Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
I had hoped to lie down myself for a bit. But between catching up on laundry and paying bills, I burned through my two hours of “free time” without so much as a snack break.
I’m tired. Then again, when am I not?
“What’s that sound?” Junie jumps up in an attempt to get a better look at the party happening just down the hill.
“That’s the band. They’re playing music at the party. It’s fun, right? Think you’ll want to dance with me?”
Junie smiles, nodding. “I like to dance.”
“I do too.”
Although I’m feeling weirdly … nervous, I guess, about this whole thing. Which is stupid, because it’s just a casual get-together of some locals. There will be food, beer, and yeah, maybe a little work involved. But it’ll be a great opportunity to meet some neighbors. I haven’t really done that yet, seeing as I threw myself into getting the Wallaces’ training program off the ground as soon as we arrived.
I really would love for Junie to make a friend or two. If we’re not feeling it, we can just leave.
I hate the idea that I’m nervous because Sally’s introducing me to someone, even if she did pitch him as nothing more than a fellow single parent. Being nervous means I care, and I don’t want to care about a guy or what he thinks of me. I’m happy being alone.
I’m a better person because I’m alone. I’m not bitter or resentful or angry anymore.
I know this in my bones. And yet my stomach won’t stop flipping the closer we get.
The music grows louder as we pass a stand of juniper trees. We crest a small hill, and then the party comes into view in the shallow valley below.
I draw up short in the stubby grass.
“What is it, Mommy?”
Swallowing, I adjust the hat on my head. Figured it was only proper to wear a Stetson to a barn raising. “Nothing. There’s … wow, a lot of people here.”
Like, a lot of people. They swarm the damaged barn and the picnic tables that our crew set out around it. A large knot of people hangs by a pair of kegs in rubber buckets opposite the band, while others mill around the tables, picking at the enormous spread of food set out.
I helped organize the event, so I shouldn’t be surprised. But when everyone we invited said they’d be coming, I assumed they were just being polite. Surely we’d have no-shows. Probably a lot of them, considering we were asking people to rebuild a freaking barn for free.
“The cake!” Junie shouts, tugging on my hand. “Mommy, I see the cake! It’s chocolate! My favorite! Let’s go, Mommy, please!”
I smile, despite the roiling nerves in my stomach. Mrs. Wallace is a big baker, and she loves making sweet treats for my little sugar monster. She never said as much, but I know she made that Texas sheet cake because it really is June’s favorite.
Reason number eight hundred ninety-nine why I love our little life here.
I spot Mrs. Wallace by the nearest table. She’s got a plate in one hand and a fork in another, which she’s waving animatedly as she chats with Vince, the ranch’s resident veterinarian. He and Sally work closely together.
An older couple dances in front of the stage, where the band is playing a Taylor Swift cover. The familiar song eases my nerves ever so slightly.
I let Junie lead me down the hill. I joke that I’m an extroverted introvert; I love to socialize with the right people, but I always need time alone afterward to recharge my battery. My daughter, however, is—like her dad—the most natural extrovert on planet Earth, even as a three-year-old.
I hear the roar of a chain saw, followed by the thunk of hammers. Glimpsing inside the barn, I see there’s a whole mess of people there already at work. The fire was started by some bad electrical wire, and while the exterior of the barn escaped mostly unscathed, the interior is a disaster.
But judging by how many people showed up to work, it’ll be fixed in no time.
There’s a flutter inside my chest. Hartsville is a special place. The sense of community here—how people genuinely give a shit about each other—is kind of the best thing ever.
Junie makes a beeline for Mrs. Wallace and her chocolate cake.
“Mrs. Wallace!” My daughter slams into the older woman’s legs and wraps her in a hug. “Mrs. Wallace, there’s cake! Can I have some?”
I laugh. “How do we ask? And didn’t I say you needed to have some real food first?”
“Well hey there, little lady,” Mrs. Wallace says with a laugh. “It’s so good to see you. Of course you can have some cake! But only after you eat”—she glances at the food—“some of Mrs. Nielson’s chicken. Do you think you can do that?”