As we walk back out through the bar, I search for Tucker, but he’s nowhere to be found. The House of Way is fresh on my mind as I start the truck, but the thing I really can’t get out of my head is the memory of Tucker Watson and our gazes linking in the middle of the only gay bar in a hundred-mile radius.

We drive home and behind us the Hideaway stands like a lighthouse, and even as it grows smaller in the distance, we still feel the warmth of its beacon light.

Seventeen

That night, I lie in bed with my phone dangling from my fingers, an open text message to Tucker on the screen. The flashing of the cursor is the only thing keeping me awake. I type out failed texts one after the other.

Maybe I was hallucinating, but were you—backspace, backspace, backspace.

Did my eyes deceive me—backspace, backspace, backspace.

Stalking me now, are you? Backspace, backspace, backspace.

I’m guessing you didn’t make the hike all the way out to the Hideaway just to see me. Backspace, backspace, backspace.

I try once more.

What other secrets are you keeping?

I hit send and stare at my phone for . . . as . . . long . . . as . . . I . . . possibly . . . can . . .

The next morning—no, I check my phone, afternoon—I stumble out of bed in search of the source of the scent of freshly cooked bacon.

As I’m walking down the hallway to the kitchen in the silk robe I wore last night, I say to whoever will listen, “Do you think Miss Piggy knows how good bacon tastes?”

“No, but I bet Kermit does,” says a voice—a voice belonging to—

“Tucker!” I screech. “What the hell are you doing in my house?” I pull my robe tight around me, but he still definitely saw me in my boxers. Tucker Watson stands in the middle of my kitchen in jeans and an undershirt, chugging a glass of water. “Is this a hallucination? Do I have a tumor? Is this a stroke? Is that smell burning toast?”

“No, no, no, and yes,” says Mom as she walks past me, teasing her fingers through my hair. “Your sister definitely burned toast at one point this morning.”

Tucker puts his glass down on the counter and wipes his mouth with his forearm. He nods toward Mom. “Thank you, ma’am, for the water. I better get back to it.” He looks to me. “Morning, Waylon.”

“To what?” I ask, still completely shocked at this boy’s ability to show up in the most unlikely places like a damn leprechaun.

“You will do no such thing,” Mom says to him. “You sit down and have some bacon and eggs. I was about to make some fresh toast for Waylon.”