To JD.

I never saw myself giving my daughter into the care of another man. Never imagined a scenario where that would ever be okay. But there’s no jealousy, no urge to lay him out and snatch her back. I’m just . . . grateful that it’s not all on Jenny alone.

She murmurs to our daughter and nods at me, gratitude in her eyes. Like an omen, there’s a crash outside, snapping us out of the moment. My mother rushes everyone to the door. As JD goes to follow, I grab his shoulder, talking more with my eyes so as not to frighten the precious bundle he holds in his arms.

“Make sure you lock that door behind you. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

Don’t wait for me, is what I’m telling him. Lock the damn door and keep it locked, even if I’m still on the outside—nothing touches them.

He nods, his face solemn. “Yeah, I get you, Stanton.”

I turn and cross into the living room.

“Hey, wait!” he calls. I glance back and JD tosses me a set of keys. “Your brother put shit tires on your truck—it’ll get caught in the mud. Take mine.”

I look at the keys in my hand, then back up at him. He nods. I nod. And that’s all there is to it.

Sofia was right when she said men are simple creatures. With this easy exchange, I’ve agreed not to stand in his and Jenny’s way, and he’s agreed to never give me a reason to kill him. Over and out.

I rush out the door and sprint to the truck. The stark reality that I have no idea where she is consumes me—pushes on my brain, threatening to crack it. I know the Monroe property as well as my own. If she went out the back door, there’s a good chance she’d be headed toward the cornfield.

Unless she turned around.

“Goddamn it!” I yell, hitting the steering wheel, trying to drive quickly enough to cover more ground, but still scan the fields for a sign of where she could be. The truck vibrates with the force of wind, and pea-size hail pelts the windshield. I think of her out in this weather, alone—unprotected. Is she cold? Is she scared? Every muscle in my body seizes up at the thought.

“Come on, baby,” I utter through clenched teeth. “Where are you?”

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I don’t know if that’s true. But I know for certain there’s a point when your fear for someone you care about . . . someone you love . . . becomes so intense, so paralyzing, that everything else fades away. And you’re consumed with thoughts of them: the way they laugh, their scent, the sound of their voice. Every moment I’ve shared with Sofia flickers through my mind, like a silent film. Sofia beside me in a courtroom, beneath me in bed, the days we teased and talked, the nights we moaned and sighed. And every image makes me crave more. More time. More memories. All the moments we haven’t shared yet, all the experiences we haven’t had, all the words I never said. I need them. I need her.

More than I’ve ever needed anyone. Anyone.

I close my eyes and pray a silent prayer, beseeching and begging. For another chance to do it right. To relive every second with her, to treat her with the reverence she always deserved.

To cherish her.

Please, God.

And when I open my eyes, I have to believe that God heard me. Because I see her in the distance—hair whipping, stumbling in the wind and on those four-inch goddamn heels. My first thought is: thank fuck she’s safe. My second thought is: I’m going to strangle her.

I drive up quick and the truck screeches as I hit the brakes a few feet from where she stands. The wind pushes and the hail pours down as I climb out of the truck, tearing my way to her. It bounces off the truck, pelts my face and shoulders in icy shards.

My voice booms louder than the wind. “Which part of the cattle are clusterin’ did you not fuckin’ hear me say?”

“What?”

And then I’ve got her. She’s in my arms, against my chest, warm and alive, being squeezed so hard she might not be able to breathe. But I can’t let go.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I pant harshly against her ear.

She looks up at me, wide eyed and so goddamn beautiful it makes me tremble.

“Don’t do what again?”

I push her hair back, holding her face. And my voice cracks. “Leave.”

I press her against me, clasping her to me, sheltering her with my own flesh and blood. My body sighs, my bones slacken with relief that she’s here and whole and safe.

But safety, like so many other things we think we can control, is an illusion. Because when I turn around to open the truck door and get her inside, keeping Sofia shielded behind me, a sharp, piercing pain explodes against my temple . . .

And the world goes dark and silent.

20

Sofia

It’s funny, the things you remember. The moments that are branded in our minds, the minutes you wish you could forget. I don’t remember being afraid during that childhood plane crash, though I’m sure I was. I don’t recall the pain when my side was sliced open. The shock, the adrenaline probably left me numb.

What I can still hear though, even after all these years . . . is the sound. The crash of the impact. The roar as we slid across the runway. It was thunderous and inescapable. I remember reaching up to cover my ears, when I should have been holding on for dear life.

And this sound—right now—is almost the same. The shrill screech of wind.

The rushing.

So loud. Deafening.

But that’s not what stands out the most this time. The image that will haunt me from this moment on is Stanton, unmoving, on the ground. Eyes closed, his body slack and terribly still.