Page 8 of One Last Summer

A flash of panic tightens my chest. It’s already time to head to Plain Daisy Ranch? I silently wish time would slow down.

We lay down to let the heated rays of sun dry us off. My nerves are just calming down when a hand clamps around mine. I open my eyes, turning my head to the side to shield the sun.

“We should get going.” Ben’s eyes hold regret, like he’s sorry we have to leave already because this will be our last time here as a couple together for who knows how long, maybe forever.

Sure, I’ll be back at some point with my friends, but not with Ben.

I nod and gather our things. I’m just putting the sunscreen back in the bag when Emmett approaches us with a sheepish look.

“Can I get a lift back with you guys?” he asks.

“Yep.” Ben nods at him toward the truck.

Ben would never hold a grudge or fight with his brothers for any extended period of time. One of the things I love about him is how he knows how much family means.

“See you guys later,” I say to the others on our way out.

Everyone says their goodbyes and tells us that they’ll see us at Ben’s family ranch later.

I sit between Ben and Emmett on the way home as they each keep changing the stations, bickering over the radio. Each one fighting the other for control. I’m filled with a sense of nostalgia I don’t quite understand because it’s happening in real time, but it almost feels as though I’m living out a memory, I’ll miss some day.

But that can’t be right. There’s many more of these rides down the dirt roads with the warm breeze blowing through the cab of the truck to come in our future. There has to be. We have our plan. Ben goes to Clemson and once he gets drafted, we reunite. If only that feeling in my gut that says I’m a naïve teenager who thinks she met her soul mate way too young would disappear.

The first thing I do when we get to Ben’s is change my clothes. I purposely wore the cornflower blue sundress dress because it’s Ben’s favorite. He loves the way it matches the color of my eyes.

After I leave my bag in Ben’s room I head to the kitchen. Ben, Jude, and Bruce all look in my direction when I enter. The first time I came here as Ben’s girlfriend his dad insisted that I call him Bruce and not Mr. Noughton, something that took a while to stick with me.

“How’re you doing, darlin’?” Bruce wraps his arm around my shoulders, giving me a side hug.

I’ve seen him rip up one side and down the other of his sons, but he’s always treated me with care and been extra sweet.

“I’m good. How about you?”

“Just talkin’ to my boys about this one leaving tomorrow. You all set to see him do big things at Clemson?” One thing about Bruce, his proudness of Ben is always transparent on his face.

When I glance at Ben, he shifts his weight and stares down to the floor. He’s always a little uncomfortable when his dad sings his praises, but he should be overjoyed. He’s worked hard to get where he’s going.

Jude is his usual stoic self, watching on silently, always observing the room.

“He’s going to be great.” I walk over to Ben and wrap my arms around his middle. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Can I help with anything before everyone gets here?”

“Was hoping I could talk you into making that potato salad that’s so good while the boys and I set up outside.”

I smile. “Of course, I can.” I made my late mom’s recipe last year for the fourth and Bruce asked me to make it a bunch more times during the year. Her recipes are one of the few things she left me and I always feel close to her whenever I make one of her specialties.

“I already boiled the potatoes last night. They’re in the fridge.”

Pulling away from Ben, I head over to the fridge. “Careful Bruce, people are going to call you domesticated if you’re not careful.”

Bruce lets loose a big, belly laugh.

“I don’t think anyone would ever accuse him of that,” Jude says.

The whole room erupts into laughter. After being a widower for so many years, he’s still doesn’t separate the darks from the whites, causing the boys white socks to turn pink.

The guys head outside while I assemble what I need for the potato salad. Everyone who comes, brings a side dish—usually the same thing year after year. Mrs. Webster always bakes a blueberry pie with stars cut out on the top and Mrs. Fortmeyer brings a giant batch of her chili that won at the state fair two years running.

I chuckle to myself as I cut up the potatoes, wondering whether I’ll be known for this potato salad in thirty years. Ben’s wife, Gillian Noughton makes her famous potato salad, I dream to myself. If they come true that is.

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