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He catches a dozen men eyeing the short hem of a yellow dress. Thirteen, including himself. He irrationally, inexplicably considers it a triumph when he’s the only one who sees it the next morning.
That a mouth brushes my temple. That that same mouth murmurs, “I got you, honey,” and that’s what breaks me.
“You’ve got that look on your face,” his momma accuses suspiciously during one of their weekly calls. “Who is she?”
“Ain’t got nothing better in my life, Caroline.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs again and again, and I soar a little higher each time.
Flowers. He wove pretty wildflowers into my hair.
are you kidding
