Eight years earlier...

The stench of dried-up beer and cigarette smoke swarms us at the table Wyatt and I are sitting at with Dylan, Timmy, and Parker. The Starlighter is always the busiest around dinner time when all of the locals are done for the day. Donna—the woman who runs the hair salon—always wipes the floor in poker with two men from the nearby manufacturing plant a couple of miles south of here.

I'm currently focused on the elderly woman showing her full house when Loretta approaches our table with a brow raised. "Macey and Wyatt. Why am I not surprised? And you brought friends this time. Y'all want yer' usual?" Sweat is dripping down her forehead, but she quickly wipes it away with the back of her hand.

Wyatt knocks his knee against mine under the table, causing me to blush. "Yes, ma'am. Curly fries with onion rings please."

"Add a lil' basket of them pretzel bites if ya' got any please," Dylan adds, sliding his gaze to me. "You look awful fancy for The Starlighter tonight. Any reason why?"

"Hm..." Timmy chuckles teasingly, tapping his chin with a finger. "I can't think of any. Could it be to impress the cowboy sittin' pretty beside us?"

Wyatt rolls his eyes and tosses a middle finger in their direction.

"What?" Dylan asks. "Can I not be excited that my boy is finally gettin' a lil' tail?"

I lean over to give a swift punch to his shoulder. He winces but continues to laugh as Wyatt's entire face turns the color of a tomato. I'm not sure if he confided about our night last week at his house with his friends, but I'm assuming he did based on their neanderthal-like reactions.

"Couldn't it be because she's from the city and enjoys fashion?" Parker leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his coke. His jaw ticks. "Not everything Macey does revolves around Wyatt."

I gulp as Wyatt bristles beside me and am thankful when a performer begins to start playing on stage, the sound of their guitar tuning out the awkwardness. Parker is always like this around Timmy and Dylan, though. They aren't cut from the same cloth, and he's not into any of the things they're into. Wyatt seems to be the glue that holds their friend group together, and without him, they wouldn't give each other the time of day.

In fact, I don't really know much about Parker at all. He doesn't dress like southern boys, and he sure as hell doesn't act like them, either. Is he from here? Was he born here?

I move my eyes across his black t-shirt, down to his ripped skinny jeans and white converse.

Definitely not from here.

"We're just teasin'," Timmy mutters.

"How about you all say you like my outfit and drop it?" I raise my hands above my head to let them admire my pink bodycon that I ordered online last week. Wyatt almost lost his mind when he came to my house to pick me up. Thankfully, my Dad wasn't home. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to leave the house.

Parker leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. Nothing about his expression seems happy. "But you're not just teasing, Timmy. It's never just teasing. You both talk about Macey like she's a piece of meat. There's more to her than fancy clothes and good looks."

My cheeks are on fire when he's done, and Wyatt is as stiff as a board. I can't bring myself to glance up at him, because I'm worried it'll be a threat of death that stares back.

"We know that," Dylan replies. "We know she loves dressin' like a rich girl. It's not a big deal. Teasin' is our way of lettin' her know we like her—that she's a good match for Wyatt."

Parker lets out an annoyed laugh. "Making fun of her interests isn't funny. She wants to go to New York to study fashion. She's expressing herself. There's nothing wrong with that, and I don't know why I'm the only one calling you guys out on it."

The whole table grows silent, and I'm holding my breath when Wyatt fidgets and places a palm against my inner thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. It's warm and reassuring. "Parker's right," he says. "Leave it alone."

"I don't mind it," I input as if that'll change anything. Partly because I'm always teasing them back about their love for loud, obnoxious trucks and guns. "I know that they're joking."

Why is Parker getting so defensive? I suppose we've grown close over the past few weeks after continuously going hunting with the rest of them, but I didn't think he listened to everything I said. I only mentioned wanting to go to New York for fashion design one time.

Parker said he hated hunting, yet he came every single time we went. Was it because I was there? Does he...

Oh, no.

Loretta places the basket of onion rings, pretzel bites, and curly fries on the table, sensing the tension around her. I don't know how she can do that, but maybe she's run a bar for so long that she can just tell when someone is about to break out into a bar fight. "What's got y'alls panties in a twist?" She asks.

"Nothin'," Dylan answers.

"Good, because one step outta line and yer ass will be hauled out the door. Don't give me a reason to bring out my shotgun."

We all gulp and quickly nod our heads as she briskly stalks to another table in the corner. The music from the performer seems to have gotten louder. I can hear the bass thumping in my ears.

"She definitely killed her husband," Timmy grumbles.

And just like that, everyone laughs, and things were back to normal.

***

Until the drive home.

