She'd expected to come face-to-face with Jeanie at some point. She'd been dreading the moment, tossing and turning in her bed at night with her husband snoring next to her, rehearsing what she'd say. She'd be polite but uninterested. She'd mention George, her kids. They'd have nothing in common anymore, and that'd be the end—one less thing to worry about.

The problem was she'd never practiced for when Jeanie would come hurtling back into her life like the stormwind she'd always been.

She locked the car door, the last bag of groceries cradled in her left arm, when she heard it: kids laughing, and someone else shouting at them. She walked towards the street, hoisting the bag higher, and only just jumped back in time to avoid being overrun by the Sawyer boys from two blocks down.

"What in—?"

She dropped the bag. It crashed onto the concrete with a dull thud, the paper tearing, an orange rolling towards the bushes.

She hadn't had time to sigh, hadn't had time to wonder who the kids had been running from — not before a woman came sprinting down the pavement, kicking up her skirt with every step to reveal bare feet and tanned knees, fist raised as if ready to smack someone. She stopped right in front of her and leaned over, arms resting on her thighs as she tried to catch her breath, the kids disappearing into the Baker's backyard. "Ah fuck," she said, swinging her arms in defeat, and Mary knew it was her, knew it even before she whirled around and caught sight of her standing there stock still like a heron.

Folks used to say Mary was pretty as a peach. They never said the same thing about Jeanie, who they branded wild, dirty, dark-haired, almost like she was a horse that couldn't be tamed. They failed to appreciate the raw beauty in her: her coiling curls and deep piercing eyes, freckles spread around her tanned face like crumbs on a plate. They didn't see her mischievous smile, the slightly crooked front teeth, created to sweep you off your feet with the force of a rainstorm.

It was very sorry that such great genes were wasted on someone who would never pass them on.

"Mary?"

She had practiced for this question. Now that Jeanie was right before her, she couldn't recall one single sentence she'd rehearsed.

"Mary, is that you?"

Jeanie's eyes, so familiar still, flittered over her body, and that was equally familiar—she felt exposed, like the bag of groceries, its contents falling out just for her to see. Then, one of Jeanie's precious smiles lit up the whole of her, undefeatable.

Mary's stomach churned. She was scared her voice wouldn't work if she tried to speak, so she felt relieved when she managed to say, "Yeah," and it was only slightly breathless, "I mean, yes, it's me."

"You live here?" Brown eyes examined the bungalow, a frown lining her forehead, and Mary knew she was slightly disappointed. "Why didn't — ouch!"

Jeanie grabbed onto the hood of the car, lifting one foot: a line of blood trickled from between her toes, dripping onto the driveway.

"You're bleeding," Mary said, the obvious. She didn't think about it; old instincts awakened, reaching out for her. "Hold onto me. I'll fix you right up inside. My daughter used to do this all the time."

She wasn't supposed to. She wasn't supposed to let Jeanie throw an arm around her, sway under the weight of her warm body, damp skin touching hers, curls mixing with her straight, blonde locks, wasn't supposed to note the new grown-up scent of her, like oncoming rain on a spring day.

It was the Christian thing to do, she told herself, as Jeanie settled onto the couch and she hurried to gather a towel and Sheldon's first-aid kit, the best-stocked one in the house. Her plans and intentions left out on the street, she knelt down at Jeanie Lucas's feet, and it wasn't the first time either.

"Right back where we left off, huh?" Jeanie joked.

Mary also wasn't supposed to look up. Because when she did, Jeanie Lucas was sprawled out on her couch, one arm over the back, hand supporting her beautiful head of curls, her knees spread, and her skirt hiked up to her thighs — quickly, she refocused on the foot propped up on the armrest.

"Looks like you might've got some glass in there," she said, gingerly dabbing the blood away. "Might be best to visit the doctor's."

Then, she wouldn't have to touch her anymore. Then, she could pretend her heart hadn't leapt up at the memory they'd just shared.

"No, no, that's not an option. Insurance doesn't cover out-of-state."

So, she had left Texas. Mary acted like it didn't sting, because she didn't care, because it was so long ago and Jeanie wasn't supposed to be in her life anymore.

"Well, maybe you should've thought about that before you went running down the street without your shoes on."

Jeanie laughed, and the sound didn't reverberate in her chest, it didn't. "Okay, Mary is a mom, alright," she said. She arched her foot and hissed, the joy slipping away, more blood soaking the towel. "Could you try getting it out? I mean, I did the same for you once, so you kinda owe me."

She had planned to do many things. She had planned to talk about how great her husband was, how much she adored her kids. She had planned to say she was too busy to catch up. To wish her good luck with Uncle Dean's house.

She hadn't planned to giggle while this grown version of Jeanie, wiser and yet still possessing some of her childish charm and carelessness, dragged up the story of Mary stepping into her dad's fishing hooks, hadn't planned to be wrapping a bandage around the injured foot, blushing as Jeanie cursed.

