The corner of his mouth lifts and he reaches out, brushes hair from my eyes. “Is this a date?”
I shiver as his fingertips brush my skin. “It doesn’t have to be.”
His lashes drop, concealing his eyes, but I get the distinct feeling he’s looking at my mouth. “But you’d like it to be?”
I squirm on the inside. “Not if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“I see. You want me to be comfortable.”
There goes my stomach again. I’m suddenly all pins and needles. “Of course.”
“Of course.” His mouth curves again in that faint, crooked smile.
“Or we don’t have to have dinner. I’d be happy just going for a walk. Getting a coffee. Having a drink. I just want to see you.”
He’s still staring at my mouth, and the skin heats across my cheekbones. I wish he’d kiss me. I’d love for him to kiss me.
“Friday night, then?”
I exhale. “Yeah.”
“I’ll pick you up,” he adds. “Six-thirty.”
I don’t know if it’s his eyes or the pitch of his voice or just knowing we’re going out this weekend, but I’m warm, overly warm, and overly turned on. I touch my tongue to my upper lip to wet it ever so slightly. “Great. I’ll be ready.”
He smiles at me. “See you then, darlin’.”
He leaves just as Bo comes in, which means Brick and Dane must have seen each other’s truck in the drive. I’m sure that didn’t go over big with either one, but I put it out of my mind to reheat Bo’s dinner plate and ask him about practice.
“Okay,” he answers, taking a seat at the table.
I set his plate in front of him. “Still mad at me?”
“No. Well, a little.”
I ruffle his hair. I guess I can live with that.
While he eats I tackle the dishes, energetically scrubbing the skillet clean as I think about Friday night’s date with Dane. Our first date in twenty-three years.
I can’t believe we’re actually going to go out. Not for lunch. Not during the day. But on a weekend night.
I feel like a kid who’s never been kissed, although I have been kissed, and kissed by Dane. And God, he was a great kisser. The best. Hands down. No one ever came close.
I wonder if he’ll kiss me Friday night. He nearly did Thanksgiving weekend, and this time I don’t want him to stop.
This time I won’t let him stop.
Glancing at Bo still eating his dinner at the table, I feel guilty for even thinking these thoughts. It feels completely wrong to fantasize when I’m near my kids, but I suddenly have a one-track mind.
What would Dane be like in bed?
I haven’t slept with anyone but John in eighteen years, and I haven’t made love with John in over two years. I can’t even imagine making love to anyone else. I’m not sure my body would even know what to do.
And then I picture Dane and feel a frisson of excitement and pleasure. He’s so hot, and just thinking about how he fills out a pair of Wranglers makes my breath catch in my throat.
I’m such a liar. I know exactly what to do with him. I also know that I’d enjoy it.
I’m out with the boys doing some Christmas shopping Thursday night when I get a call from a number I don’t recognize. I let it go into voice mail since my arms are full of bags and forget about the call until Charlotte calls two hours later to ask a question about this year’s Christmas gift exchange. It’s then I remember I have a message waiting. We’ve only just got home from town, and I check the message as the kids carry all the shopping bags into the house.
It’s Delilah, the blond girl from Bo’s school.
It’s hard to understand her through her tears, but from what I can gather, her mom’s boyfriend kicked her out of the house and she’s walking somewhere and she needs a ride. Can I come get her?
I wish I’d checked messages sooner. I was just in town. I was just there. It would have been so easy to go get her.
I quickly call her. She doesn’t answer. I leave a voice mail and hang up. For a long moment I stare at my phone, telling myself that it’s been two hours and she’s probably fine now. But what if she isn’t?
What if she’s still walking? What if she has no coat? What if she has nowhere to go?
My stomach hurts, and I’m sick with worry. With a shout to the boys that I’ve got to run back into town, I grab my keys and dash to the truck. As I drive, I call Delilah’s number again and again, only to get her voice mail every time. I’m eight miles from Mineral Wells when I call once more, and this time Delilah picks up. “Are you okay, Delilah?” I ask, so damn relieved to hear her voice.
“I’m scared,” she says in a small voice.
“Where are you?”
“Behind the train station next to the old meatpacking plant.”
I know the area. We used to mess around the empty plant when we were kids. “I’m on my way.”
Delilah’s standing near the curb beneath a yellow streetlight. She’s wearing a short skirt and a T-shirt and sneakers without socks, and her eyes are humongous in her white face. I pull up next to her, lean over, and open the door. She climbs in, teeth chattering. “Thank you,” she whispers, closing the door behind her.
I pull off my coat and drape it around her shoulders. She’s so cold that she doesn’t protest but draws the lapels close to her thin chest. “How long have you been walking around?”
“Since before I called you.”
Two and a half hours in a frigid, forty-degree temperature without a sweatshirt or coat. “What happened?” I ask, pulling away from the curb, anxious to be out of the warehouse district at night.
“My mom’s boyfriend freaked out.” She sags into the coat. “When he drinks they fight, and then…” Her voice drifts off and her eyes close, her eyelashes inky against her pale cheeks.
