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Folding my arms, I lean back against my truck. She blinks quickly, not quite meeting my gaze. My lips curve up. She’s so busted. “Let me get this straight: it’s Friday night. We have an entire night ahead of us. And you want to study? You’re an awful liar, Marlowe.”

She eyes me up and down. Crosses her own arms. Finally she sighs and says, “Fine. I have ulterior motives.”

“If it involves moonshine and skinny-dipping, it’s
so
on.”

Her jaw drops. She blushes as she looks around, but there’s no one out here but the two of us. “No,” she drawls. “And what makes you think I’d go skinny-dipping with you?”

Wishful thinking never killed anybody.

“It’s something the one customer I had today mentioned,” she continues. “She said there’s this thing they do down at the riverfront. Some kind of movie night? Asked if I was going.”

When a town doesn’t even have a movie theater, people get creative when it comes to entertainment. It’s something I’ve only been to once, though.

“They have something down at Mariners’ Wharf. It’s kind of cool, I guess. Everyone brings blankets, picnic baskets, and watches whatever movie they’re playing. It’s usually ancient, but it’s something.”
Wait a second
. Shoving off my truck, I ask, “Are you asking me on a date, Marisa?”

Dear Lord in heaven above, I think she just asked me on a date.

That earns me another “I hate you and your guts” glare. “I like food,” she says as I step toward her. “And I like movies. And I like you. So I’m asking if you, my best friend in this tiny town, would like to go see an ancient movie with me on a Friday night.”

If anyone else was standing in front of me, asking me to go see what’s probably a fifty-year-old movie on Friday night, you’d have to drag me kicking and screaming. But it’s Marisa, so hell to the yes, I’ll go.

I twirl my keys. “I’m game. You ridin’ with me or driving your car?”

Her gaze darts between me and my truck. She bites her lip. Blinks. Looks back to the truck.

I grin again. This is legit fan-freakin-tastic.
Be cool, Braxton. Don’t blow this
. “Don’t be all shy. If you wanna ride with me, all you got to do is say so.”

Please say so
.

She points at me. “Austin, I am warning you—”

I hold out my arms. “What? Just admit it: you dig the truck.”

She rolls her eyes. “All right, fine. I dig the truck, okay?”

I do love her honesty.

“See?” I say, opening the door for her. “That wasn’t so hard. Hop on in.”

She growls at me. The girl actually growls at me while climbing up. I thought that was reserved for animals, but whatever. I tilt my head to the side. Good God almighty, those jeans—

“Stop staring at my butt, Austin.”

Damn.

I round the truck and get into my own seat. I fire up the engine while she types out something on her phone.

“My parents,” she says when I glance over. “So they don’t wonder where the heck I’m at.”

Nodding, I pull out of the parking lot and onto the road leading to town. It’s weird; she’s eighteen and probably has a tighter leash on her than most freshmen. I understand, I guess, but that’s got to suck. I mean, she’s good now. She said so herself.

But in a few months, she’ll be in Columbia, at USC. With me.
That’s
gonna be awesome.

“They like you, you know,” she says. “They think you’re
so
polite and
so
responsible and
such
a great influence.”

I narrow my eyes. “What makes me think you disagree?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Not saying that. Just saying that you’re more than polite and responsible.”

Stopping at a red light, I relax back against my seat. “Oh, yeah? Like what? Feed my ego here.”

“Your ego’s big enough.” She looks out her window, trying to be sneaky about her grin. Unfortunately for her, her reflection in the glass gives her away.

“It’s not that big,” I argue as the light turns green. “It’s small. Barely there.”

She laughs. “That’s what she said,” she singsongs.

I glance over. She just smiles and looks out the windshield. Now my ego really is barely there.

After grabbing burgers from Sammy’s, we drive out to Mariners’ Wharf. The wharf is a long dock that stretches across the riverfront. This half of the river is reserved for families and older folks. The other half, the wooded area, is for the rowdy crowd, which’ll be out in full force in a few hours. I would say I’d miss it, but—

“Austin,” Marisa says as I park on the road, among the dozens of other cars. “I’m so excited I cannot even. I’ve lost all ability to even.” She grabs our bag of food
from the floorboard and hops out onto the road, not even waiting for me to cut the engine.

