Page 16 of When We Met

And he probably replied with:“Well then, go out and do something. I got work to do.”

While I wear my heart on my sleeve under a steel trap, I wonder if Morgan even has a heart somedays. But even now, I can tell Morgan’s torn up.

“What are you going to do?”

His shoulders rise with a shrug. “Give her what she wants and hope she doesn’t take my ass to the cleaners when she finds out about Lil.”

Unease works through me. I know Morgan signed a prenup. Dad made him when he came home from college with a girlfriend we didn’t know anything about and a tattoo of her name on his chest. He’d probably been drinking tequila.

He motions to the barn. “I gotta get three more sections of fence fixed. You stoppin’ by tonight?”

“Nah, it’s spaghetti night with the girls. You comin’ by?”

“Yeah.” He smiles at my Thursday night tradition with the girls. “But I’ll be late tonight.”

It started about a year ago, but every Thursday, Morgan and I have dinner with the girls, and for now, until they turn into moody teens, it’s the highlight of their week. Next to Sunday dinner with my dad and Lara Lynn.

I take off back to the house, knowing I still need to stop by Earl’s place before the storm hits. And then I need to be back here to help get the herds in closer and hay out.

Ripping through the tight trail we have that leads back toward the house, I think about Tara again. I certainly wasn’t drunk on tequila when she told me it was over. Working a lot, I suppose so, but how can you fault a man for providing for you? Isn’t that what every woman wants? A hardworking man willing to give you anything?

What the fuck do I know though. I’m twenty-four, haven’t been laid in three years, and I’m raising two kids on my own.

I should have done this years ago.

KACY

Road trips are my jam. I love the gas station food that I’m sure will give me acne and drinking slushies. Hello, never had one before and I’ve been missing out. Are you thinking, what the fuck? You’ve never had a slushy? Where’d you grow up? Guam? For all I know, Guam has slushies. That’s how sheltered my life has been.

Now you might be wondering, who is this girl?

Kacy Conner. Nice to meet you. I’m at the worst point in my life. I’m sure of it. So where’d it start? I was born in a dungeon and waited for my prince charming to come rescue me. He never fucking came!

Kidding, try Beverly Hills, but as far as I’m concerned, it was a dungeon guarded by a ruthless queen. And if my mother had ever caught me eating sugar, aka cherry slushy, growing up, she would have made me throw it up. No lie. On one of my birthdays, I snuck a cupcake, and she stuck her finger down my throat until I threw up.

Are your eyes bugging out of your head?

If they are, you’re in for a treat if you ever met the famous Camille Conner, CEO of Harlen Modeling Agency, and wife of music mogul and former drummer, Russell Randal. Don’t even get me started on having that man as your father, but Camille, she’s the devil. She smiles at you, draws you in, and then she’s like a glowworm. Do you know anything about glowworms? They entice their prey with their bioluminescent light, and once they have you stuck in their sticky hanging lines, they suck you dry. That’s the entertainment industry for you.

Back to my road trip. I’ve never been on one, but somewhere between playing follow the leader behind an obnoxious cherry-red Corvette and a gas station taco I wished I hadn’t eaten, I realize this is my ticket out of California.

I quit my job yesterday, packed enough clothes to get by, and left.

California is not what it’s cracked up to be. Take away the stars and the beaches, and you’re left with droughts, wildfires, and earthquakes. Not to mention everyone you know is trying to become an actor or, at the very least, marry into wealth without a prenup. And what do they do to obtain that?

Lose themselves to superficial modifications they think they need, to be who they aren’t. You’ve heard that saying “Fake it until you make it,” right? It should be Beverly Hills’ motto. I’m not joking. And it probably is. Or is that Nashville’s motto?

When I graduated high school, half the senior class had nose jobs and Brazilian butt lifts before they hit eighteen, and boob jobs, yep. Nearly everyone I know.

Not me. I’ll stick with my natural barely B cups. No shame there, and hello, I don’t have shoulder pain from trying to carry them around.

That girl driving down the highway blaring Nirvana, she’s tired of fake people who only love you for what you can do for them. The ones who make girls feel like beauty is skin deep.

I’m so much more than my appearance.

You want to lose yourself? Move to California, and you’ll watch your life and dreams leak through your fingers as you cry into your palms every time you’re told you’re not good enough.

I dream of the South. Not just the South, but the stillness of a starry night around a bonfire or the way a wheat field moves with the wind. I dream of turning off the blacktop onto the red dirt roads and a dust circle. I want to feel the humid air in my lungs and try collard greens and black-eyed peas. I wanna drink water from a hose, run around barefoot, and stack hay. Sweet tea and fried chicken? Sign me the fuck up.

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