Page 89 of When Wildflowers Bloom

When she passes me a nonalcoholic can of beer, I’m speechless.

It’s just a fake beer, but in my hand, it becomes something precious. A talisman.

I drink one, then two. Because it’s good, and being in this loud kitchen with Bo’s arm draped around me is too.

John quickly becomes my new favorite person—he’s loud and unfiltered, rough around the edges. A human party bus of sorts. He’s everything I’m not but has a way of pulling me into the conversation when I’m too quiet.

When Bo tells them, “Birdie here is a sort of George Strait expert,” John clings to this like a lifeline.

He peppers me with trivia questions, and I impress everyone by not missing a single one. Not his date of birth. Not his hometown. Not his first ten number one hits. Not the fact he eloped with his high school sweetheart—Norma—in Mexico. My mom loved the King of Country, so by default, I do too.

When he asks, “What would George Strait say on a day like today?”

I pause, grin, then tell him, “‘Here for a Good Time,’” which makes him laugh loudly in a way that makes his beard shake. The irony isn’t lost on me—I, the person who lives life by lists and calculated decisions, chooses a song that’s about life being short and having fun while it lasts—essentially my anti-anthem. But here, it’s right.Good. Like Iamhere for a good time.

When it’s time for goodbye, hours later, Libby hugs me, with a promise of us hanging out together soon, and John puts me in a headlock and scrubs his knuckles across the top of my head like we’re frat brothers.

As Lucy talks to the dog in the back seat while we drive, Bo’s hand finds mine with a squeeze. Then, like he knows what I’m thinking, says, “They loved you.”

And I really think they did.

Maybe because knowing Veda has cancer gives me a different lens to look at her through, but everything about her seems slightly less when we drop Lucy off at her house Sunday morning. Less weight. Less attitude. Less energy. Justless.

“You feeling okay?” I ask her when Bo and Lucy are out of earshot.

“Of course, I am,” she says with less sharpness. No doubt, a lie. “Just a little tired is all.” Then she smiles the kind of smile that everyone gives when they say they are fine that tells hownotfine they are.

“Are you still good with Thursday? I can cancel if…”

She waves her twisted hand in the air. “Nonsense. If there’s some woman like Mabel in this world, I’m not missing my chance to meet her.”

Then she smiles, a real one this time, and for a second, I forget—Veda has cancer.

Thirty-six

Bo and I visita new church. Every Sunday we’ve gone deep into the mountains, but today he drives us down into the foothills. George Strait, who was gnawing happily on a bone when we left him, stayed behind. With Lucy at Veda’s, it’s just us, the same as it has been for months, but somehow, with everything that’s happened, it’s different. Like everything else with him, it’s more.

“Why is your backpack so full?” I ask as he hitches the more stuffed than usual bag on his back.

“I brought extra layers in case we get cold.” The grin he gives doesn’t match his logical explanation, but he’s on the trail before I can argue.

It’s gorgeous as we start walking. The September air delivers the perfect punch of autumn crisp, and the sky is clear blue. I’m in my usual yoga pants and Monroe Cabins cap with my hair pulled into a ponytail, but today I’m wearing a sweatshirt too. So is Bo. Once we start walking, I warm quickly. When we drove away fromthe mountains, our lower elevation meant slightly higher temps. I can’t imagine needing another layer.

Instead of the usual roots and rocks and steady incline I’ve become accustomed to, today’s trail is flat and mostly packed soil mixed with fallen leaves. The trees around the trail are filled with color. Oaks and maples drip with yellows, oranges, and reds of the new season while the pines hold steadfast to their still mostly green needles. It smells dry and evergreen.

“Why did you pick this trail today?” I ask Bo’s overstuffed-backpack-covered back.

He turns his head to the side, toothpick playing on his lips, saying, “I wanted to show you something,” over his shoulder without stopping.

Then, it’s our usual comfortable quiet that we have on Sunday mornings. We aren’t here to talk. Sometimes, I know we’ve grown closer when our hikes are over even though we’ve hardly said a word. Like we get to see something in each other that only reveals itself in our silence.

The trees start to thin. Thinner. Gone.

We are standing in a meadow and it’s quiet. Tranquilly so. A deer standing in the middle pops its head up and spots us before half-running, half-leaping away through the mostly-green-yet-somewhat-yellow tall grass. It’s still early, not even ten, and the morning light paints across the field—still wet with the slightest layer of dew—to make it look like a shimmering watercolor painting.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, though it feels like too small a word.

He tilts his head. “It’s this way.” Instead of following the trail forward, he steps into the grass.

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