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His eyes went misty, and he turned his gaze downward. “I… I love it when you say stuff like that, West.” He glanced up at me, those blue eyes even more intense than usual. “I love you. And I know that’s crazy to say. This is all so new and you haven’t even gotten a chance to⁠—”

“I love you too, Buttercup,” I replied, just as easy as it could be. “I’ve loved you for years.”

Rhett nearly choked holding back something trying to escape his throat. “You… You mean that?”

“Of course I do,” I nodded with a smile. “I loved you as my best friend for years.” I gave him a little shrug. “Things are just a little more… physical now. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. That part never changed.”

He let out a breath that shook a little on its way out, and for a second I thought he might lose it right there in Dolly’s booth with his muddy boots and his cold coffee and all that weight he’d been carrying around for years. But he didn’t. He just reached up and scrubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes once, quick, like he was mad at himself for getting emotional in public.

“Guess I always figured I’d have to love you silently,” he said. “From a distance. Never thought I’d get to hear you say it back.”

“Well, get used to hearin’ it,” I said. “‘Cause I ain’t plannin’ on stoppin’.”

Dolly came by with the coffee pot then, took one look at the two of us sitting there staring at one another with such intensity and didn’t say a word about it. She just topped off Rhett’s mug, gave my shoulder a little squeeze on her way past, and left us to it.

“So you couldn’t find anything today?” I asked once she’d gone, trying to bring us back to something less emotional. “I thought the auction barn was lookin’ for folks?”

Rhett shook his head, some of that earlier tension creeping back into his shoulders. “Old man Tucker looked at me like I’d asked him to hand over his firstborn. Word’s gotten around, I guess. About the fight, and probably why it happened. Don’t help that half the county still thinks your daddy walks on water.”

“He ain’t got that kind of reach.”

“He’s got more reach than you think, West.” Rhett turned his mug in slow circles on the table, watching the coffee ripple. “I walked probably six miles today in the mud just to get told no over and over. It became obvious pretty quick that someone’s been tellin’ them to steer clear of me.”

My hand curled into a fist on the table. “Then we’ll figure somethin’ else out. You don’t gotta work someplace that treats you like that.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You got a job. I got nothin’ but a couple duffel bags and Dolly’s charity, and I ain’t gonna live off her forever.”

“You ain’t livin’ off nobody,” I said. “You’re gonna find somethin’.” I paused, an idea washing over me. “Actually, I’ll ask Mike about it tomorrow. He said he knows other people like us in town. Maybe they need some help.”

He looked up at me, something soft and disbelieving working across his face, like he still hadn’t quite gotten used to the idea that somebody wanted to take care of him instead of the other way around. “I don’t want you to stick your neck out for me…”

“Rhett.” I reached across the table, giving his hand a squeeze. “We’re in this together. Why wouldn’t I help you out? Besides, pastors love helpin’ people. It won’t cost me nothin’ to ask.”

He let out a long sigh. “Sorry. I guess… I’m just waitin’ for everyone to turn on us.”

“Well I’m not gonna turn on you,” I said, squeezing his hand again because I didn’t give a good goddamn who saw us. “I love you, Buttercup.”

Rhett sniffled again, looking down at the table. “I love you too.”

Chapter 17

Westley

After the roof leaking during the storm the previous day, Mike decided that was the most urgent project on my list. I’d never fixed a shingle roof in my life, but I figured it couldn’t be that hard right? I did, however, completely underestimate how fucking hot a roof is in the Texas sun.

By the time I’d hauled the ladder up against the back of the fellowship hall and climbed up with a bundle of shingles balanced on my shoulder, sweat had already soaked clean through my shirt. The roof itself was baking hot, the black shingles practically shimmering in the heat, and I could feel it coming up through the soles of my boots like I was standing on a griddle.

“Lord have mercy,” I muttered, wiping my forehead with the back of my wrist before it dripped straight into my eyes.

I found the spot where the water had been pooling, a section near the chimney where a whole row of shingles had curled up and cracked, probably from years of nobody bothering to fix it before it got this bad. I set to work prying up the old ones, the tar underneath gone gummy and soft in the sun, sticking to my gloves no matter how careful I tried to be.

I was about an hour into it, my shirt plastered to my back and my knees aching from crouching in one spot too long, when I heard a truck pull up out front. I didn’t think much of it at first, figured it was just somebody dropping off donations or coming by to see Mike about something. But then I heard voices, low and serious, drifting up from around the side of the building, and I recognized one of them right off.

Sheriff Webb.

I shuffled over toward the edge of the roof, careful not to slide off the damn thing, and peered down to see him standing in the church parking lot with his cowboy hat pushed back, talking to Mike and Cash, who must’ve come out from the parsonage house when they heard the truck. I couldn’t make out everything being said from up there, but I caught enough pieces. Something about a break-in. Something about the house across the road.

I sat back on my heels, my stomach doing a slow uneasy roll. That house had gotten hit during the storm yesterday, same time I’d been inside fixing the pews. The three of them glanced up at me and Mike called something out, waving for me to come down. Honestly, I was happy for the break.