Page 26 of Sunrise Arrows

The memories open a visceral ache in my chest. One I can’t so easily tuck away this close to the source.

Briar parks beside a dust covered red truck with splatters of dried mud. Thanks to years at my side in every capacity imaginable, she effortlessly reads the wistfulness I know isn’t outwardly reflected on my face.

“You chose to come back here for a reason. Don’t stand in your own way, Tins.” She points a finger at me and raises a brow, cutting off my beginning utterance of what if. “No, we’re not doing that. Hold on to what's been driving you all morning and let it guide you.” She reaches into the back and grabs the basket from the floorboard, depositing it into my lap. “Go on. I’ll be right here.”

I nod my head several times, my grip white knuckled on the basket’s handle.

“Okay,” I repeat several times before letting out a heavy exhale and unbuckling my seatbelt.

I’m out of the car, door shut, and my back far too rigid as I round the front of the SUV and head for the open barn doors.

“Remember,” Briar calls out, startling me into stumbling. “Sweet afternoon treat and then lunch!”

“Oh my God,” I scowl over my shoulder at her. It’s rendered useless, though, when I begin to laugh, my entire body relaxing as the weights of anxiety and regret lift.

It’s the reminder I need that I’m in love with a memory. And while it’s shaped so much of who I am, who we were ten years ago is not who we are now. No matter how strong the pull between us is, how quickly it’s snapped back into existence, we’re beginning again. At least, I hope we are.

I’m guided by memory alone, turning right when I enter. The third door on the left is slid open, a soft country rock song drifting out from inside. There’s an urge to hum along—the chorus one I wrote a few years ago before modifying it for a male singer to build upon that led to us winning a Country Music Association Award for Song of the Year—but I remain silent and just watch for a moment.

Archer has a pen between his teeth, another forgotten behind his ear, and is wearing his glasses instead of contacts. The sight of the black, rectangular frames was always a rare one. One that made my breath hitch the first time I saw him wearing them and never failed to cause a repeat event every time after.

It’s that weakness that always turned me into a puddle for him that has me speaking without thought—much like I assume occurred for him when he called me Shortcake the other night before I snapped at him.

“Hey, Superman.”

It’s instantaneous the way his head snaps up, the pen falling from his lips when he sees me.

“Can I come in?”

“What are you doing here?”

I lift the basket, suddenly self-conscious and answer, “I wanted to say thank you for the other night, so I made you lunch.”

“You made me lunch?” he asks a bit bewildered before scooting back on the wheels of his chair and quickly correcting himself as he stands. “I’m sorry; yes, of course you can.”

However, neither of us moves. We’re both transfixed on the other as if we can’t believe they’re real, standing here in front of us.

His green eyes are intense as he stares at me. They track across every part of my body from my loose hair and minimally made up face to where my shoulders are exposed by the thin straps of my blouse, down my jean covered legs to the caged wedges I’m wearing, and back up. It’s slow and heated, scorching my skin by the time he brings his gaze back to mine.

I wonder if he can see the increased rate at which my chest is rising and falling. If he took notice of how I couldn’t help but lick my lips and swallow when met with the full force of his beautifully framed eyes.

The simple white t-shirt he’s wearing is stretched taut over his broad shoulders, highlighting his tan. And like him, I can’t help but let my eyes fall down his body, drinking in his thick thighs that test the denim of his jeans and appreciating how low they sit on his hips despite his belt.

I wrack my brain for something to say, anything to break the mounting tension, when we start to mirror each other step for step, closing the space between us.

Archer beats me to it, though I wish he hadn’t when I hear how thick and rough his normally smooth and slow words are.

“You’re makin’ my heart race, Shortcake.”

“Mine too,” I whisper, hardly loud enough to move my lips though my words seem to reverberate like a gunshot.

He’s closer now, or maybe I am. His breath is hot as it fans down across my face, drawing goosebumps along the nape of my neck as molton fire licks down my spine. This close, I have to tilt my head back to maintain our eye contact, and it may just be my undoing. My palms are losing their grip on the basket as urgency to dive right back into him and shed everything that has made me Tinsley Jacobs takes hold. Discard it all until I’m stripped bare of everything that might keep me from being his again, my still broken heart be damned. I think the inevitable loss of what remnants remain would be worth it.

He says my name, soft and desperate, a labor-calloused hand coming out to cup my cheek. Leaning into his touch is natural, and my eyes flutter closed as I breathe him in. Tears inexplicably begin prickling when his thumb caresses up the bone, and a faint whimper escapes through my throat.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to begin demanding answers to all my whys, but what remains of my dignity is blessedly spared by an exuberant tornado whose entrance sends us springing apart.

“Tinsley!” Ellie shrieks, dragging Ryder, and to my amusement Briar, in with her.

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