Page 42 of Something Like Sunflowers

“We’re about to play some new bar game on Robbie’s phone.” She hands us the Coronas with limes, and even though I think I should be jealous, seeing as how there is no way in the world Lemon knows my go-to drink is a Corona with a lime unless someone told her. That someone being her new bestie, Shana…that’s just the thing.

I’m…

I’m not jealous.

“Oh, my gosh! I’m not jealous!”

I probably look like a lunatic right now, and yeah, I’ve had alcohol, so someone’s going to chalk it up and say I’m drunk, but I’m not.

Okay, I probably am a little.

But that’s not why I look like a lunatic.

“I’m not jealous of your relationship with Shana!”

At first, Lemon seems concerned, scooting back and pursing her lips as she inspects my eyes to see just how drunk I might be. I am feeling good, but I’m not that drunk. I swat her away.

“I don’t hate you anymore. I just realized it. I don’t know what you did to me, but I think…I think the truce healed me.” I look at my hand in Lemon’s and smile. “I don’t think I’m a bitch anymore!”

Lemon and Hunter burst into a fit of laughter. Hunter folds over, holding on to a nearby barstool, and Lemon fans herself as she blows out delicate little jets of air on a, “Hooooo, Devyn, girl. I need some of what you’ve been getting. Jeremy!” She waves at our friend, huh…our friend. “Get me as good as you got Little Miss Whiskey over here. She’s a hoot!”

The bar collectively cheers as “Country” by Jason Aldean comes on the speakers and several patrons shimmy their boots to the dance floor. I can’t explain how surreal it feels being in this atmosphere. Feeling free. I’m smiling so hard, my cheeks might burst open from the pressure.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I were in a dream.

One where my heart wasn’t torn from me far too soon, and I never left this little town. This group. There are people here I care about. Dustin, Jeremy, Lemon, Hunter, Shana…maybe even Robbie and Katie, who knows?

And they call me their friend. They laugh when I’m being a bitch instead of scoff.

They accept me as I am and genuinely seem to want me around, whether I bring the thick accent and cute one-liners, whether I win silver or gold crowns, whether I wear platform booties or dusty old shitkickers. They prefer the shit. They embrace the kicking.

And Hunter. He’s…

I try to remind myself of the false promises ripped from within me and thrown out, the sting of abandonment when those voids never felt emptier. I remind myself that Hunter’s tryst with infidelity wasn’t the only time I felt betrayed by a man who knew the darkest of my secrets. Anytime I open myself to someone I think I could love. Then I learn it’s conditional.

Everyone has conditions.

But ten years, I think as I’m pulled through the bar by the grown-up version of the boy I fell in love with before I even knew the meaning of the word. A man who smirks for thousands, but somehow only has eyes for one right now. And it’s me.

And I’m his girl. Tonight, at least.

I promised him that much, after all. To try.

The long, wooden table we’re led to is carved from red oak, and finished with a unique flair that could only have been done by the same company Dustin’s came from. They’re almost identical in hue and stain. But I inspected Dustin’s furniture once it caught my eye, and there was no company logo or branding. And he practically flipped his own farmhouse from what I saw earlier.

Did my brother do these? That would be a newer hobby he picked up, if that’s the case, because I had no idea. But then, I wouldn’t know about anything new or old.

Ten years is far longer than I realized. And it isn’t only Hunter and my brother reminding me of that.

We scooch into the bench seats and all the way to the far corner, nestled in a darker part of the dining area. I’m glad we aren’t too close to the center of the table. The way we’re positioned at the angle, it’s like our own private space. It’s awkward enough being somewhere you didn’t feel like you belonged even before you left. But being surrounded by a handful of familiar, yet foreign faces in this little group of Hunter’s is panic inducing.

Where did this stage fright come from? It’s unfamiliar and unwelcome, and I wonder faintly in the back of my head if these bouts of nerves lately don’t corelate pretty damn directly to times when I’m trying not to be fake.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I’ve been fake so long I get nervous being me? I mean, it makes total sense. I’ve always put on a face, an act, a show. And it’s never failed to earn me a crown.

Whether that be an actual one or a metaphorical one.

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