Lyla is giving me a look over the rim of her margarita that could strip paint.
I pretend not to notice.
The pool is that kidney-shaped type, tiled in turquoise, with a swim-up bar at one end. Laurel's got her gift and her book. Lyla's in a green bikini that turns her into a sexy mermaid. I'm in a tiny black two-piece that I’m probably too old for, but too damn bad, Irockthis thing. And I float off on a couple of pool noodles with a frozen margarita balanced between my boobs, soaking up the kind of Texas sun that bakes all the bad decisions right out of you.
But somewhere between margarita two and margarita three I start thinking.
Which is never a good idea.
I'm watching Laurel trace her initials on the buckle with her thumb, while Lyla tells some story about a boarder's daughter who tried to braid her pony's mane with gum in it. Kids are laughing and swimming under me and a family is playing a diving game with colored rings in the deep end.
And I think—just for a heartbeat—what if I didn't leave?
The thought crashes down like a dropped plate…loud, shattering, and sending shards everywhere.
I’veneveronce thought that. Not in ten years of drifting, not at the llama farm, not at the dude ranch in Bozeman, not even with the foreman in New Mexico who was genuinely crazy about me and thought we might have something.
I left all of it. Ialwaysleave.
And now I'm floating in a pool in Texas and thinking about a cabin in the oaks and a man with soot covered hands and dark blue eyes and wondering if maybe?—
Nope. That's the margarita talking. It has to be.
Tequila is a hell of thing.
I tip the last of my drink back and hand the empty to Lyla without looking.
"Another?" she asks.
"Duh."
The sun goes down orange and pink over the hills, and we drag ourselves out of the pool like three wet raccoons, pruny and sun-drunk, to go back to the cabin and get ready for dinner at the lodge.
When we get there Lucinda has set aside a big round table for us. And for the birthday girl—wildflowers in a mason jar, and a very generous pour of red wine from Carl, who winks at Laurel and tells her she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.
Halfway through the peach cobbler, Lucinda marches out from the kitchen with a little chocolate cake blazing with candles, and the whole dining room sings. Carl hands her a small wrapped box that she unwraps immediately, showing us a pair of tiny silver-dipped horseshoe earrings.
After that, it's storytime.
Lyla tells the one about the three of us sneaking into the camp kitchen for leftover pound cake at thirteen and getting caught by the counselor. Laurel tells the one about me convincing them both that bullfrogs would bring good luck if we each kissed one. I tell the one about Lyla riding a rescue donkey bareback into a wedding reception by accident, which she denies loudly into her wine glass, and we all laugh so hard we can barely breathe.
By the time we spill onto the porch of the lodge, the stars are up and I'm full of cobbler, cake, and drinks….and something warmer than both.
"I'm gonna—take the long,longway back," I say, and give them both a wink.
"Enjoy your evenin’, Larkie," Lyla says with a giggle.
Laurel smiles. "Go get your cowboy."
I blow them a kiss and turn to walk off.
On the porch of Garrett’s cabin, a lone wind chime sings. There's a light on inside but it's low.
I knock.
Nothing happens.
I knock again, heart in my ears. And once again there’s no sound or movement.