Jeanie had to go, now, before anyone came home and found them like this.

But Jeanie said, "Thanks, Mare," like it hadn't been eighteen years, "you okay with it if I sit here for a sec?"

And she said, "Sure thing," instead of the past is the past. "I'll lend you some shoes when you go. Can't have you hurting yourself again, can we?"

This smile was way sweeter, almost shy. "Wonder if we still have the same size."

Mary swallowed. This woman in her living room, it really was Jeanie, her best friend, the one she'd shared clothes with and patched up after every dumb decision—right here, a whole adult. Creases in her tailored skirt, freckles dipping down her neck and vanishing behind her buttoned-up blouse—the image seemed off, and if it wasn't for the bandage and her messed-up hair, she would've thought some stranger was attempting to impersonate her.

She looked away and started packing up the kit. "What happened?" she asked, to get back in the present.

"Oh, uh..."

The tone made her glance up. Jeanie bowed her head, half hiding behind her hair, toying with a golden ring on her left ring finger—a wedding ring? Mary's stomach swirled in confusion. She'd hoped for it, yes, and yet, should a powerful force like Jeanie be tied down to any man?

"Little cheeky things were destroying the trash bags on the drive again."

When Mary didn't answer, Jeanie added: "Something wrong?"

She couldn't stop staring at the ring, scissors forgotten in her hand. So many of her worries would be fixed if Jeanie had settled down after all, if all the whispers were false, and she could lie her dubious past to rest once and for all. "Are you married?"

Jeanie stopped twisting the ring, glancing down at it. "Oh," she said, like she'd never seen it before. "No. Just thought it might make people leave me alone. Clearly didn't work." She chuckled darkly, and Mary's heart throbbed.

"Oh," she said too. "I could... I could help you with that. Spread the word about your husband, or something."

There was that smirk again, unbridled. "Through the mommy channels?"

"Oh, hush."

Her laugh rang loud and obnoxious, and who wouldn't light up in joy when hearing it? Mary had missed it like the long-forgotten sweet sugar rush of the bubblegum she used to chew as a girl, and she gave in and joined Jeanie on the couch to dream up a man called Herb, who worked at the insurance company and sported a bristly mustache the size of a cigar. She didn't mention George, and in turn, Jeanie didn't mention her lifestyle, so she could pretend the rumors were untrue and they could be friends again. Lord knew she needed one now that all the women from church turned their backs to her at the check-out in the supermarket.

"Remember your mom's face?" Jeanie was saying an indeterminable while later, giggles interrupting each word, the hundredth memory they'd pulled from the depths. "She was like: you two gonna be paying me back for each one. And I charge five percent interest per cigarette."

She did remember, doubled over in laughter, the muscles in her belly hurting, face hidden behind her hands. How foul those first few cigarettes had tasted, how they'd coughed their lungs out, waving the smoke away like it wouldn't cling to their clothes later.

"Oh, hello you," Jeanie said then, "aren't you the spitting image of your mom?"

Immediately, Mary shot up straight, heart pounding like she'd been caught nicking cigarettes again. How could she let herself be carried away like this?

Missy was carrying the grocery bag she'd abandoned, her mouth agape, staring from her mom to Jeanie. "You're such a hypocrite!" she called out, but she was grinning.

"Uh, sweetie, I was just helping Jeanie out, you see. She's gone and hurt her foot."

Missy looked from the empty pitcher of sweet tea to the opened biscuit tin. "Yeah, she really looks like she's in a lot of pain."

Jeanie chuckled. "That's all thanks to your mom's great nursing skills," she said, "and the tea."

It wasn't that funny, and yet Mary couldn't control the wave of nervous laughter rolling over her, clasping her mouth to stop it.

"You're acting weird," Missy concluded. "You should come around more often, Miss Lucas."

"Just call me Jean. What's your name?"

Mary jumped up, only then recalling why Jeanie couldn't know. How could she have been this careless? If Jeanie knew, she would surely read something into it, something that wasn't there. And then what?

"Her name's Melissa," she said, starting to clean up. "And I'm real sorry, Jeanie, but I got a heap of things I still need to do — oh, honey, would you unpack the groceries for me?"

"Fine," Missy said, throwing her head back in annoyance. "Bye, Jean. You should come over again."

How did she get here? How did she let it come this far, Jeanie worming her way back into her house and Missy inviting her back just like that? Jeanie perking up, obviously fascinated by the girl in front of her, saying: "I definitely will, Melissa—I'll need my dressings changed, after all," while wriggling her toes.

She raised her arms as if she could physically stop the plane wreck that was about to occur, but she was too late.

"Call me Missy. Everyone does."

She hoisted the bag higher, toddling off to the kitchen, oblivious to the fact she'd just hit Jeanie with a major shocker.

