Page 46 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“Where are you two off to?” Bryan asks.

“Just the Lone Coyote. Maeve’s been working too hard; she deserves a night out.” I quip.

Bryan grins wide “Damn right. They do say work hard, play harder! Have fun, kiddos.”

Wade says nothing, storming past us and following Bryan toward the back of the house. Maeve's expression flickers briefly before she pulls the door open and steps out ahead of me.

*

The Lone Coyote is exactly what it always is on Wild & Western Wednesdays—sticky floor from spilt booze, loud music that makes your ears buzz, and girls dancing on the bar dressed in shorts and cropped tank tops. Always pure chaos, which makes it the go-to place for people to let loose in town.

Maeve doesn’t waste a second, pulling me towards the bar.

“Six tequila shots, please,” she shouts over to a redhead behind the bar.

“I hate tequila.” I raise my voice over the music, hoping she hears me.

As the shots are presented in front of her, she hands me not one, not two, but three shots of the vile liquid. “Nobody asked if you liked it, now drink!”

So I do. All three. Hating every single one. Maeve, however, does hers like they’re water, slams the glass down, and drags me to the dance floor before I've fully recovered.

An hour in, and she still hasn’t grasped the basic line dance routine I’ve been attempting to teach her. She blames the alcohol, but I just think she has two left feet.

She stumbles over slightly, and I grab her hand to keep her upright, until she rips herself from my grasp and launches herself across the floor.

“Ahhhhhh! You made it!”

I look up to find Naomi being fully braced by a very tipsy Maeve.

The feeling that goes through me is complicated enough to be glad I had those tequila shots. She looks good, she always does. Her signature braids are longer than I remember, with an array of pink, blue, and purple ribbon and beads threaded through them. She's laughing at something Maeve has already said, her laugh is the same as it always was, and I catch myself smiling at the sound.

Her eyes find mine over Maeve’s shoulder, and she gives me a small nod.

“Carter.”

Just my surname, just like she used to call me when we were kids on the school playground. Never understood why she never called me by my first name, but I grew to like it in the end.

“Naomi.”

Maeve is already pulling her toward the dance floor, talking at full speed about God-knows-what. Naomi goes along with it, laughing, and steadying Maeve when she stumbles, which is nearly every minute.

I watch them from the edge of the floor.

I don't know what I expected, seeing her again after months of keeping my distance. Something that isn’t easy in this small town. But it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Not really. It just feels familar, but also disorientating to be near her again. As friends? Is that what we are now?

I don’t know, I need a drink.

I nurse my beer at the bar, spaced out, when Naomi appears beside me—close enough that I can't pretend not to notice.

Neither of us says anything for a moment. Out on the dance floor, Maeve is butchering the two-step, half a beat behind everyone else and making up the rest as she goes. We both watch her. It's easier than looking at each other.

“She’s one of a kind.” Naomi says.

“She is.” The words come out faster than I intend.

I know Naomi clocks it, she always caught the small things I did. That was something I liked about her, the way she could read me before I'd worked out what was going on myself. Now it just makes me feel exposed, like I am too vulnerable around her.

“How are you doing, Colt?” She turns to look at me then, properly.