“Promise you won’t forget me,” she whispered.
To this day, I have no idea what she was talking about, or why she was crying. Maybe she was just trying to say goodbye and I was too stupid to notice. All I wanted to do was wipe the tears off her cheeks and maybe hold her and tell her it was going to be okay, but the smell of her skin, the softness of her long dark-brown hair, the feel of her body pressing against me was more than I could bear. I leaned in and kissed her. Her lips were so warm and wet. She took in a tiny gasp of air, and when I went in for another kiss, she started crying even harder and ran out of the house. I wanted to tell her I was caught up in the grief, plead temporary insanity, but the truth was I really just loved her. I think I’ve always loved her. She hasn’t spoken to me since.
Tyler snatches the red hoodie tied around Ali’s waist and smacks her ass with it. She shoots him a lopsided grin as she grabs it back from him and pulls it on over her faded-tan shoulders. I wonder if he even notices her shoulders—that constellation of freckles on the right one. That’s the arm she was always hanging out of her mom’s Cadillac when they delivered Avon around town.
The only thing they have in common is they’re the eldest sons and daughters of the founders of our glorious Preservation Society—the six families who rode in together and settled this county in the 1889 land rush. The Neelys, the Gillmans, the Perrys, the Millers, the Doogans, and yours truly, the Tates. I guess it’s about as close to royalty as this town will ever get.
It wouldn’t have been so weird if they’d all been friends before, but it seemed like as soon as my dad died, as soon as they stepped up to take their seats on the council, they suddenly became inseparable.
I’d never admit this to anyone, but sometimes I envy them—their freedom, their wide-open futures. It feels like my fate was sealed the moment my dad walked toward the cattle ranch holding that crucifix.
“Mooder in Midland.” That’s what the newspeople called it.
Real catchy.
At first, I kept waiting for the council to reach out to me, offer condolences or something … anything. But no one said a word to me. Not a single word. And Tyler was more than happy to step into my shoes in every way possible. I thought it was only a matter of time before Ali figured out what a tool he was, but I guess I was wrong.
She used to make fun of the Preservation Society just as much as I did. Sometimes when I look at her like this, surrounded by sycophants and assholes, it feels like I never knew her at all. Like I never knew any of them. Like I don’t even exist.
As I open my door, my cousin Dale jumps in front of my truck. “If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it. If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it,” he sings obnoxiously as he swivels his hips in front of me.
Three freshman girls walk by, giggling their heads off.
I slide out of my truck. “You shouldn’t do that. Ever.”
“Come on, loosen up, cuz. They love it, doncha ladies?” He shakes his hips again, and they all look back and laugh.
“I hate to break it to you, but it’s never gonna happen.”
“They don’t call ’em freshies for nothing. For all they know I could be the coolest guy at school.”
“They call them freshies because they’re fourteen-year-old girls, not because they’re stupid. And Jess is going to be one of them next year, so lay off.”
“Don’t be such an old man.” He punches me in the shoulder. “Hang out with me tonight.”
“Can’t, last harvest,” I say as I hoist my backpack up on my shoulder. “Besides, all you’re going to do is park up at the Quick Trip and holler at girls all night from the back of your pickup.”
“I’ve got it all figured out. You need to catch ’em when they’re feeling all vulnerable—on a late-night ice cream run in sweats and no makeup. You tell them they look beautiful and they’re yours.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say as we make our way across the lot.
“Or I’m a genius. Fine line, my friend. It was a lot easier to get girls to talk to me when you were QB. All I had to do was drop your name, tell ’em we’re cousins.”
“Second cousins.”
“Whatever.”
Some pep girls run by, and Dale elbows me. “Big game tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah?” I act like I don’t know it’s the biggest game of the season. Homecoming.
I should’ve never stepped on that field last year. My dad wasn’t even in the ground yet. I’d like to say I did it for him, or coach, or the team, but the truth was I did it for me. And look where that got me.
“He’s a shit quarterback,” Dale mutters as we edge around Tyler’s car. “Everybody knows the only reason he’s starting is ’cause his old man paid for the new stadium.”
“If you love football so much, maybe you should play.”