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“So, Bo,” my dad says in his slow easy voice, the slightest hint of playfulness. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”

If there were a drink in my mouth, I’d spit it. Instead, my eyes bug out with an exasperated, “Dad!”

Bo chuckles, unfazed, and reaches over to my lap and grabs my hand in his. “Well, Greg, I’m trying not to fall in love with her, but she’s making that damn difficult.”

My head snaps to face him and I try to yank my hand away. His grip only tightens. He smiles.Smiles!

“That she does,” my dad says, lifting his glass to his lips, giving me a smirk.

I yank my hand free and raise my palms toward them both as I stand. “You know what? No, Bo, that’s not funny. And, Dad, seriously? That’s how you defend my honor?!”

Hands on my hips, the heat in my words cools instantly when the song that floats through the screen door shifts to the familiar George Strait tune. My dad sets his glass down and grabs my hand, grinning as he stands.

He wants to dance. After that. With Bo just sitting here.

As though my dad can hear my thoughts, he says, “Bo,” –takes my hand in his—“Birdie and I have a George Strait dance every Thursday. It’s tradition, right, Little Bird?”

I’m annoyed, with both of them, but I hear myself say, “Yep!” as my dad starts twirling me around the porch. My annoyance fades to contentment in a matter of seconds from the familiarity of it all. When he spins me, I’m mid-laugh when Bo and Lucy start dancing right next to us. She’s hugging his legs, standing on his toes, and he’s smiling as he looks down at her, fingers tickling her hair. My heart swells so much there isn’t enough room for a full breath to get into my lungs.

“Your momma’s eyes are happy tonight, Birdie,” my dad says as we dance. “He’s a good one.”

“He is,” I say softly, looking over my dad’s shoulder to Bo. Our gazes collide and hold. There’s an intensity in the way he looks at me. Like it might be generating an actual temperature that could burn anything that comes between our line of sight on each other.

When the song stops, my dad hugs me. “Do it scared, Little Bird,” he whispers in my ear. “Some time will always be better than none.” Just like he always does, my dad sees me and all the worry I carry around with me like a suitcase that’s permanently fused to my hand.

What if I get sick?is all I can think. Only I’m not just thinking it, I say it out loud because my dad’s arm is around my shoulder, squeezing it, as we watch Bo run around with Lucy and the dog in the yard. “Then you’ll have someone to fight with you, Birdie. Just like your mom did.”

Lucy is asleep when I park in front of Bo’s house. When he lifts her out, her eyes stay closed as he carries her inside to her bed. I wait on his porch, unable to stand still.

Do it scared.My dad’s words could be my life slogan.

When Bo’s back outside with me, his Bo-ness is intoxicating. Casual T-shirt, jeans, tousled hair, dark eyes—under the warm glow of the porch light, everything about him has a sexier texture.

Then his hands are on my hips, and my breathing stops.

“What are we doing, Bo?” My eyes search his, praying to find some kind of answer revealed in the way he looks at me.

He shrugs. “Living.”

Living. He’s right. I know it down to my marrow. Down to whatever marrow is made out of. The way he makes me feel—makes me want to feel.

I swallow. Scared, but alive. “If I get sick?”

“I’ll be here.”

“And Mandy?”

He sighs. “And Mandy.”

I close my eyes, blowing out a breath, not knowing what his response means but somehow understanding it. Because, just as much as I’m destined to die of cancer, he’s married.

He lifts his palm to the side of my neck, fingers resting lightly on my skin as his thumb brushes my earlobe,tilting my chin toward him.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, his rusty voice crawling all over my skin. Under it.

“I think I want that too,” I whisper, sliding my hands around his waist, pressing my fingers into his back.

Then, he does.