Page 124 of When Wildflowers Bloom

They keep coming, one after the other, in perfect order.

His eyes are up, scanning. He stands. A line of people around him, arranging themselves numerically by comparing notes. I laugh at the chaos of it all.

“Where is she?” he asks the woman who’s reaching the next sticky note toward him.

She shakes her head adamantly. “We aren’t allowed to tell you. We were told to give these directly to you in order.”

“Wha—” His eyes catch on Libby, leaning behind the bar, Cheshire grin on her face.

“Sit down, Bo. Pam Beesly is about to rock your world.”

He looks around again, I swear seeing me—feeling me—but does as she says, ridiculously handsome smile on his face.

He takes the notes, reading every single one. The ones I don’t need to see because I know what they say.

You dance to George Strait.

You learned to talk to Huck.

I’m happier when I’m with you.

Your cabins feel like castles.

You know how to see people.

You love me with my scars.

Repeatedly, his eyes lift, scan the room, and he laughs.

Then come the final few:

Bo, I love you.

You showed me a life I didn’t know I could have.

I’m sorry for not seeing it.

But what I’m not sorry about…

Is what you’re about to do…

Because you love me too.

One hundred sticky notes cover the bar, and between his smile and the way I see him looking for me—with joyful desperation—it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever witnessed. More amazing than a summit that overlooks the mountains I’ve grown up in or a field set ablaze by an unexpected late season bloom of wildflowers.

Then right on schedule: “Alright, folks, next up we have Bo Monroe. Bo, come on up,” the DJ says, tonight wearing a blue polyester shirt with his hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

Bo shoots Libby with a leveling glare, but she’s enjoying it too much to care. Hands cupping her mouth, her long, loud, “Wooo!” whips the bar up into a frenzy, and I laugh—louder this time.

I hate you, he mouths to her, taking off his coat and dropping it on the back of his stool.

When she laughs harder, he waves his middle finger at her.

“That’s my wife, asshole!” a familiar voice jokes.John.

“Who’s watching our kids?” I hear Bo ask, again looking around the room, no doubt for Lucy this time.

“My mom,” John says. “You think I’m missing out on this mushy bullshit, you pussy-whipped bastard?” He slaps Bo’s back and gives him a final shove toward the small stage.

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