Page 32 of When Wildflowers Bloom

He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Not even close, Pam Beesly.”

“So I told you more about me than I’m sure you cared to know. If we are going to be friends, I assume you need to tell me something about you,” I say, staring out the windshield as we drive out of the mountains.

He chuckles, wind blowing his hair in twenty-seven directions as one hand casually drapes over the steering wheel. “What do you want to know?”

I consider this. WhatdoI want to know?

“Why are you called Bo?”

“Ah, that’s a good story. My grandad always wanted a dog—that he wanted to name Bo—but Gran said the dog hair would get in her clay. As you can imagine, she got her way with that.” He grins. “When I came along, I got the name.” He shakes his head, hair whipping across his face. “Old man never did get a dog.”

When he shrugs, I laugh. “Named after the dog that never was. I like it.”

“What else?” he asks, shifting in his seat, running a hand through his hair and glancing over at me. His brown eyes look almost gold as the sun shines through the open roof of the Jeep.

“Do you date?” I ask. “Women, I mean. Other women.”

Again, he laughs, but there’s a more serious undertow when he answers. “I tried to, a couple of times. It’s complicated. I have a wife, and there’s a guilt associated with that even though I don’t want to be with her. Even though she left me and Lucy. Especially Lucy. Most women don’t want to date a man who’s legally married. I’m bound to another woman, it’s hard to see a future in that.” He shakes his head. “And then there’s Lucy, my priority.”With both hands now on the steering wheel, he twists his fingers around it. “I just don’t know how it fits.”

As we pull up to my house, I stay silent, considering his situation. How strange it must be. I’ll never have a spouse, but he has one that essentially doesn’t exist. I’ll never know love, but in some ways, neither will he. At least not anymore.

When he parks in my driveway, Huck’s waiting on my porch. I smile and wave at him through the open doorway of the Jeep, and he mirrors me from where he sits. He’s wearing a shirt with grasshoppers on it today.

“Who’s that?” Bo asks as I climb out of his Jeep with my oversized hat in one hand, bag that didn’t get stolen in the other.

“Huck. My neighbor. Andfriend,” I say, my emphasis trying to prove a point. “Do you want to meet him?”

His answer is in the form of him sliding out of the driver’s seat and rounding the front of the vehicle.

“Birdie! Birdie!” Huck’s too-loud voice calls as he hops from the step and runs toward me, a blocky smile, more rectangular than curved, plastered on his face. The sight of it makes me grin.

When Huck gives me a high-five, Bo is standing next to me.

“Huck wonders where Birdie’s been!” he shouts.

I smile. “I went hiking with my friend Bo today.”

Bo and Huck study each other like they are trying to solve a riddle.

“Hi, Huck,” Bo says.

Huck shakes his head, mouth clamped shut.

“I wonder if Huck could tell Bo something about insects,” I say, trying to break the ice between them.

His eyes light up. “Grasshoppers were alive before dinosaurs.”

“They must be really old!” Bo says with such an obnoxiously terrible old man impression it makes Huck bark out a laugh.

“I wonder if Huck would like to walk George Strait with me.”

He nods, and I hand him my key. “Let him out, please.”

He doesn’t hesitate before taking the key and sprinting toward the door.

“George Strait?” Bo asks, eyes still on Huck.

“It’s my dog,” I tell him. “He was my mom’s favorite singer.”

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