Chapters (44)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Julie Murphy
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
The two of them sandwich Hannah in a hug, and when she starts to squirm, Sheila reaches for Clem. “Now, both of y’all need to come over one night with Miss Camile before you leave.”
“Oh, ’Lita is already planning a peach-themed going-away party.”
Bekah’s phone buzzes. “Oh, shoot, my sister’s here.” She turns to Tucker. “We could give you a ride.”
“I’m giving him a ride,” I say before Tucker has a chance to answer. “Prom court biz,” I add through gritted teeth.
Bekah smiles and her bright-blue eyes bounce from me to Tucker, who nods. “Well, I’ll see y’all later,” she says, excusing herself.
As we all head our separate ways, Tucker follows me to my truck. “You really don’t have to give me a ride.”
“You going to run home now too?” I ask.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a stroll.”
“Get in,” I tell him. “But I’m surprised one of your good buddies wasn’t here to pick you up.”
He doesn’t take my bait and we drive in silence until I roll to a stop at a red light at a totally empty intersection. “So how is it that a mechanic’s car breaks down?”
He throws his head back with a laugh, his stubble-covered Adam’s apple bobbing. “A shitty truck is still a shitty truck.”
“Do you need a ride in the morning to pick it up?” I hate myself for even asking, and I rarely stir before eleven on a Saturday morning, but I’m starting to feel like I’m not in control of my brain.
“Nah. I’ll get the tow truck so I can fix it in the shop.”
“Hey, Tucker, were you embarrassed of me today? In the parking lot with Bryce and Patrick. Is that why you wouldn’t look at me? Because if you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, it’s best if we go our separate ways now.”
“No,” he says firmly. “God, no.” He runs his hands down his thighs, pushing so hard his nails turn white. “I was being stupid and I—”
“I’m sure being paired with me for prom court hasn’t been . . . easy on you,” I say, laying the guilt on thick just like Mom.
“I wasn’t embarrassed by you. I was embarrassed to be seen with those asshats.”
“Well, you didn’t do a great job of showing it. Aren’t those asshats your old football buddies?” It’s hard not to feel his answer isn’t some kind of cop-out.