Page 24 of Sunrise Arrows

Atop the vintage inspired stove, I remove the bacon from a frying pan on one of the back burners and stir the cooling strawberry simple syrup that’s waiting in a saucepan in the front. Beside the stove, I have the air fryer that matches all the country pink accents in the kitchen pulled out and waiting.

I skip along the planks of the naked hardwood floors to the sink, testing out the bridge of the song in conjunction with one of the melodies. Not liking it, I start again with another, extracting the green tomatoes I had soaking in a produce cleanse, drying them off on a hand towel.

The combination is a much better fit, the song turning upbeat and fun with a bit of country twang. Spinning to the music in my head, the skirt of the pink gingham apron I put on ripples up around my thighs, falling back down in a soft wave when I stop at the island to drop the tomatoes on my cutting board. Quickly, I step and turn back to the oven checking on the bread I’m baking. As I squint through the oven glass, my head bobs to a beat. Satisfied with the progress, I slide back to the island and cut the tomatoes, my knife coming down on the cutting board in time with the music I'm writing.

It’s chaotic and fun and I’m loving every minute of the process that’s beginning to create my next album.

“Holy Martha Stewart,” Briar draws out. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head, her large framed reading glasses stuffed in like a headband. She’s wearing a knee length, knitted cardigan over a ribbed tank top and tiny lounging boxers and leather flip flops. Sticking out of one of the cardigan’s oversized pockets is a book featuring a couple on a rocky beach just before they kiss.

I wiggle my knife in the direction of the book and shoot off rapid fire questions.

“Tropes? Is it good? Spice?”

“I’ve already read half of it while sitting on the dock drinking my coffee; like a two but his mouth makes it a three easy; forbidden, best friend’s sister, secret tattoo—something you knowallabout—and yes, I’ll add it to the stack on your nightstand when I’m done.”

“You’re a queen, Briar,” I fawn, beginning to dredge the tomates through their flour, egg, and breadcrumb assembly line.

She takes a seat on one of the stools and props her elbows on the counter top, her chin coming to rest atop the shelf of her stacked hands.

“What has you all Stepford-like this morning?” She takes a sharp sniff of the air, her lips pursing as she begins to follow the smell. “Oh my God, Tins, are you making bread?”

“I am. Proofed it this morning while I did my concert cardio. I’m making fried green tomato BLTs with a Cajun remoulade for lunch, strawberry lemonade, and we have the lemon bars I made last night for dessert.”

“Marry me!” she pleads, bringing her hands together to beg. “I know great maid and laundry services and can make killer dinner reservations all while juggling your schedule and negotiating your deals. I also come with the best book recommendations.”

“Briar,” I laugh, bringing the tomatoes over to the air fryer and arranging them in the basket. “You’re supposed to entice me with things youdon’talready do for me.” Setting the timer, I pull the lemon bars out of the fridge to cut, dust with powdered sugar, and package. “Besides, I already included a no B BLT and dairy-free remoulade in my prep plans just for you.”

The timer for the oven goes off and I pull out the turned over sheet pan I’ve been baking the rustic loaf on. I transfer it to a rack to cool and begin on the lemon bars.

Briar snatches one of the trimmed off corners and bites into it with a groan.

“Okay, seriously delicious, Tins. We should have you put together a cookbook or something. People would eat that shit up—no pun intended.” She takes another bite and after chewing asks, “So am I correct in assuming this is for a certain country boy you were eye fucking the other night?”

I’m unable to contain my smile or stop the blush heating my cheeks as I coyly answer, “Maybe.”

She squeals at my answer, hands balling up into excited little fists.

“Okay, okay, okay,” she repeats, blowing out a breath to slow herself down. “Tell me everything again. I want to hear every detail. Ugh,” she pouts. “I still can’t believe I passed out and missed it!”

The timer on the fryer goes off and I hold up a finger. After the tomatoes are flipped and the timer back on, I grab the stuff for remoulade from the fridge and begin dumping ingredients into a bowl.

“Okay, but I need you to pack that basket over there.”

“Oh my God, look at you! You’re all, like, domesticated. It’s freaking adorable!”

As she packs the basket with the lunch I’ve been making to bring to Archer at the ranch, I retell everything that happened at Dark Horse and after we left. How it wasn’t even until the following night when we were analyzing everything over a bottle of wine that I realized I had completely forgotten about the other guy I had been dancing with. What it felt like to have Archer’s gaze—so hot and hungry—searing my skin as he watched. The way he gripped my waist like he owned me and had begun tangling his fingers in my hair, using it to tug my head back.

“Get to the good stuff,” she urges, helping me out by toasting slices of the bread in a buttered pan while I mix the lemonade and get it poured into mason jars. “I want to hear about him holding you again and what he said.”

“Well, you know how upset I’ve been, thinking he moved on and had this sensational wife and the perfect life we talked about having together. So there I am, halfway between sobering up and still being drunk, not even caring that he’s right there witnessing me cry over him. And then he starts to shift and lean back against the wall, and I don’t know if I followed or if he brought me, but there I was between his legs, laying on his chest, and…” I drift off, leaning my hip against the counter as I think about it. “And it felt like coming home.”

“Tinsley,” she swoons, her hands over her heart.

“I know.”

My best friend squeals before plowing into me with a massive hug.

“I’m so freaking happy for you.”

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