That makes it worth missing.

“Wait for me, girl,” I call to her, stepping onto the sidewalk. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

She walks over to me, holding the bag to her chest while bouncing in place. You’d think we were going to a Braves game instead of watching a movie. I reach into my truck’s toolbox and pull out the blue flannel blanket.

She raises an eyebrow. “You keep a blanket in your truck?”

What’s that look for?
I slam the toolbox closed. “It’s for emergencies, of course.”

She shakes her head, smiling. “Right. Of course.” She grabs my hand, tugging me to her. Her eyes shine as she says, “Now let’s go.”

As long as she holds my hand, I’ll go anywhere she takes me. We jog toward the riverfront, her shoes pounding against the pavement as she leads the way. The lawn is already covered with blankets. There’s a low hum of people talking, but other than that, it’s quiet. Peaceful. Lights are strung across the railing that runs alongside the pier, where the boats are docked for the night. It’s weird, seeing this part of the water at night. When I come out here with the guys, we stick to the woods. Less of an audience down there. And when you add in drinks, music, and a bunch of rednecks with jacked-up trucks, it gets a lot louder.

We find a small patch of empty grass near the back edge of the lawn. As soon as I lay out the blanket, Marisa plops down and digs into our bag.

I sit beside her, bending my knees. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so excited for a movie.”

She hands me my burger and shrugs while opening the wrapper on hers. “Normal is something I’ve always dreamed of.” She gestures to the screen, which isn’t
much more than a sheet hung on the side of Murray’s Mattresses. “This? A movie, burgers, and a night by the river with one of the sweetest guys in town? This is normal.”

Her gaze locks on something behind me. She nods subtly, signaling for me to look. I turn just as old Mr. Joyner, the owner of Joyner’s BBQ, squats in the grass. He nods to Marisa and pats me on the shoulder.

“How ya doin’, son?”

I shake his outstretched hand. Because a shoulder-pat is never enough, obviously. “Hey, Mr. Joyner. I’m good, thanks.”

“That was a hell of a game you boys played last night.”

I smile. “Thank you, sir. Had a blast winnin’ it.”

He laughs, the booming sound echoing around us. “You looked a lot like your old man out there. That change-up? Outstanding.”

My jaw clenches. I nod once. Drop my burger onto the blanket. Appetite officially lost.

“He would’ve been proud of that game. Reminded me of the no-hitters he pitched back in his day. Shame about his shoulder, huh?”

He waits, expecting an answer. I muster a “Yes, sir. Real shame.”

He shakes his head. “Y’all got that game against Beaufort coming up at the end of the month. Think this’ll be the end of that losing streak? You know, back when I was pitchin’ for the Bulldogs, a man’s curveball was the game-changer. I’ve got a few ideas about yours—”

Music from the movie starts, sounding throughout the lawn. He mutters a swear and pushes himself up. “Better get back to Doris. You kids enjoy the show.” With one last pat on my shoulder, he waves to Marisa before heading across the lawn.

My dad died over two years ago, but he’s still all over this town. He taught me how to throw, how to catch, how to bat. He taught me how to shake hands after a loss and congratulate the other team after a win. He brought me to the game. I owe my future to him. But it’s hard to be grateful when he won’t be around to see that future. When your worst memory is thrown in your face every day, it’s enough to drive you up a damn wall.

Marisa places her hand on top of mine. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

I stare at our hands. I want to grab hers and squeeze it tight, but—friends. “Just another reason why I’m countin’ the days until I leave for Columbia.”

“Slow down,” she says. “Stop living every moment waiting for the next. Enjoy each moment. Make memories.”

That’d be easier if the worst memories weren’t the loudest. I’ve had some good times in this town, but the God-awful moments always manage to shove their way to the front of the line.

I look up at her. She holds my gaze, her own full of hope and sweetness and something I can’t really place. She inhales sharply and her hand disappears, making mine feel cold and lonely. She scoots closer. Closer. Closer, until her outstretched legs brush against mine. And finally, she rests her head on my shoulder.

Okay.

Hoping I’m not making a killer mistake, I drape my arm across her shoulders. She wraps her arm around my lower back.

