The first time she'd met Jeanie, she'd been on the hunt for a shooting star.

She'd been at some barbecue with her parents and siblings, sulking behind a shed, root beer in hand. Just before, her mother had chastised her for hanging out with the toddlers and told her to find some kids her own age.

Mary hadn't liked kids her age. They were unnecessarily mean, changed their minds every two seconds, and never listened to a word she said. No, thank you. She'd rather sit here, all by herself, and watch the cloud formations drifting by (most of them were bears or sharks or scorpions chasing various depictions of her parents).

Later, she wouldn't remember what it looked like. She imagined it must've been a streak of fire disappearing behind the low-hanging clouds on the horizon, blazing like a fireball, since she did remember the way she'd leaped up and ran to the adults, her skin tingling with wonder and amazement. She'd seen a falling star, she'd said. Had they spotted it too? Her question had been met with fond laughter and rubs on her head and jokes about girls drinking too much root beer. "A trick of the light," people had said, and, fuming, she'd left whoever's backyard it was and peered at the bright blue sky from the street level, determined to find her star and make a wish.

"It's gone now," another voice had said, and she'd looked up and found a girl perched high on a tree branch, arms and legs full of cuts and scrapes.

That image was one she'd forever keep, couldn't forget even though she tried, because life had never been as full before the moment she'd befriended Jeanie Lucas.

The next day, her dad read in the papers that a small airplane had crashed a few towns over, but she didn't care — it'd brought her Jeanie, so it'd acted like a shooting star, and that was good enough for her.

Tonight, it was several lit cigarettes that burned in the twilight, hanging from the mouths of a group of college kids. Behind them, on top of a picnic table, sat Jeanie. She had her elbows on her knees, her head bowed down, arms curled around it as if to protect herself. Mary couldn't see her face, but she'd recognize those curls anywhere. A sigh of relief escaped her — no matter what she told herself, she'd never stop worrying about that woman.

She hesitated, her mouth set. She could still leave. Jeanie would be hurt and need time to move past her betrayal, but she would — they could live without each other; they'd proven that in the past eighteen years. One less problem to worry about, right? She could turn around right now, take Sheldon and her mom and drive home, and cut any chances for Jeanie to return to her life. The easiest thing.

And yet, she found herself asking the students for a cigarette and a lighter and, blowing out smoke, taking place on the bench next to Jeanie's feet. Finally, she felt herself relax. This was what she'd been longing for all day.

Slowly, Jeanie lifted her head. Her beautiful brown eyes were watery, and tears had traced a path among her many freckles, down to her chin. Mary was glad for the cigarette because she'd had no idea what to do with herself otherwise. Jeanie's gaze settled on it, or maybe on her mouth, and she felt a long-forgotten familiar tug at her chest.

She offered her the cigarette.

Jeanie declined. "I only smoke on special occasions now," she said, the ghost of a smirk lifting the corner of her lips.

"This ain't special enough?"

A full smile now, only for a second. The tears in her eyes glimmered. "Other kind of special."

It took her about ten seconds to catch her meaning, and by then, she was coughing, Jeanie chuckling beside her.

By the time she'd recovered, her mind was foggy, like the smoke had risen to her head.

They sat in silence for a while, not comfortable like in their younger days, but stewing and brewing and full of scary possibilities. The college kids laughed about something, and Mary wondered if that could've been them, had Jeanie never left.

"So," Jeanie said, sliding down to the bench to sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder, "you still smoke, but you don't permit your kids to consort with someone the likes of me?" The smile on her face was performative, didn't come from the heart, and Mary had to look away.

She took her time exhaling. "My other son, Georgie," she decided to say, "got some grown woman pregnant." She grimaced. "They're not married, so the church fired me for it, and my husband had just quit his job. And then, on top of all that, he tells me Jeanie Lucas is back in town." She looked at her, really looked at her, and though her face had lost its youthful roundness over the years, she swore she could remember the swell of her lips, the lines around her eyes.

"That does sound like a lot," Jeanie mocked. "'Specially the last part. A real nightmare."

"Jeanie..."

"No, I get it," she said, standing up straight, hands buried in her pockets again. She shrugged, like a horse attempting to scare an annoying fly away. "Honestly, I hadn't even expected you to be here. I thought you'd be long gone."

Even though she'd had less welcoming thoughts about her herself, it was like a brick against her head. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, then."

Jeanie sighed, dropping back beside her. The table shook, and somehow the warmth radiating from her sent goosebumps down Mary's arms — or was it the closeness? "I wasn't," she said quietly, turning her face to look at her directly. "Think I kinda hoped to see you anyway."

She couldn't handle that admission. It should be worrying, should make her want to set boundaries. Instead, she blew out smoke, concentrating on the way it evaporated into the air, anything to keep her eyes dry. She hadn't hoped for it herself, had she? It only complicated things, didn't it? "When you... stormed back into my life yesterday," she began, "I kept telling myself I had to send you off." She sighed in defeat. "We're so different now. And still, it was like no time had passed at all."

"It was, wasn't it?" Jeanie smiled a soft, shy smile, and for a second, Mary saw the sixteen-year-old she'd been, bold and wild and loud but sweet and thoughtful on the inside.

She breathed in, willing her eyes to stay dry. Nodded. "I'm sorry," she said then, "for the way I treated you. That wasn't right."

This time, it was Jeanie who nodded, only just noticeable. "I guess you've got a lot on your plate. Must not be easy in this town, a baby out of wedlock—wait. Your son got someone pregnant?"