“Does he hit you?” I ask, having seen this before when I lived in New York and worked with the girls at the YWCA. So many girls grow up with abuse. So many girls see things they should never have to see.
“Mostly my mom.”
Mostly.
I hate alcohol. I do. I don’t know why people need to drink. Don’t like what drinking does to some people. Makes them mean. Makes them ugly. Makes them hate.
“Did you have any dinner?”
She shakes her head.
“Let’s go get you something to eat.”
She nods gratefully.
We end up at the Kountry Kitchen Café, and the place is deserted except for one old man eating lemon meringue pie at a booth in the corner. Traci was sitting at the counter studying when we walked in, but she jumps up to greet us.
“Are you still serving, Traci?” I ask, hearing no activity in the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am. Just a quiet night.” She grabs two menus. “Sit wherever you like.”
I let Delilah pick the table—it’s one of the small booths beneath the front window, where the glass has been frosted and painted with holly and wreaths. The inside of the restaurant has been decorated, too, with a miniature Christmas tree on the counter and a plastic Santa with a light shining through it.
“Order whatever you want,” I tell Delilah. “Three cheeseburgers, two French dips, four pieces of apple pie. My boys do it all the time.”
Tucking lank hair behind an ear, she smiles shyly and orders just one cheeseburger, with a side of fries and a hot chocolate with whipped cream. I order a cup of herbal tea.
Delilah downs her cocoa before the burger even arrives. “Want another one?” Traci asks her.
Delilah looks at me hesitantly.
“Sure,” I answer.
As Traci walks away, Delilah reaches for her water glass and gives it a little spin on the table. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
“I’m just sorry I didn’t get your call earlier.”
“It’s okay.”
“So what happens now?” I ask her.
“I’ll go home. Howie’s probably passed out. And Mama’s probably g
ot a black eye, but that’s how it is at my house.”
I remember her grandfather sitting on the porch that day I drove her home earlier in the fall. “What about your grandpa? Where is he?”
“Sleeping. Watching TV. Staying out of the way.” She looks at me, expression hopeless. “Because if he doesn’t, Howie will whip his ass.”
A half hour later, I’m dropping Delilah off at her house and feeling like a traitor.
Children shouldn’t have to grow up like this.
Children should be protected.
I spend a sleepless night thinking about Delilah and all the other girls like her. Girls who don’t get enough love. Girls who don’t get enough support.
I have to do something to reach them, help them, especially those who live in Palo Pinto County. They need to know they’re not alone. Need to know that there are women—mothers, sisters, grandmothers, friends—who care.
As the clock turns to four, I vow to look into the local community programs for girls. What kind of outreach exists here? What do the schools offer? What is the city and county doing? Where do girls go when things are bad at home? Who can they turn to who’ll care?
As the questions go round and round in my head, I realize I’m starting to feel like my old self again.
The sunny Shey.
The positive Shey.
The Shey who believes in herself and knows she can do anything she sets her mind to.
Which means it’s time to reach out to those who need a helping hand.
The next morning after dropping the boys at school, I call Paul Peterson at Mineral Wells Junior High and ask him about resources the school has for girls who need extra support. “Educational support?” he asks. “Or counseling?”
“Both. Is there somewhere our local girls can go for help? A teen center or club?”
“There used to be an after-school program run through the city that matched younger girls with high-achieving older girls, but it lost funding last year with all the budget cuts.”
“So right now there’s nothing for girls who are at risk?”
“No.”
“There should be.”
“I know.”
Hanging up, I’m determined that now that I’m back in Parkfield, there will be. Because what’s the point of being one of Palo Pinto County’s most celebrated women if I can’t give back?
What’s the point of being successful if I don’t lead or implement change?
Chapter Nineteen
Suddenly it’s Friday night, date night, and Dane is dropping Coop off and picking me up as planned. He looks so good, too, dressed in jeans and a sage green button-down shirt that makes his eyes even more beautiful.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks, holding the truck door open for me.
“Just excited.”
He shoots me a curious glance as he climbs behind the steering wheel. “It’s just me, darlin’.”
I look at him from beneath my lashes. “That’s why I’m excited.”
“You’re dangerously good for my ego.”
“I’m just dangerously good.”
He lifts a brow. “Is that so?”
“Mmmm.”
There are no streetlights or even traffic lights on most country roads, and tonight the moon is just a slip in the sky, which makes the night even darker.
I’m happy to be back in his truck. Happy to just let him drive. I don’t even care about dinner. It’s enough to be with him, near him. This is all I ever wanted. His company. His proximity.
Unlike Shellie Ann, I like the country and I like Dane for who he is. I don’t want anything from him but his time and his attention. Having lived the posh life in Manhattan, having traveled the world as a model, flying first class and staying in four- and five-star hotels, I know all the creature comforts. I know the difference between a good champagne and a stellar champagne, but it’s not the label of the champagne that makes the difference. It’s who you’re sharing it with.
I was happy with John, and it never crossed my mind that once we married and had our first baby, we wouldn’t always be together. But now that John’s moved on, I can, too. And I’d love the next phase of my life to include Dane. But I don’t come solo. I’m a package deal. Shey and three teenage boys. That’s a lot to take on.
