I turn and look toward the woman he’s nodding at. And I realize it couldn’t have been Jessie at the desert table. Because tonight she’s in a lipstick-red dress and her hair is a long loose black cloud of temptation. She sways under the hanging lights and her eyes are bright and luminous.

When she sees Gavin looking her way, she smiles and it’s like I’m trying to look into the sun—she’s so beautiful that it hurts.

After I learned my dad would take away or destroy anything I cared about, it was easy to hide my emotions and pretend I didn’t have any. That I didn’t care about anyone at all. In reality, it didn’t take too many years until that became my truth. I shoved every emotion down until I didn’t feel anymore. I stopped caring.

Except with Jessie. It always hurt to see her and pretend I didn’t care, or worse, didn’t want her. When we were fifteen and Jessie made it clear she wanted Gavin and was disgusted by me, I should’ve been happy for them both. Happy my father would definitely never see how much I wanted her. But it made an angry abyss roar inside me. Right now, it’s roaring again.

I see the way Jessie looks at Gavin.

He straightens and rolls his shoulders.

He sees it too.

Like hell they’re meant to be.

Like hell this Miss Erma person is never wrong.

I may never have been able to tell Jessie how I feel and I may have screwed up my chance with her years ago, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and watch her chase my brother.

I turn to Gavin. “Hold my beer.”

6

Jessie

I knew I had fate on my side. Why else would Gavin be at the Sweetheart’s Dance? While I was getting ready, choosing between the green dress or the red, I sent up a prayer. I said, if this is meant to be, please let him come to the dance. And here he is.

So.

It’s meant to be.

Gavin’s across the green grass of the open field. He’s in a tight T-shirt and he looks rugged and lean. His hair sticks up a bit like he’s been out on some windy adventure. Will stands next to him. My skin tingles and I chalk it up to irritation. Of course he’d be here too. Unlike Gavin, he’s in a button-down shirt, his hair is smooth, and he looks as starched and uptight as ever. The thought of yanking his buttoned shirt open flashes through my mind. I shove it away.

The band starts to play, the fiddle player holds a long note, and then the mandolin comes in—the notes fly fast. I take a step towards Gavin.