“Thanks,” I said as I snapped my buckle into place. “I wasn’t really thinking when I walked to the rodeo tonight. I guess it slipped my mind I’d have to make a return trip, too.” I glanced down at my boots. I might have ticked off some miles in my day, but ten miles in the span of an evening was a bit ambitious. I already felt a couple blisters on my heels.
“Lord knows I’ve done plenty of things I didn’t really think about either,” she replied as she hit the gas. The truck was one of those loud ones, too. “Things way worse than not wearing the right shoes to walk in.” It was dark inside the cab, but Josie’s face visibly shadowed.
Miss Peaches and Cream had secrets, too. She’d made mistakes she regretted. I knew everyone did in theory, but sometimes that theory didn’t seem to apply to people like Josie.
“Yeah. Me, too.” There was a whole encyclopedia-sized record of the screw ups and mistakes I’d made in a mere eighteen years of living.
Another few seconds of silence ticked off before Josie’s face cleared. That smile that seemed as permanently embedded on her face as Jesse’s was on his reformed. As much as I wanted to dislike her, I couldn’t. “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.
I huffed. “Hell, no.”
“Why not?”
Might as well be honest with the girl. “I’ve been with so many pieces of shit, I’ve lost count. That’s why.”
Josie peered over at me. “Sometimes a girl needs to be with a piece of shit—”
“Or fifty,” I muttered.
“—so she recognizes when one who isn’t comes along.” She lifted her shoulders. “The more experience you have with P.O.S., the better equipped you are to identify one who isn’t.”
I nodded as I wondered what those words would look like tattooed across my forehead. It could change a lot of girls’ lives.
“So what did you think of the rodeo?” Josie moved from one topic to the next so quickly I was about to get whiplash.
It sucked ass.
“It was . . . interesting,” I settled on. Interesting was a versatile word and my go-to when I didn’t want to admit the truth.
“Yeah, I’d imagine it’s pretty barbaric seeming if you weren’t raised on rodeo,” she said.
There were definitely barbaric low points, but they had nothing to do with the actual rodeo.
I shrugged my reply.
“Are you going to the big summer dance and barbecue next week?”
“Since this is the first I’m hearing of it, I don’t think so.” After that night, I would make staying away from the cowboy masses a top priority.
“You’ve got to go. Everyone’s invited. There’s a ton of good food, some good, old country music,”—I cringed at the “good” part of country music—“cute cowboys, and a really good time. Come. You can hang out with me and the girls. If you don’t want to drive over in the Walker caravan, I could pick you up. Or Jesse could give you a ride in Old Bessie. Although that’s an experience I’m sure you can live without.”
“Unfortunately, Old Bessie and I are already acquainted,” I said. “But you’re right. That was an experience I could have done without.” The Old Bessie part, not so much the Jesse part.
“You’ve been in Jesse’s truck?”
I didn’t miss the subtle nuance there. It was Old Bessie before she learned I’d been a passenger in her boyfriend’s truck. Then it became Jesse’s truck.
“Eh, yeah,” I said, wondering if it was too early in the ride to stick my foot in my mouth. “Just one time though. When he picked me up at the bus station. I haven’t ridden in it since. I haven’t even seen it.” Jesse in the bed of his truck that night outside the barn jumped to mind. I’d been a cowboy-stalking Peeping Tom that night. Probably not something I should admit to her. “I mean, I haven’t seen his truck running, with him in it, since that first day.”
Oh, dear God. Strike me mute before I said anything else. Maybe that was why I pushed people away: It was a defense mechanism to keep myself from going on like a blubbering idiot.
Josie gave me a curious look, but that was it. “No big surprise since Old Bessie isn’t a big fan of running. At least not consistently.” She laughed, and I couldn’t help but join in. If I couldn’t laugh about something like Jesse’s truck, there was no hope for me.
“So? Are you going to come?” she asked once we’d stopped giggling like a couple of girls.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, grabbing the handle above the window and hanging on for dear life as Josie took a right turn at forty miles per hour. And I’d thought Jesse drove like a maniac. Apparently speed limits and road rules didn’t apply to country kids.
“What’s there to think about?” she asked as the bed of her truck fishtailed when she punched the gas coming out of the turn. “Music. Barbeque. Dancing. Cute boys in tight jeans. There is nothing about that line up that needs thinking about.”
I agreed with at least one of the four things there.
“Yeah . . . well,”—I bit my lip and decided how much to say—“I don’t think I’d fit in very well at that kind of thing.” That summed it up without going into too many details.
“Says who?” she said instantly.
“Garth,” I admitted.
I couldn’t tell if Josie was cringing or shuddering, but if someone could dislike Garth Black as much as I did after tonight, it was Josie. The fact that we weren’t fans of the same guy made me feel some sort of sisterhood with her. Like we were sisters in boy tastes. The more I thought about that, the truer it was. We didn’t just dislike the same guy; we both liked the same guy.