Page 58 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“Birdie,” he calls as I start to leave. “Even without the tits, you’re more of a Margaret than a Bonnie.”

I smile. “Sam, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

His old hand bats through the air and the grumble returns to his voice. “Don’t get used to it.”

I snort a laugh. Sam has gone from being a royal pain in my ass to one of my favorite people on the planet in the matter of hours.

After I drop him off, the drive home and my crawl into bed is filled with the loudest quiet I’ve ever known.

I’m in a war I don’t understand with myself.

Bo.

Boandmyself.

When my phone vibrates it’s a simple,Church tomorrow?,and my reply ofYeshappens so fast it’s instinct—habit.

The only way to possibly respond.

Twenty-one

Church is quiet. WhenBo picks me up, it’s a hushed, “Hey,” we exchange followed by a drive into the mountains with each of us looking out our respective missing doors.

We hike—silence.

We reach the summit—silence.

George Strait spends too much time sniffing another dog’s butt on the trail—silence.

The roots and rocks under my feet I’ve come to consider my weekly therapy do nothing to smother the argument my brain is having with itself.

Bo is married vs. He isn’twithher.

I’ll probably die vs. I might not get sick.

Tragic ending vs. Happily ever after.

Don’t let him go vs. Tell him goodbye.

If there ever is a time to yell my feelings off the edge of a cliff, it’s today, but somewhere on the trail when I catch him smirking whenhe looks at me, the silence switches from being a way to organize my thoughts to some sort of stubborn refusal to be the one to talk first.

Even with the smirk, his silence lets me know he’s in his head as much as I am. Maybe he’s brought me here to tell me his goodbye. Maybe that will break my heart but also fix this whole mess.

When he parks at my house, I stare out the doorless Jeep. Huck, my steadfast visitor, sits on my porch waiting.

“Is this our first fight?” Bo asks.

“Second,” I say, turning to look at him. “Our first fight was thefirsttime your wife came up.”

His laugh comes in the form of a puff of air through his lips, and our eyes lock as I rest the side of my head on the headrest.

Looking at him look at me, I feel his pull. Like he’s another sun with its own gravity, able to will everything toward him by just simply existing—even the words I don’t want to say.

“I’m scared I’m going to fall in love with you.” The power of him rips the truth right out of my throat and sets it free like a million dandelion seeds in a summer breeze.

He mirrors my posture, head tilting against his own headrest.

“I’m scared I’m already in love with you.”

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