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These women are singing and dancing and laughing with me and Shania Twain while I wear a scrap of fabric, and I have never felt so free in my whole life.

It’s over; there’s clapping. Some guy cups his hands and yells, “Encore!” and I laugh—again.

The bachelorette and her friends hug me, drunkenly inviting me to the wedding.

When they loudly scream, “I love you, Birdie!”—the only volume they seem to operate at—I hug them back.

I don’t know what thisis, but I love it.

All the while, I still hate Bo.

I hate him the entire time I walk off the little stage, through the cackling crowd and right over to him.

I hate him when I put my hands on my hips, square my shoulders to him and say, “Bo, you’re a goddamn asshole, and you’re going to pay for this.”

I especially hate him when he looks at my glaring, drops his head back, and laughs before putting his hands on my face and pulling me in for a kiss so hot that I don’t think I’ll ever come up for air. In front of everyone. In front of everyone, he kisses me in a way that assaults every single one of my senses with his mouth and his hands and his all-consuming Bo Mountain Breeze until the crowd is clapping and howling.

The DJ over the speaker says, “She’sreallygoing tofeel like a woman tonight, folks. Next up, we have Toby singing ‘Friends in Low Places.’ Toby, come on up.”

When we pull apart, I’m breathless. He’s smiling.

He holds my face just inches from his. “You were amazing.”

“I hate you,” is all I can say back, but there’s a smile that pulls at my lips.

“Tell me something you like,” he says, soft.

“Murder,” I say. “You?”

“You,” he says, and this time, I don’t laugh. Because his smile drops; he’s serious.

He nods toward the door, and the mood shifts from playful to something else. Because I don’t know what’s on the other side of the door, but it sure as hell isn’t a crowd of people and bad karaoke.

I don’t resist. A flower bending in his Bo Mountain Breeze, moving however he wants me to. Leaning and swaying at his will with no regard for my own.

Libby must see what’s happening better than me, because she comes around the bar, giving me my purse and sweater, and hugs me goodbye. It’s not an awkward hug; it’s real. When she wraps her slender arms around me, it’s a tight squeeze, like she’s imprinting herself in my life, giving me a glimpse of something sweet. A friend I didn’t know I needed.

“I hope I didn’t scare you off,” she says, looking me in the eyes. “Mandy is my sister, but her choices aren’t mine. Bo is family to me, and that boy is in love with you.”

I suck in a breath, eyes cutting to him where he’s saying goodbye to his friends. “That’s not what this is, Libby. And he’s married, and I’m…you know, Pam Beesly complicated.” I laugh softly.

She rolls her eyes. “And also, an idiot. Do you see the way he looks at you?” She shakes her head. “He came by earlier with bottles of organic juice in case you wanted something other than water. That’s not what he does—that’s not what any man does! And Mandy…” Her voice trails off with the pain in her eyes. “They might be married on paper, but that girl’s gone. She left him, left Lucy, left all of us. She chased dreams bigger than all of us.”

I get it then, she doesn’t hurt for Bo, she just hurts. Libby lost her sister.

I hug her again.

“I don’t have any friends,” I blurt out, laughing at my own awkwardness. “If you ever want to go to yoga or something…” My voice trails off with my own insecurity.

She squeezes my arms before dropping her hands by her side. “I’d love that.” She gives me one more smile before retreating behind the bar and lifting her chin in goodbye toward Bo.

He grabs my hand, pulls me close, and leads me toward the door and whatever comes next.

Twenty-five

Bo is in myhouse and using up all the oxygen. My breathing is so shallow standing in my living room facing him, I’m pretty sure air is just coming into my nose and shooting back out with no real purpose. George Strait pants next to me before lying down on his dog bed and it’s oddly comforting. Like Bo’s effect is universal.

“So,” I say between faux breaths, “now that I’veinvitedyou here, I can give you the tour?” I don’t think I meant to ask as much as offer, but the flexion of my voice makes it a question so I go with it.