Wyatt hasn't said anything since we left The Starlighter, and the entire drive home he was silent. He seemed deep in thought, about a thousand different thoughts swarming his head at once, but I didn't need to ask what it was about.

I already knew.

But I didn't want to bring it up because I didn't want Wyatt to think there was anything to bring up. There is nothing going on between Parker and me, at least not on my end. Any feelings he has for me aren't reciprocated by any means.

My Dad still isn't home. The driveway is empty as Wyatt shifts into park, the engine idling and soft rock quietly playing through the speakers. Sitting in the silence between us is torture, so I lean over and grab onto his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You know I love you, right?"

He nods once. "I know."

"Then why are you being so quiet?"

"Because..." He heaves out a sigh. "Because he seems to know more about you than I do."

I laugh. "Wyatt, are you serious?" How could he ever think that was true? Was he not there last week when I confided my deepest and darkest secret to him?

But the insecurity is written all over his face like it was the day we all went hunting. He's so worried about Parker when he has no reason to be. I love him. It'll always only be him.

I shift in the passenger seat to face him, still holding onto his hand. "You're the most important person to me. No one else. Just because he knows about my wanting to pursue fashion doesn't mean he knows me better. You knew about my interest in fashion too. It wasn't news to you."

"I know, but I just—" He clears his throat. "I guess I just forgot how important all of that is to you, and now that we're getting more serious, I thought..."

I blink, attempting to decipher the expression on his face. "You thought what?"

He shrugs. "That you'd want to stay."

No words are forming in my brain to reply, so I just sit there looking like a fool with my mouth clamped shut. It's not that I haven't thought about this for months now, about me having to leave, but Wyatt knew all of this. He knew of my plans. I want to make clothes. I want to create my own line one day. I want to make something of myself, and we both know that Darlington can't offer me any of that.

Almost as if he can read my thoughts, he says, "I know, I know you have your mind made up. I know I can't do anything to change it, but it doesn't make it suck any less. Who's to say you'll go to New York and forget all about me?"

"I won't," I reply. "You know that I won't." The pain and hurt hidden behind his eyes are enough to make me take my seatbelt off and crawl onto his lap. He moves the seat back to allow us more room, his arms wrapping around my waist as I brush my fingers against his cheek. "There's nothing—no catastrophic event, world disaster, or goddamn apocalypse that could ever make me forget you. You are more myself than I am... And I know that doesn't make sense, but you get me in a way that no one else does. There are times I feel you're so in tune with my emotions that you're living inside of me, too, so how on earth could I possibly forget you? No matter what happens, you'll always be part of me."

His breathing grows heavier, more labored, and his grip becomes stronger around my waist. "And what happens if you go to New York and love it? What happens if you want to make your life there? I'm meant to take over my parents' farm. It's what I was born to do. I wouldn't expect you to give up your dreams, Macey, but I can't give up mine, either. The city has nothin' to offer me."

This conversation wasn't supposed to happen so soon. It's not even Christmas yet. We still have months left together, so why rush? I know we have to talk about it, I know we have to make a plan, but right now...

"I just want to enjoy the time we have," I tell him. "I'd be lying if I said I know what will happen in the future, but we have each other now, right? Let's just live in the moment, and when that time comes..." I let out a sigh. "We'll figure it out then, okay?"

Wyatt nods, but his eyes speak otherwise. He doesn't want to let this go, and I know exactly why. He just gave a part of himself to me last week—a part of himself he promised to save for marriage. If we don't work out, what will happen to that part of himself he swore he'd save for his wife and his wife only?

His lips press against mine, and I'm too emotional to push him away. The thought of leaving him, of having to forget about a future with him is soul-crushing. I need to relish this time we have together. I need to make the most of it.

I know it goes against his beliefs. I know he's doing more with me than he ever intended to, but when he kisses me like this my head becomes a jigsaw puzzle. I can't separate right from wrong.

His kiss grows faster—wet and sloppy licks against my neck, the grazing of his teeth on my skin, and I let my head fall to the side, allowing him more access.

Tilting his hips up to mine, I moan into his lips, and the sound drives him wild. He rakes his hands up my dress, exploring every section of flesh he's come to know so well.

"Please," he begs, throwing his head back against the seat. He's panting heavily—lips parted and eyes wild. Nothing but raging desire. "I need it again. Please."

I'm about to ask what exactly he's talking about, but his hands are already fumbling with his belt. He wants me to please him again, and I know I should say no, I know I should tell him we need to take this slow before he gives more of himself to me than he can handle...

Before we cross that line there's no turning back.

But my head is swimming again. I'm drowning in this lust for him, in this need for him, and again, the line between right and wrong becomes blurry. I don't care about anything else but him right now.

Obeying his command, I slide my knees to the floor of the car and get to work.

A/N:

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