These moments? They’re pretty darn good. I’ll take more of these.

The movie starts up on the screen. I have no clue what it is, other than it’s some black-and-white movie that probably is, in fact, fifty years old. But that’s not what matters. All that matters is the girl curled into
my side. She said she wants to be friends, that she wants safety. I’ll be her safety net for as long as she needs me.

“Can I ask you a question?” she whispers.

“What?” I whisper back.

Silence. I look down, catching her already watching me. I narrow my eyes. “What is it?” I ask. “Is it the arm? ’Cause I can move the arm.”

She shakes her head. “No. Um…I was just wondering something.” She chews on her bottom lip. Glances at mine. “What happens when friends kiss?”

Holy
— My heart slams against my chest. “I—I think it makes them a little more than friends.”

She nods once. Looks at the movie screen. Takes my breath right along with her.

I can be friends. I can do the friend thing, if that’s what she wants. But damn it, I’m not even gonna lie. If that girl kisses me or even
wants
to kiss me—

“Austin?” she says.

I swallow hard. “Yeah?”

She turns back to me, the tiniest of smiles playing on her lips. “Can we be a little more than friends?”

Hell. Yes. We can.

Rein it in, Braxton
.

I lean down, resting my forehead against hers while fighting the biggest grin I’ve ever had. “You’re sure?” I ask. This is her call. She wanted to take it slow, and I’ll take it slow as molasses if she wants. Or I’ll kiss the daylights out of her. Either way, I’m good.

Her smile widens, the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen on that face. And her lips are on mine, soft and sweet and so. Damn. Perfect. Hugging her even tighter, I close my eyes, memorizing every curve of those lips. These moments? These are the ones worth remembering.

She pulls away slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. Her smile’s still there, gorgeous as ever. “I like being more than friends.”

Home freakin’ run.

I run my hand through her hair and bring her back to me, pressing my lips to hers again. Seconds, please. And thirds. Fourths. Fifths. As many as she’ll give me.

Maybe memories don’t always have to be so bad.

chapter fourteen

On our way back from the cemetery on Sunday afternoon, Momma won’t even look at me. It’s the first time we’ve been to Dad’s grave together since Christmas, and this visit went about as well as the last. After I pull my truck into the driveway, she stays put in the passenger seat, staring at our house through the windshield. Her disappointment is kind of a given. I just wish she’d say something, anything, because the silent treatment is the worst punishment ever created.

“Momma,” I venture. “I’m sorry.”

She scoffs. Shakes her head. Keeps her eyes trained on our house, the same house that Dad’s dad, my papa, built with his bare hands. And I’m sure she’s thinking about that, about how our house is full of so much heart and so many memories, and wondering how I can be so insensitive about my own dad’s memory, especially on his birthday.

Her words from earlier. Not mine.

“I can’t do it,” I continue, loosening the collar on my button-down church shirt. “I know today’s his birthday, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, and I tried, but I can’t get out of the truck at his grave. I can’t—” I sigh.
I can’t mourn someone I half-hate
. But I’m not going to tell her that. “I just can’t.”

She nods slowly, as if she’s thinking about my words, and unbuckles her seatbelt. “I know you’re still having a rough time with this. But at the end of the day, he’s still your daddy. One day, you’ll regret holding on to the bitterness. It’ll eat you alive.”

It’s not the first time she’s told me that. It won’t be the last. “I think I have a right to be pissed—”

She cuts me off with The Look. You know the one: the one that says to shut your mouth while you have the chance. She shifts in her seat, facing me. “You listen to me right now, Austin Michael, and you listen real, real good. You need people in your life. People you can count on, people who love you, people who
you
love. And when you find those people, you hold on to them for dear life. That’s why I still hold on to your daddy, and that’s why I make sure you get time with your friends. With Marisa.”

Oh.

“The way your daddy left this earth was horrible,” she says. “I don’t understand why, and I know you don’t either. But don’t you dare, for one second, speak ill of him now that he’s gone. Maybe you should think about the years he spent teaching you how to throw a ball. Think about every single one of those games he showed up to since you started T-ball. Think about how that man used to be your idol. Think about how you were
his
everything.”