It’s the kind of smell that imprints itself into your soul. The kind that never leaves you, no matter how far you go. Even miles from civilization, in a country covered in sand, I could close my eyes and still breathe it in, still smell Heart Springs.
I lose myself to the familiar turns and gravel trails, letting the hum of an old country song fill the silence. But before long, my thoughts inevitably wind up back in the last place they should.
Because apparently, I’m a masochist.
Georgia Walker.
The hot as hell redhead with sky-high heels, a fancy-as-fuck car that’ll never make it on our back roads, and a stick so far up her perfect ass, I have no idea how she managed to sit down on my coffee table like it was her goddamned throne.
She came in swinging, all attitude and sharp edges.
Hate that I noticed. Hate that even now, she’s on my mind, when a hundred other things should be there instead.
The stubborn tilt of her pointed chin. The way the afternoon sun caught the blaze of her wild, curly hair. And eyes so green, so vicious, they burned. Every glare she threw my way felt like shewas digging for something, peeling back the layers, waiting for me to fuck up.
Georgia Walker with a temper like a wildfire. And me, caught in the pull of her tiny, but mighty gravity.
Georgia Walker with her fair skin, delicate features, and freckles like stars. Freckles that somehow managed to etch themselves into my fucking brain, despite the fog of Jack.
Like the night sky lit her up just to mess with me.
Or maybe it was the alcohol and life-changing news making me see shit.
I scrub a hand over my face, muttering a curse under my breath.
I’m losing it. That’s the only explanation. Grief, guilt, and whatever that meeting from hell was—it’s all fucked me up, twisting me into knots.
No sane man would be thinking about a woman like that after the bomb she dropped.
With an exhausted sigh, I hang a right without thought. Call it routine. Familiarity. Maybe even an accident.
But I know the truth.
Before the social worker showed up, I’d been hellbent on getting blackout drunk and calling the day a wash. Better to sleep through hell than live it. I’d stared at the ceiling for hours, face up in bed, whiskey in hand, Hazel’s words about Honey Bea failing spinning through my brain like a tornado.
The idea that the place my roots grew from might not even be standing anymore, guts me. It’s where I watched my sisters grow up, scrapping over everything and nothing. Where I had my first kiss and got grounded for it after Hazy caught me and Tabby Stewart behind the tack shed. Where my parents got married. Where my mom’s dreams came true.
Where my dad—
A pressure builds in my chest, tight and suffocating.
It’s where he’s buried, for fuck’s sake. It’s home. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget that.
The road curves, and suddenly, the edges of the property are right in front of me. My stomach turns. Sweat tracks down my spine, and not because of the late March sun blazing through my window.
My fingers flex on the wheel, but I don’t slow down.
The place is still massive—barns, silos, open fields. The house stands tall in the distance. White. Wide. That wraparound porch my mom always dreamed of is still cluttered with potted plants. Even from here, I can make out the yellow cushions she’s had since I was in high school. If I got closer, I bet I’d see a pitcher of sun tea heating on the steps.
My vision blurs. The truck slows, but I don’t stop. Can’t.
A few minutes later, the bunkhouse appears. The siding’s beat to hell, but it’s standing. Same for the smaller homes, five of them scattered across the land. One for each of us.
I haven’t stepped foot in mine in years. Probably never will. More than once, I’ve thought about showing up in the dead of night and setting the damn thing on fire.
Burning down the dream I once built before life blew it all to hell.
My jaw ticks as the wrought-iron sign comes into view. The one I’ve driven under a thousand times but haven’t laid eyes on in years.
