Page 3

CHAPTER

ONE

CLARA JUNE

“I love the way you smell, mama,” Archie sighs, clipping his seat belt. I shift the car into drive, waving at Doris through the window. She waves back, then ducks a little, before waving to Archie.

“I smell like fryer grease, buddy,” I say wearily, pulling out onto the street.

Doris lives near the school, and on days where the older boys won’t be home or able to watch Archie, he walks to her house.

In preschool sometimes he’d go home with Tyson, but now that Tyson is in first grade, it’s all Doris.

They say raising a family takes a village.

But it sometimes feels like as a single mom, it takes the whole town.

“I love that smell,” Archie says, peering over the dash. “I can’t wait to see Tanner play tonight.” He wiggles in his seat a little before turning on the radio, moving the dial from memory to our local station.

“Seven minutes left in the fourth quarter,” the voice on the radio announces.

“We’ll be there on time! Seven minutes left in the JV game. And everyone knows about football minutes, anyway,” he beams. He’s been so excited to see his brother start on that field—I swear he’s been looking forward to it more than Tanner.

“Everyone,” I confirm. The first game he went to, he didn’t understand how with just four minutes left on the clock, we were in the bleachers for another ten.

Timeouts, breaks—I explained to him then that sports minutes are rarely accurate.

I dance my eyebrows at him when he looks my way, a large oak tree and free library donation box whipping by on my side of the road.

“I brought you something from the diner.”

He twists in his seat, gripping the chair to see what it is.

“Food!” he shouts, wiggling toward the backseat long enough to collect the white, styrofoam to-go box I brought from work.

He pops it open, and the smell of battered and fried chicken floods the car.

My stomach rumbles, and it’s then I realize all I’ve eaten today was half a piece of toast and two oranges. I’ll have to grab nachos at the game.

“Oooh, mama, this one’s my favorite,” he moans, scooping up the messy sandwich as I one-arm the open box to catch the droppings.

Coleslaw drops in wet plunks into the splayed open styrofoam clamshell, and Archie moans through his first bite of buttermilk chicken sandwich.

“It’s so good,” he says around an ambitious bite.

I pat his leg. “Good. I’m glad. Did you bring your sweatshirt in your backpack or did you leave it at Miss Doris’s place?”

While taking another bite, he presses his boot into the bag on the floorboard. “Yeah, it’s in there.”

“Good,” I reply just as the stadium lights come into view. From my purse, my phone rings, but I refuse to use my phone while driving. I have three boys watching. I have to set a good example.

My shift was long and exhausting, and while most on-your-feet jobs are tiring, today felt especially brutal.

Non-stop customers, another waitress called in sick, we ran out of barbeque sauce, and I spilled a soft drink down my apron and skirt within the first ten minutes of my shift.

My shoes are worn out and starting to rub on my heels, my scalp itches because I need to wash my hair, and at home, I’m not even sure if we have any clean towels for me to use post-shower, hours from now.

But after parking and paying our entry, Archie’s hand linked with mine, all of the angst and stress of the day melts away.

The low hum of excitement and adrenaline that radiates from the bleachers, the smell of fresh cut grass, the cool nip of evening air against my warm cheeks, and the smell of hotdogs cooking—it’s all the perfect small town Friday night.

Those things are part of why I love Bluebell, and definitely why I’m calmer now, but they’re not the main reason. The main reasons are all around me.

Looking down, I follow Archie’s extruded arm as he wiggles and waves at someone up in the bleachers.

There I see Rawley, and despite leaving things off on the wrong foot this morning, Rawley lifts a hand and waves at me, then smiles and waves at his little brother.

His girlfriend, Jo Jo who is an absolute sweetheart, waves back at us, too, wearing an organic, oversized grin.

We may argue over SATs, college, trade schools and the gas card, but he’s a good kid, a wonderful son and an even better brother. The way Archie looks up to both him and Tanner makes my heart swell.

I could deal with copious amounts of fighting, bickering and sabotage, but I don’t. My boys are good boys. Sometimes I wonder if God knew that Troy was going to end up a worthless sack of poop and gave me wonderful boys because he pitied me.