Brown eyes searched for hers, imploringly, a shimmer of something in them that she didn't want to name. "Missy," she repeated softly, almost a question.

Mary's cheeks burned. She didn't know what to do with her arms, how to hold her body. "It's her nickname," she blurted out. As if it made a difference.

"Right," Jeanie said. Slowly, she pushed herself off the couch, taking care not to put weight on her injured foot. Shoulder-to-shoulder now, she waited for the explanation she deserved.

Two grown women, once little girls running around town, pretending to be married adventurers on the hunt for treasure, digging holes in the backyard, and building huts down by the creek. Mary the wife, Jeanie the husband, a battered doll playing the role of their fearless daughter.

"She just — when she was born," Mary said, "she looked so — I just couldn't think of a better name."

Jeanie swung her arm back and forth. She chewed her tongue, irises dark like the earth after a storm. "Uh-huh. So, you name your baby after our fictional kid, but don't come say hello when you hear I'm back in town?"

The speeches she'd rehearsed swirled around her mind like dishes in a sink, each one slipping from her grasp, disappearing behind the suds. "You know why I couldn't come," she said. "I know what they say about you."

Her face fell, all the earlier happiness gone. "Ah. You didn't use to care."

"We were kids," she said in low tones, looking behind her to ensure Missy wasn't listening in. "I thought you were confused."

"I was confused?" Jeanie had no such qualms about discretion, her scoff carrying through the room. She wobbled on her one foot, raking both hands through her curls. "Look. I don't care what you think now or... what you think about my choices, but the Mary I knew didn't care about anyone's opinions."

The Mary she knew, like she had any right wielding that around. Mary tugged at her necklace, the golden crucifix cold in her palm. "Yeah, well, the Mary you knew has been long gone. You left her, and she had to find her own way. But thank the Lord above, 'cause that's what helped her grow up and find her faith."

Finally, she delivered a version of the speeches she'd so carefully rehearsed, only for Jeanie to produce an undignified snort. "Oh, God. Are you serious?"

"If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you didn't use the Lord's name in vain."

There was a look on Jeanie's face she'd never seen directed at her before. One that she would sometimes give her own father — right after he'd hit her again, skin raw and red. The pure, electrified disbelief, even though she should've seen it coming, the searing charge buzzing like mosquitoes circling the lake.

With a shaky breath, Jeanie staggered in place. "Goodbye, Mare," she said quietly, barely audible. "I don't think I'll ever have a friend like you again."

Jeanie's shoulder brushed Mary's as she went to slip past. It stopped her in her tracks, so close Mary could smell the oncoming rain again.

Jeanie was going to kiss her. She was sure of it. She knew dang well how Jeanie Lucas looked at a girl before she went in, and this was it: the brown eyes lowering to scout her lips, her breath halted, blossoming flush on her cheeks. Part of Mary wanted her to do it, to sweep in and spoil her, just so she could scream and blame her for ruining her life — part of her was terrified of Jeanie being right, her heart drumming in her chest: no friendship had ever compared, and no friendship would, ever again.

But Jeanie broke the spell, hopping toward the front door like nothing had happened.

She was already stepping onto the pavement when Mary caught up with her, a hastily gathered pair of slippers dangling from her hand. "Hold up!" she called out, even though she wished to say don't go. She held out the slippers. "Keep them. And go see Dr. Copeland if your foot starts to get hot. Just mention my mother. He won't charge much."

She didn't give Jeanie any time to respond, back inside with her back against the door before she could, closing her eyes, trying to push down the sob that was about to slice through her.

She'd loved that girl so much that it was still present inside her, almost tangible. If only Jeanie had chosen to walk the right path, they could've gone down it side by side. For the first time in forever, she pictured what they could've been: best friends and neighbors, complaining about their husbands to each other while minding their kids together, every single day. They could've been so happy like that.

"She's fun."

Missy's voice made her jump. A twinkle in her blue eyes, she was watching her mom with her arms crossed.

"Well, that much is true," Mary conceded. That was the danger about Jeanie: she could suck you in with a single one of those loud laughs.

"So, are you going to invite her over again?"

"I don't reckon so."

Missy dropped her arms. "Mom, everyone has friends, even Sheldon. You're the only one who doesn't — Meemaw doesn't count," she tagged on when Mary opened her mouth to protest.

"You know good and well I can't be friends with her."

"Don't you always tell us to hate the sin, love the sinner?"

"That does not mean you can just go around befriending sinners."

"So, why are you doing it then?"

"I'm doing nothing of the sort!"

"Whatever."

Missy rolled her eyes, stalking off to her room, once again disappointed by her very own mother. As her blonde hair vanished around the corner, Mary called after her: "Don't you go running your mouth telling folks I am! We'd never be welcome in any church ever again!"

She regretted it instantly, wondering if her daughter would go just as far not to have to settle into the pews on Sunday as Jeanie once had.