THE CEREMONY ITSELF is mercifully short, with Captain Kane giving a succinct summary of the events Kyle and I were embroiled in—leaving out the gory details—followed by a touching memorial slide show. When it’s over, I’m emotionally drained and want nothing more than to go home and flop down on my bed. But I don’t want to disappoint all the people my parents have invited to their house.
As my family and I are waiting for the crowd to clear, a familiar face appears out of the mass of people.
“Willow!” my mom exclaims, and gives my ex-girlfriend a big hug. “Rory didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“I wanted to surprise him,” Willow says, breaking from Mom to hug me. “I stood in the back so I wouldn’t draw attention.”
She might have been discreet earlier, but now she’s turning the heads of the people around us. Wearing a modest blue dress, she doesn’t quite look as glamorous as she does in her music videos, but her famous face still stands out in a crowd.
We embrace, and over her shoulder I can see the confused expression on Megan’s face. I’m sure Mom wouldn’t have invited her if she’d known Willow was going to be here. My parents thought the world of Willow and weren’t too happy when she and I decided to go our separate ways. Willow and I dated back before she was a star. I was going through a hard time after my ex-wife, whom I still loved, was murdered. I fell hard for Willow and still think of our brief romance as some of the best days of my life. But her career took her to Nashville, and we couldn’t make our relationship work long distance. We broke up amicably, but it still hurt.
I introduce her to Megan.
“You didn’t tell me you had a new girlfriend,” Willow says, her voice chipper and enthusiastic.
“Um,” I say, stumbling over my words, “she’s not my… um… We’re not…”
“Not yet,” Jake mutters loud enough for us all to hear.
Megan, flushed with embarrassment, says to Willow, “I’m a family friend.” She extends her hand. “I love your album,” she adds. “My favorite song is ‘Outlaw in a Miniskirt.’” She looks at me with a wry smile. “That and ‘Don’t Date a Texas Ranger,’ of course.”
Willow laughs. “That’s advice you definitely should not take.”
We make our way to the parking lot as rain is starting to sprinkle down. Willow says she’s got a rental car and doesn’t need a ride. But as Megan moves to ride with my parents, Willow gives her a gentle shove my way and says, “Why don’t you ride with the man of the hour?”
Willow winks at me, and Megan and I hurry to my truck to avoid the rain. As soon as I’m on the highway, the sky opens up and unleashes a deluge onto Central Texas. My wipers are going as fast as they can, and still they can’t keep up with the downpour. Thunder explodes like a rifle shot, and lightning ignites the sky in yellow light before plunging it back into darkness.
“I hope that wasn’t too uncomfortable,” I say to Megan. “I mean, with Willow being there.”
“I knew Willow was gorgeous and talented,” she says, “but I didn’t realize how cool she would be.”
I try to take the conversation away from Willow and ask Megan what she’s studying at UTEP. She explains that she’s finishing her PhD in American literature. Over the past few days, she was doing what they call a “campus visit” at Baylor, interviewing for a job there as an assistant professor.
“I’ve had two interviews now,” she says. “The other one is in Mississippi. Fingers crossed the Baylor job works out.”
She’s been putting herself through school by working as a bartender four nights a week at a little pub on the outskirts of El Paso called the Outpost.
“I don’t mind pouring drinks,” she says. “But it’s not easy teaching classes during the day, working in the bar till 2:00 a.m., then trying to find time to write my dissertation.”
I’m impressed—and a little intimidated.
She’s smart.
Hardworking.
And—I can’t deny—damn good-looking.
She’s wearing a red blouse with an ivory skirt, with a slit showing off just a glimpse of her thigh. In the closed quarters of the truck cab, I can smell a dab of perfume, a citrus aroma that suits her perfectly.
I mention that Baylor is my alma mater, and this gives me something to talk about for a few minutes, how much I loved going to Dr Pepper Hour on Tuesdays and cheering for the Bears at Floyd Casey Stadium before they demolished it and built the new one.
After I pull off the highway and head toward the ranch, a car appears ahead of us, stuck on an embankment. It must have hydroplaned and slid off the road. I pull over and pop on my police lights.
“Hang on a sec,” I tell Megan, reaching behind my seat for my rain jacket.
Water pelts the brim of my hat as I step into the downpour. The driver rolls down the window a crack and I ask her to try the gas. The wheels spin, spitting mud.
“Hold on,” I say. “I’ve got a tow cable.”
I turn around and Megan is there, getting drenched.
“I’ll help,” she says.
“You’ll get soaked,” I say, but it’s too late—her wet hair is matted to her scalp, her saturated blouse clings to her skin.
“I was raised on a farm,” she says, smiling. “A little rain never hurt anybody.” I open my mouth to object, but she says, “I’m not the kind of girl who’s going to sit in the car and let a man do all the work. You should know that right off the bat.”
“Here,” I say, stripping off my jacket and draping it around her shoulders.
I place my hat atop her head—the Stetson never looked so good before.
I haul my tow cable out, and while I attach it to my truck, Megan kneels down in her skirt and hooks it underneath the stuck car. Her high heels are getting muddy, but she doesn’t seem to mind. A minute later, the car is free, and we’re back on the road, smiling at each other even though our clothes are soaked through.
When we get to my parents’ house, Dad says, “What the hell did you two get into?”
The house is full of friends and family, and it’s clear the party has already started.
So much for a small get-together.
“We thought maybe you ran off and eloped,” Jake says.
I ignore him while I strip off my button-down shirt so I’m only in a wet T-shirt. Mom hands us a couple of towels. As Megan attempts to dry her long hair, Mom fetches a faded Baylor sweatshirt that I bought her for Christmas years ago when I was a student.
“Here,” she says to Megan. “Let’s see how you look in green and gold.”
“If you’re done messing around,” my other brother, Chris, tells me, “you’re wanted in the living room.”
“I am?”
As I step around the corner, I see a dozen or so people are gathered around two stools set up in the corner. Willow sits on one of them. The other stool is empty. Two guitars—mine and hers—lean against the wall behind her.
“Sorry,” Willow says with a bright smile. “Your family insisted we treat them to a duet.”