Page 40 of Open Arms

“Featuring pitchforks and cow manure?” I quipped, and we erupted into laughter once more.

“Girl, don’t tempt us,” Sutton chimed in. “We’ll do it.”

Laughter surrounded me and I couldn’t help but join in.

In the glow of Eryn’s living room, surrounded by these new friends, I felt seen. Heard. Understood. No longer alone.

And as we segued from Pete to other tales of misguided courtships and the joys and jolts of rural living, I marveled at the ease with which I could now share parts of myself. A stark contrast to how I used to be, shadowed by uncertainty and the stifling fear of entanglement.

“Thanks, guys,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but every pair of eyes met mine with fierce affection. “For listening. For . . . everything.”

“Always!”

“Andalways remember you’re allowed to say no,” Caroline reminded me, her voice firm yet kind. “You don’t owe anyone your affection.”

“Besides,” Sutton added, “you’ve got bigger fish to fry, or should I say . . . cowboys to kiss?” Her eyebrow raise was comically suggestive.

“Shut up.” I laughed, swatting a pillow at her. “It’s not like that with Mason.” What a bald-faced lie.

“Sure,” they chorused, disbelief written all over their faces.

“Okay, maybe it’s a little like that,” I conceded, warmth flooding my cheeks.

“Girl, it’s written all over you,” Eryn said, her tone as soothing as a cool breeze. “And there’s nothing wrong with taking a chance on someone who gives you butterflies.”

“Even if those butterflies feel like they’ve got combat boots on?” I joked, earning another round of laughter from the group.

“Especially then,” Sutton and Caroline said in unison.

Eryn raised her glass again. “To friendship, new beginnings, and combat-boot-wearing butterflies. May they lead you exactly where you need to go.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Leaning back into the plush cushions of Eryn’s oversized couch, I let out a contented sigh. The laughter around me was like a melody, each note lifting the weight of the day from my shoulders. My fingers traced the rim of the wine glass cradled in my hand, a sweet blush rosé that tasted like liquid summer.

I was drunk. Or at least, very tipsy.

A giggle escaped my lips.

No, I was drunk.

“Okay, so it’s my turn,” Sutton declared, setting down her cupcake frosted with enough pink buttercream to make a flamingo blush. “Two truths and a lie—let’s see if you can spot the fib.”

I tuned in, eager to play along, feeling the walls I’d built around myself crumble piece by piece in the warmth of their company.

“Alright, hit us with it,” I encouraged, curiosity piqued.

“I once backpacked across Europe with nothing but a fanny pack, I’ve never broken a bone, and I hate chocolate,” Sutton rattled off, her gray eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Please,” I scoffed playfully, “no one hates chocolate. That’s just un-American.”

“Ah, she’s got you there, Sut,” Caroline chimed in, grinning.

“Guilty as charged,” Sutton laughed, popping a piece of the condemned confection into her mouth. “But seriously, who needs luggage when you have pockets?”

“Spoken like a true minimalist,” Eryn said with a nod of approval.

“Or a kangaroo,” I quipped, earning a chorus of giggles.

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