Page 65 of Ride Me Reckless
As I passed the familiar weather-beaten sign and pulled into the parking lot, I spotted a little white hatchback parked neatly in our usual spot—Callie’s rental. The one her new boss had arranged for her.
I hadn’t said it out loud, but I was relieved when she mentioned it. We still technically co-owned the truck, just like the trailer, and sharing it had started to feel like one more tightrope to walk. Now I didn’t have to feel guilty about using it whenever I needed to, especially with everything going on.
I parked our truck next to her, but instead of getting out, I sat there for a second, the engine ticking as it cooled. The truth sat heavy in my chest.
I was going to have to tell her.
My best friend. The one person who still felt like home in a life that had been blown to hell and patched together with duct tape and stubbornness.
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, the years peeled back like the pages of an old scrapbook.
We were twenty-one, packed into a corner booth with three other girls from our rodeo circuit days. Someone had smuggled in cupcakes for Callie’s birthday, and the bartender had let it slide, mostly because Callie smiled at him like he hung the moon. We drank too much, danced like fools, and made loud promises about where we’d be in ten years.
I would be a top-tier barrel racer with my own rig and sponsors.
Callie wanted to open a floral shop called “Petals & Whiskey” and date someone who wore cologne that didn’t come in a gas station bottle.
None of those things happened. Life, it turned out, didn’t care about our declarations.
I opened my eyes to our reality. To the cracked dashboard, the faint scent of motor oil clinging to the leather seats, and the gnawing flip in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
This wasn’t just girl talk and dreams anymore.
This was real.
I was pregnant.
And about to walk into a bar.
I grabbed my purse, slid out of the truck, and inhaled the scent of grilled onions and grease wafting through the open kitchen window.
God help me, a Ropers burger still made my mouth water.
Inside, the sound system hummed something country and familiar. Callie stood near our old booth in the back, waving me over with a smile that made the years between us disappear.
She wore her favorite denim jacket over a sunflower yellow tee, her curly hair swept up in a messy knot. She looked… good. Happy, even.
“Hey, girl,” she said, pulling me into a hug.
“Hey yourself,” I murmured, holding on a little longer than necessary.
We slid into the booth; menus flipped open, though we didn’t need them. We both knew what we’d order before we even parked.
A waitress came by, young and tired looking. She chewed on a piece of gum like it owed her money.
“What can I get y’all?”
Callie grinned. “Two burgers, double cheese, no onions on hers, extra pickles on mine. Fries, not the curly kind. And—” She turned to me, eyebrow raised. “A beer?”
I hesitated just a second too long.
“Water’s good,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Lemon, if you’ve got it.”
Callie’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes flicked up with the sharpness of someone who knew me better than anyone else alive.
“One beer,” she said to the waitress. “And a water with lemon.”
When we were alone again, she leaned forward, both elbows on the table. “Okay. You gonna tell me why you passed on a cold beer at Roper’s, or do I get three guesses?”
