail, no chicken cooking lessons for you.
I send Brutal a thumbs-up because I think Willow is the most chicken-frying worthy woman I’ve ever met, then grab the bag of food and the shakes. Juggling them, I drop them onto the tailgate beside Willow and climb up.
“Shakes are melted enough to be drinkable now, but we need to dig in or the fries are gonna be cold and gross.”
She sets her camera down to take the cardboard sleeve of fries I’m holding out. She munches on a few, and I do the same, comfortably silent for a moment as we stuff our faces.
“What about you? What was Willow Parker’s big dream when she was a little girl?” I ask, returning to our earlier conversation.
She disappears inside herself for a moment, her head tilted as she thinks. “I don’t know that I ever really had a dream, per se. Do you believe in destiny?”
I chew thoughtfully and nod. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I think we’ve all got free will to do right or fuck up, but I’d like to think there’s some bigger plan somehow. You?”
“Growing up, Mom and Dad were all about experiences. That’s what they encouraged Oakley and me to chase. It was never ‘make the winning goal’. It was more about ‘being a part of a team’ or ‘learning something new’ and ‘how can I help this cause or solve that problem?’ So I never really thought that one day, I want to be an astronaut or a teacher or a photographer like most kids. My dreams were to learn a language, visit the country, and be fluent enough to get around on my own. Things like that.”
“Damn. That makes my bright lights big city dream sound shallow as hell,” I say with a laugh. “And boring as fuck.”
Willow bumps me with her shoulder. “No, it doesn’t. A dream can’t be wrong or right. It just is.”