Happiness burns through my veins at their exchange, but when Archie turns, abandoning my hand to grip the chain link fence, a second wave of love and adoration hits me.

Tanner, with his helmet off and black paint smudged beneath his eyes, his sandy hair messy and damp, jogs to the fence and grabs Archie’s hand.

“You're the starting QB!” Archie exclaims, gripping Tanner’s fingers through the fence. Tanner laughs and nods his head.

“I know! You gonna sit with mom and watch me play?” he asks, bringing his fist to the fence. They bump knuckles through the metal, and Archie starts jumping up and down in place with excitement.

“Yeah! I can’t wait! Kill ‘em, Tanner!” he shouts. Tanner promises to do his best, and rises from his crouch.

“Good luck, honey. How’s your shoulder? How are you feeling?” I pepper questions all over him, knowing I’ll be lucky if he even answers one. The stadium lights glitter, and the dull roar of excitement radiating from the stands puts goosebumps on my arms. “This is so exciting!”

After saying “excuse me” approximately fourteen trillion times, Archie and I are finally in our seats.

The evening closes in on us, and I drape my jacket over Archie’s legs, noticing the tip of his nose is pink.

When the game starts, the chaos of our life, the juggling act, the management, the pressure, the stress—it melts away, leaving behind nothing but pure joy and pride.

Archie screams and hollers for his brother, and when I glance up to where Rawley sits with his arm draped around Jo Jo, I find him cheering his heart out, too.

Tanner has a wonderful game. No signs of his shoulder acting up, and after one particularly deep pass to one of his wide receivers, I was sure it would be sore.

But no. He throws perfect pass after perfect pass, all game long.

When the final buzzer sounds, I put Archie on my shoulders and make my way down to the field.

I weave my way through the flood of people down on the field, proud moms and dads hugging their players after the first game—and first win—of the season.

Strong, prideful pats on backs and families taking post-game photos make me hope that Tanner never feels embarrassed; it's just me.

Hoping that I am enough for him in these big, momentous occasions .

I lower Archie to the ground and adjust my coat, then smooth my hands down my stained and slightly wrinkled Goode’s dress.

My medical-looking granny shoes are scuffed, the white faded by years of wear, a tiny hole in the toe where my sock shows through.

A couple passes by me, the woman fit, her thighs visibly muscular through her fitted designer jeans.

With new, unbroken cowboy boots on, her long hair twisted into perfect waves, lashes thick and lips plump, makeup perfect, she wraps her arm around a man’s waist. He’s wearing a pullover, a new Stetson on his head, and new boots on his feet.

Their smiles are a bright, medically-assisted white, and when they wrap their arms around their son, a wash of deep guilt and insecurity nearly leaves me breathless.

My boys deserve that. They deserve happy, perfect parents who show up for every moment, full of love and support.

Parents who have enough money to take them out after moments like this to celebrate.

Parents who can afford to opt for the fancy cleats, just to show their kid that they see how hard they’re working.

They deserve a mom who can give them their focus for more than two broken hours a day.

“Tanner!” Archie screeches. Looking away from the perfect family, my gaze collides with my middle boy.

His hair is wet, tangled in a heap on top of his head, the black beneath his eyes smeared completely down his cheeks.

His grin is crooked and wide, and I can’t help but see him as a baby in my mind for a moment, that same smile.

My chest squeezes as he collects Archie in his arms, hugging him tight before lowering him back down.

Next he hugs me. With my chin on his shoulder, I tell him everything I hope he knows.

“I am so proud of you. You have been working so hard, you had such a great game Tanner, I love you so much.” I fight the stinging behind my eyes because I know if I get emotional, Tanner will kill me.

He pulls back, out of my arms, leaving a sticky film of sweat and adrenaline along my chest and arms. With his helmet tucked under one arm, he uses the other to pull his coach in our direction, motioning with his hand.

I’ve seen Dean McAllister once or twice at practice pickup, but we’ve never officially met until right now. Something low in my belly twitches at the sight of him, all up close, under these lights, a little sweaty, a lot happy.

“Coach, this is my little brother Archie,” he says, palming the top of Archie’s head, spinning it to face his coach. Archie giggles while Dean, a small dimple adorning his cheek, grins down at my little boy.