Page 78 of Sunrise Arrows

“Passport?”

I take the brand new book out of the front pocket of my laptop bag and show Ryder. “Yep.”

“Is it signed?”

Opening it up, I check once again that I’ve signed my name to it and confirm, “All good.”

“Uh… toothbrush, underwear, socks… shit, I don’t know what else to check. You’re not flyin’ commercial so if they lose your luggage, chances are they lost you. And if they lose you over the Atlantic, we’ve got bigger issues than your clean boxer situation,” Ryder says, glancing around his truck.

I slap my hand on my knee to stop the sudden jiggling of my leg and snap, “That’s not funny.”

“Fuck, sorry. Breathe and put your head between your knees.”

“That’s if you’re gonna puke.”

“Whatever.”

He tries to hide it, but my brother starts laughing from the driver’s seat. “Sorry, I’m stopping,” he lies, getting out of the truck and continuing to laugh his ass off as he closes the door. I can still hear him when he drops the tailgate to grab my single suitcase.

I take my Stetson from his dash and get out, putting it on, looking up at the bright Tennessee sky.

There’s not a single cloud out today, and at just after eleven in the morning, it’s already in the high eighties and humid. It’s the kind of day Tinsley would love. One where she would drag me from behind my computer so we could take Gatsby and Rowdy out to the lake and ride them through the shallow waters before dismounting and floating under the sun, letting it color her bare skin. Then on the shore, she’d let the sun dry her off, laying on her stomach, and we’d talk until I couldn’t resist her anymore and roll her under me, forgetting a world existed outside the two of us as we passed the afternoon.

It’s a beautiful memory. One of thousands I’ve held on to for the last decade, keeping it close and replaying it in my head until it became worn around the edges like an old photograph. Remembering my Tinsley, my Shortcake, how she was back then, has always been my comfort. First when she was gone, and then when I thought I’d never have that girl again and would only ever see the global icon she’s become.

But the woman who owns the world and the girl who owns my heart are one in the same. No one version of her is better than the other. No version less deserving of absolute love and devotion from them or from me. Especially from me.

Tinsley was born to shine, and I was born to love her. All of her. And while that memory is one I’ll always remember, it’s from another chapter of our lives. One I’ve held onto too tightly instead of turning the page so I can help her write the song that will play next for us.

The girl from Louisville and the boy from a town miles off the freeway in East Tennessee are still here. They’re still inside us and will forever be a part of who we are and how we love each other. But it’s the woman in sequins under bright lights singing for tens of thousands who needs to be loved by a man who follows through on chasing her to the ends of the earth. Who does more than tolerates her celebrated life. Who lives up to the name of Superman and is always there when she needs that soft place to land and call home.

I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder as Ryder extends the handle of my suitcase, and together we make our way across the municipal airport’s parking lot.

“Dad would be proud of you, Arch. I know he never got to meet Tinsley, but he’d have loved her and been so incredibly proud of what you’re doin’. He probably also would’ve kicked your ass ten years ago for not goin’ after her, but hey, better late than never.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

My hand’s on the door, pulling it open when he stops, looking alarmed. “The ring! Do you have the ring? How did I fuckin’ forget to ask you about the—thank God,” he sighs in relief when I pull the antique box out.

For good measure, I open it up and show him our mom’s resized, fresh from a cleaning at the jewelers, sparkling engagement ring.

“Good, good, good…” he nods, popping his hat off and running a hand through his shoulder length hair before putting it back on.

I snap the box closed and stuff it back in the front pocket of my jeans where it’ll live until tomorrow night.

Inside the airport—which is more like a hotel lobby with couches and a TV in the center of the room and a long counter that’s divided into checking in for flights and lessons and a rental car stand with a single conference room and two offices down a short hall—he rolls the suitcase over to me and asks, “So who am I bringin’ back to the ranch again?”

“Skylar DuBois; she’s a friend of Tinsley’s. The filming of her show just wrapped and after some family drama, she wanted to get out of L.A. Since I’ll be gone, I offered her?—”

“Archer?” the golden blonde in question calls out.

She gives me a small wave, already looking down at the two massive suitcases in front of her. Each one is topped with an oversized and overstuffed bag that she starts to expertly wheel over.

I’m pushing my bag from my side to my back, straightening my glasses on my way to help her, but Ryder’s already halfway across the room to her. By the time I get to them, not even five seconds later, he’s already taken both suitcases from her and is introducing himself.

“Ryder Hayes, Archer’s brother.”

Skylar can’t look at him, nor can she stop looking at him. Every time she tries, her Caribbean blue eyes dart back up to him.

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