Mary knew what was coming. She didn't have to respond, could see that Jeanie was doing the math. "He's seventeen," she told her, saving her the trouble.

"You have a seventeen-year-old?" It was barely a whisper, forced from her throat like it'd been stuck there, and only then was Mary reminded of her early desperation.

A baby was a blessing, and yet, that first time, she'd wondered if she'd survive an unfortunate accident down the stairs. She'd felt so much guilt for even considering it that she'd promised herself never to treat a child's life with such disdain again.

She nodded now, scared she'd cry if she tried to speak. Jeanie raised her hand and slowly, tenderly, cupped her face, barely touching her. Part of her knew this wasn't a good idea, but the part that had been waiting seventeen years to be comforted by her best friend for getting knocked up won over, and she closed her eyes at the contact. Soft fingers wiped away the tears, and she sobbed, something wriggling loose in her chest, and before she could stop herself, she'd fallen into Jeanie's arms, burying herself in the crook of her neck.

Jeanie wrapped around her, chin resting on her head, and she dropped the cigarette to the concrete. After all these years, nothing compared to being held by her. Maybe her mother had been right; maybe, there was no point in fighting it, and maybe, she could reclaim her best friend, make peace with the fact she led such a different lifestyle and leave it up to God to judge. Did it matter what people would think if she could experience this every single time she needed it?

The embrace stretched on, like it spanned all the eighteen years between them, and Mary was overcome with a calm she hadn't felt for months. Then, Jeanie shifted. "Hey," she called out, "didn't your mamas teach you to mind your own damn business?"

There was a murmur of 'sorry's,' and when Mary looked up over Jeanie's shoulder, the group of students had turned their backs on them. "Oh," she said, untangling herself from her best friend. "Look at me, making a fool out of myself in public." She gave a fleeting smile.

"Don't mind them, Mare," Jeanie said. "They're just being busybodies. You feeling better?"

She nodded. She could start crying all over again at that question, one she hadn't heard in a while, but she held back. "Thank you," she said, which felt strange and foreign. They never used to thank each other. It'd never been necessary.

Both of them averted their gazes, and suddenly, it was like they were meeting for the first time. The idea of Jeanie back in her life was outlandish, didn't even seem slightly realistic, so why was she craving it so desperately right now? She took a deep breath, wishing she still had the cigarette to settle her down.

"But uh," Jeanie started, kicking at the grass under their feet, "if you don't want me here, just tell me. I can handle it."

Mary turned to look at her, see those brown eyes shine in the dark. It was a lie, she knew; whatever she'd tried to convince herself of mere minutes ago, Jeanie wouldn't be able to handle it, just like she hadn't been able to handle her own father rejecting her. "Well," she said, wondering why her stomach was spinning round and round inside her, "maybe..." She sighed. "Maybe I could use a friend."

It was a relief to say that out loud, to watch a slow smile build up on that freckled face she used to see every single day. "Yeah?" Jeanie asked, a little shy.

"Yeah," she confirmed, and it felt like opening a door she thought she'd closed permanently a long time ago.

"Does this mean I have the green light to talk to your kids then?"

"Most definitely," she said, and for a moment, she pictured Jeanie in a bathrobe at the breakfast table goofing off with Sheldon and Missy. "Though maybe it's best for their social lives if we don't all go parading around town together."

"I'll dress up in all black and sneak in through the back window."

"No, let's stay clear of that," Mary said quickly, before the woman would get ideas in her head. It wouldn't be out of character for her. "And don't get your expectations up. They might be mine, but Lord, are they a handful. Especially Georgie."

Jeanie laughed, throwing her head back. "Just like his mama, I reckon."

She smiled too. "Well... maybe a little."

Jeanie looked away. Her expression had turned contemplative, reminiscent of how she'd be after her daddy had had an outburst. "When Uncle Carl dies, I won't have no one left," she said. "Must be nice to have a family to call your own."

And she wanted to say it, had it on the tip of her tongue. But she still remembered the morning Jeanie hadn't come to pick her up for school and the bitter taste of tears as she realized her other half had abandoned her to the throes of the small town they'd planned to escape together. Loving Jeanie was dangerous, in more than one way, and now all that time spanned between the two of them as well. So she bumped her shoulder and said: "How about I bring Sheldon and Missy over tomorrow? Help you tackle some of that mess, hm?"

There was that smile again, breathtakingly beautiful. "Yeah," she said, "yeah, that sounds great."

Mary felt warm at seeing the image in the rear-view mirror. Sheldon had fallen asleep against his Meemaw, who in turn had dozed off with her head against the window, snoring lightly every now and then.

A hand snuck inside the empty M&M's packet on her lap, and she chuckled. "You ate the whole of 'em," she said quietly, and Jeanie picked it up to look inside, then threw it on the floor. "Told you," she added.

Jeanie grumbled something, placing her hand back on the gear shift. Every other moment she was reminded of a dozen memories at once, this time her dad teaching the both of them to drive in his old Chevrolet C/K, giggling their heads off until they drove him crazy.

With her mother and son sleeping in the back, the dark engulfing the long road home outside their windows, and Jeanie taking care of her once more, she existed in a tiny stolen dream — it was that feeling that urged her to brush the back of her hand against Jeanie's, deliberately staring at the night sky above, so it wouldn't be a big thing.

Jeanie took her hand, caressing it with her thumb, and she could've sworn a set of falling stars plummeted down towards wherever falling stars went.

She'd ask Sheldon about it tomorrow. And then she'd tell Jeanie, because she'd surely want to know too.