Page 46

Joely laughs, and I swear it’s the best sound I’ve heard all damn day. Try-mester, huh? Yeah.

If this is the start, I’ll do whatever it takes to get to full term.

Chapter Fourteen

Joely

If you walk my streets long enough, you learn that love confessions come in all shapes and sizes—on water tower walls, in bar napkin doodles, even in the lyrics blaring from someone’s pickup on a snowy Tuesday night. Folks around here still talk about the last time someone painted their heart for the world to see, and everyone knows exactly what it means when a fresh coat of paint appears on the tallest thing in town. Some call it foolish, some call it romantic, but nobody ever forgets it. And this time, as word spreads about that lopsided number and wobbly heart way up high, most of us just smile and crank up the jukebox, knowing every small town’s got its own kind of John Deere Green.

Playlist: John Deere Green by Joe Diffie

It’s too cold to be doing something this dumb.

I shift my weight on the narrow ladder rung and glare at the side of the water tower like it personally wronged me. The paint can teeters on the platform beside me, half-empty and splattered across my gloves, my jeans, my soul. What’s up there? A lopsided “#29” and something that was supposed to be a heart but looks more like an angry potato.

This was supposed to be a grand gesture. Anonymous. Mysterious. Romantic.

Instead, I’m up here in the freezing wind, fingers numb, looking like I lost a bet with Pinterest.

But the truth is, it’s not really about the paint, or the tower, or even whether he ever figures out it was me. Last night, when he finally said he was scared, it knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t say the right thing—I just got tangled in my own feelings, making it about me, about us, instead of hearing what he was actually telling me. I was raw and exposed and so desperate for reassurance that I missed how much it took for him to say it out loud. And now? All I want is to show him he isn’t alone in it. That I see him, all of him—even the scared parts.

A gust hits me square in the face, and I swallow a scream. My balance shifts, and in a fear-fueled moment, I remember I’m not great with heights. Or ladders. Or planning, apparently.

I cling to the metal and close my eyes, muttering, “This is fine. Totally fine. I’m a strong, independent woman with an artist’s soul and poor judgment.”

Another gust. Nope. I’m out.

I start the awkward climb down, trying not to think about how this all started because I wanted Brogan to feel special. To feel wanted. Because he is. Because I’ve wanted him for as long as I can remember, and the only time I’ve ever felt brave about it was when I was hiding behind a Sharpie and a spark of hope.

I hit the ground and stumble back, paint on my coat, hair in my mouth, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

This was supposed to be the water tower miracle. The one that sticks.

Instead, it’s a cautionary tale.

I yank my phone out of my pocket with frozen fingers and text the only person who won’t judge me too hard. Mostly because she’s already tangled up in this.

Me:You busy?

Lynsie:Define busy.

Me:Busy enough to commit some criminal activity?

Lynsie:Well shit. What do you need?

Me:Meet me. Gloves optional. Bring Heath’s extension ladder.

Lynsie:I hate you.

Me:Perfect.

Lynsie shows up ten minutes later in full-blown Mission: Impossible mode.

Black hoodie. Black jeans. Black gloves. Black face mask with only her eyes showing, which makes her look either like a very chic raccoon or a cat burglar with a Target credit card.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at me, then the water tower, then back at me like she’s mentally compiling a list of regrets.

I hold up the paint can like it’s a peace offering. “Let’s go.”