Page 16 of The Texas Murders

“Willow broke up with her boyfriend in Nashville, you know?” Darren says conspiratorially.

“I heard,” I say.

“She won’t be single long,” Freddy adds.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Megan by the door, saying goodbye to my parents.

“Excuse me,” I say, and squeeze my way through the crowded house.

I catch up with her outside as she’s about to climb into her pickup.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?”

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

She looks luminous in the moonlight.

She says she needs to get up early tomorrow and head back to El Paso. She has a long drive, followed by a shift at the bar. She tells me she had a great time and loved seeing me perform with Willow.

“You two really are good together,” Megan says.

“Willow’s the good one,” I say. “She makes me look better than I am.”

“I’m not talking about the music,” Megan says.

“Oh,” I say, shrugging. “Well, it wasn’t meant to be.”

“You sure?” she says, giving me a serious stare. “You’re really over her?”

“Cross my heart.”

Neither of us is really sure what to say next. We’ve bothfelt the same spark, I’m certain, but we also don’t know if anything will come of meeting tonight.

We might have a future.

We might never see each other again.

“Goodbye, Rory,” she says, giving me a hug.

We hold our embrace longer than we need to, and then I watch her drive away.

CHAPTER 11

I’M AT THE sink doing the dishes. Mom is picking up cups and plates as the last stragglers don’t seem to be getting the message that the party is over. Behind me, at the kitchen table, my old high school football coach is talking to Jake and Dad—all of them a little drunk—reminiscing about the Hail Mary touchdown pass I threw in the final seconds of the homecoming game my senior year. It seems like every time I hear Coach tell the story, he adds another five yards to the length of my throw.

“Want some help?” Willow says, sidling up next to me and beginning to dry the dishes in the rack.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, handing her a dripping plate. “It means a lot.”

“You’d do the same for me,” she says, wiping the towel over the wet surface. “When I win my first CMA, I expect you to be there.”

I chuckle.

“I’ll do my best.”

As we work in tandem, I ask Willow where she’s staying. She says that she didn’t book a hotel yet but my mom offered for her to stay in their spare room.

The atmospheric pressure around us seems to change as we both recognize that my house—the house she and I used to share—is just up the hill on my parents’ property, a little two-bedroom where the old ranch hand sleeping quarters used to be. It would be easy for the two of us to walk up there together and pretend for one night like things are like they used to be.

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