"Every word," Molly whispered, seemingly answering my unspoken thoughts.

When it was my turn again to choose a song for her, I didn't have to think about it.

The moment the lyrics of Nickelback's Far Away drifted from the little speaker, Molly flushed.

"Every word," I offered, repeating her earlier words. It was the only song I could play her that could explain everything I was feeling since she burst back into my life.

"Okay," she whispered, when the song had ended. "I think I've officially found a new favorite song."

I arched a brow. "So, I did good?"

She grinned back at me. "You sure did."

"Good enough that you'll go to the dance with me?"

She chuckled. "Not a chance."

I sighed wearily, exhausted from being repeatedly turned down by this girl. "Come on, Dolly. Be my date for homecoming."

"I already told you that I'm not going to homecoming, D."

"You're being pointlessly pessimistic about the situation."

"And you're being pointlessly persistent."

"It's happening."

"In your dreams."

I shook my head, deciding against pushing her for more than she was ready to give. "I found something else when I was searching through Mama's photo albums," I said, reaching into the back pocket of my jeans. "Fair warning, though," I added. "It's fucking horrifically embarrassing."

Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Gimme, gimme."

Retrieving the folded-up photograph, I handed it to her and watched as she carefully unfolded it. "Oh my god," she laughed, eyes glued to the memory that I had no doubt she was reliving. "The fancy dress parade. We went together. I remember this!" Her eyes danced with amusement. "Our mothers coordinated our outfits so that we matched –"

"Don't remind me," I muttered, shuddering at the photograph of us clad from head to toe in denim, with cowboy boots and Stetsons to match. We had our arms draped around each other and were beaming for the camera. Written on a cardboard cut-out draped around Molly's neck, were the words 'This King's little Queen of the south.'

"Jesus," I muttered, scratching my jaw. "White trash much?"

"Totally," she snickered. "What was the name of that song we learned how to slow dance to? The one we practiced for weeks to get right?" Her brows furrowed as her brain went into overdrive, hunting down the memory. "That's right," she squealed, choking out a laugh. "It was Garth Brooks' Two of a Kind…"

"That's the one," I added in reluctant admission. Hence the cushion stuffed under Molly's shirt, and the cardboard sign on my chest with the arrow pointing to her belly that said 'Working on a full house'.

"Oh, come on," she teased, laughing. "We won the best dressed at the barn dance afterwards, remember?"

"Because our mamas dressed us up like a couple of guests from the Jerry Springer show."

She laughed. "Look at my jean skirt."

I smirked. "Never mind the skirt, Molls. Look at your pig-tails."

"Wow." She grinned. "Our parents really hated us, huh?"