Page 22 of Holding Hope

Aunt Brie knew exactly how deep my interest in Clarke ran—deeper than I wanted to admit.

“Why don’t you try that again?” she said softly. “Show her you want to know her.” “Yes, but how? She doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me.” I tugged at a loose thread on the blanket. “We haven’t had a real conversation in four days. How are we supposed to write an album if we can’t talk?”

“You’re an observer,” Aunt Brie said. “Find something you have in common. Start there. And for the kid sister—check social media. Teenagers love themselves, each other, and Marvel movies.”

I snorted. “Noted.”

A knock sounded at the door.

I sat up. I hadn’t bothered closing it—Clarke avoided me like I was contagious—but there she was. Basket in hand. Flower-print scarf in her hair. Two braids. Sun-kissed skin. Looking like the human embodiment of a country love song.

“Lonny?” Aunt Brie said. “You still there?”

“Yeah—hey, I’ll call you later, okay? The rainbows over the bridge need feeding.” Our code.

Translation: I can’t talk right now. Listening ears.

“Love you,” she said.

“You too.”

I hung up and pulled off my headphones.

Clarke raised a brow. “The rainbows over the bridge have to be fed?”

I winced. “It’s nothing. I was talking to Aunt Brie. You remember her?”

Clarke’s gaze swept over me—slow, assessing, unreadable. “I remember everything from that night.”

I sighed. “Of course you did.”

“Anyway,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Mama wants me to take you into town. In case you need things.”

I nearly tripped trying to tie my boots and keep up with her long strides. “Perfect. I desperately need a pedicure.”

Clarke shot me a look of pure disgust. Okay, rude.

“We could get one together,” I offered. She ignored me.

We passed the barns, the goats, the dairy cows, the barn cats—including Vonnie, the one-eyed matriarch who looked like she’d fought God and won.

Then we reached the cars. A baby-blue 1969 Ford Bronco gleamed in the sun. “Jesus,” I breathed, running my hand along the frame. “She’s beautiful. Is she yours?”

“Yeah,” Clarke said. “But we’re not taking her.” She pointed to a rusted, yellow, square-body Chevy that looked like it had survived the apocalypse and then been left outside for another decade. “We’re taking Daisy.”

Daisy looked like a tetanus shot waiting to happen.

“How long has it been since someone drove this—” I yanked the handle. The door exploded open with a screech and launched me backward landing me flat on my ass. Clarke didn’t even pretend to hide her amusement. “I should’ve warned you about Daisy’s door.”

“Are you going to help me up?” I snapped. Where the hell was that damn Southern hospitality everyone raves about?

She smirked. “Your legs don’t seem broken.”

I stared at her, stunned. She walked away, dress swaying, boots clicking, looking like sin and sunshine and vengeance. And damn it—she looked good doing it.

If she thought a fall in the dirt would send me packing, she was sorely mistaken. Kennedy women don’t fold. If she wanted war, I wasn’t waving the white flag first.

We sat in silence.