“You look so serious all of a sudden,” Dane says with a glance in my direction. “What are you thinking about?”
“The strangeness of life. How you and I are both single now. The fact that I’m back here. Who would have thought?”
His eyes gleam at me in the dark. “Who would have thought?” he echoes, teasing me.
I smile back. Can’t not smile. He makes me feel good. He makes me feel like me. The old me, the strong me, the one who couldn’t wait to wake up every morning and hated going to bed because I was afraid I’d miss something.
“So where are we going?” I ask after a bit. We’ve been driving for ten minutes, heading away from Mineral Wells and Weatherford.
“Taking you to dinner at a little place I love. It’s kind of out of the way, though. You mind an hour drive?”
“Not at all. I’m perfectly content to just sit here and let you drive.”
He reaches out, covers my knee with his palm. “Good. Because I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.”
I bite my lip and look down at his hand where it rests on my knee. I like his hand on me. It looks right there. Even better, it feels so good. I don’t know why, but his touch is perfect. It’s made for me. But then the physical between Dane and me has never been the problem. It’s the logistics that hung us up. First I was too young. And then he was on the circuit and I was in college. Then before I could finish college, he was engaged to a pregnant Shellie Ann. But I don’t want to think about Shellie Ann right now or any of the things that have kept us apart. I just want to be here, with him, happy.
We end up at in a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant on the outskirts of Stephenville. Dane says the restaurant serves the best Tex-Mex food outside San Antonio. It’s a small building on a nearly vacant lot, tucked beneath a cluster of red oak trees wrapped in strands of green and blue lights. Our hand-shaken margaritas are made with fresh fruit juices and a special tequila the owner brings out just for Dane.
The radio’s been set to a popular local station that broadcasts in Spanish and plays the top Latin pop songs. Dane’s right about the fajitas—they’re amazing, and I don’t know if it’s the marinated steak, the homemade tortillas, or the incredible chunky guacamole, but I eat two. And even though I’m stuffed afterward, I continue to pick the caramelized peppers and onions from the skillet, leaving the beef to Dane.
We’re the only ones there when we first arrive, but by the time we’re done half a dozen tables are filled.
As the place gets more noisy, Dane looks less comfortable. He’d been telling me about his breeding program and how his business was founded on the principles of ethical and humane treatment of all livestock, not just his famous bucking bulls, when he abruptly stands and picks up our glasses. “Let’s go outside,” he says. “It’ll be quieter.”
Colder, too, but I’d rather be outside with Dane than surrounded by noisy groups of people.
It is chilly outside, but we find a small outdoor heater by one of the scattered tables near a blue-lit tree and stand beneath that.
“Are you going to be warm enough?” Dane asks me, tugging the zipper higher on my wool coat.
My coat isn’t particularly heavy, but I like the trees wrapped in strings of blue and green lights and am having a really good time. “I’m perfect,” I say as I stomp my feet and rub my hands. “This is fun.”
“Perfect? Even though you’re freezing?”
I laugh and shiver at the same time. “Have you ever noticed how cold weather makes you feel so alive?”
“You look so young right now,” he says, dropping onto a bench. “So carefree.”
“Are you saying I don’t normally look young and carefree?”
“I think you could use more fun in your life.”
The wind whistles past our heads, and I shiver. “I wouldn’t argue that point,” I say. And then the wind whistles again and I shiver uncontrollably, which just makes me laugh. “Dang, it’s cold!”
“We can go—”
“No,” I protest, grinning down at him as I pluck a tangled strand of hair from my eyes and push it back behind my ear. “I’m so happy right now. I’m having such a good time.”
“But you’re freezing.”
“This is the good kind of freezing. This is fun. I love this place and the lights in the tree and just being here with you. It’s been a long time since I had a date night, so please, freeze with me.”
He has that deep rumble of a laugh, and creases fan from his eyes. “I’ll freeze with you any day.”
“Thank you.”
“You know, you’re pretty easy to hang with, Shey.”
“I’ve never been high maintenance.”
“I like that about you.”
I suddenly can’t flirt or play. I can’t pretend to care less than I do. Just being here with him hurts, and my heart aches, as my feelings for him are both bitter and sweet.
At twelve, I had a major crush on him.
At fifteen, I knew I wanted to marry him.
At sixteen, I was sent away to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid like get pregnant or run away with him.
I have loved him my whole life. Loved him when I was still young and innocent, my love uncomplicated. Love is far more complicated now. Life is far more complicated. But it doesn’t change how much I still want him and crave him and need him.
“I wish you liked me,” I say.
“You don’t get it, do you?” He stands and looks into my face, right into my eyes, and his expression is naked, almost vulnerable. “There’s no one I’ve ever liked better.”
“You mean—”
“No one,” he repeats, reaching out for me and drawing me between his legs. “No one looks at me the way you do.” He strokes his thumb lightly across my cheek, skimming the surface. “You’re all eyes and need, and sometimes you scare me, Shey Lynne, but I’ve never not cared about you.”
She’s Gone Country Page 25