Page 48 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Naomi hands me a bar towel, and she laughs uncontrollably. She squeezes my arm once.

“Go and look after her,” she says. “I will be fine.”

With a quick, awkward hug bye, I leave with Maeve in my arms and Naomi on my mind.

The ride back is quiet, Maeve leaning against my shoulder in the back of Jack’s truck, somewhere between asleep and conscious. I get her up the stairs and into her room, and she dramatically flops onto the bed.

I grab her a glass of water and sit on the edge of the bed.

“Maeve.”

A groan. Long. Suffering.

“Water. Drink it, please,” I plead.

She pushes herself upright, zombie-like, and I put my hand on her back so she doesn't tip sideways. She takes several long gulps and hands the glass back without opening her eyes.

“Colt, can I tell you something?”

I nod, “Anything, Maeve. You can tell me anything.”

“I don’t want to go home.” Her voice is small, almost childlike. “This feels like my home.”

She doesn’t want to go home.

The words make me feel what I can only label as hope. Hope that Maeve can fit into my life permanently. As a friend, or maybe more.

Well, that’s if she even likes me like that. I still don’t know. Sure, I know she likes me, but the word friend has been used far too much, and back in the bar, Naomi did nearly evaporate any last thought that she could like me more. Yet, I can’t help but lean into her, hugging her.

“I don’t want you to go home either, Maeve.” I mean it more than I know how to say. “You belong here, Maeve.”

“Belong…” she leans into my hug. “That’s all I ever wanted. To belong.” A tear falls down her cheek as I wipe it away.

“You can stay here as long as you want, Maeve, I promise. We don’t need to go anywhere.” It's a promise I'm not entirely sure I can keep—that's Wade's call, and the state government’s. But I will do everything to keep her here.

“You're one of my favourite people, Colt,” she murmurs. And then, within thirty seconds, she's asleep on my shoulder.

I sit there longer than I need to.

One of my favourite people.

Drunk words or the truth? In this moment, I couldn't care less. I hold on to those words and let hope settle in my chest.

Chapter Seventeen

Maeve

I will never drink. Ever. Again.

Most likely a lie, but in this moment—hands cradling my head to stop it dropping into the chilli con carne Mrs. Mae's made—I mean it with every fibre of my being. The smell alone is making me feel worse. Not because it's bad. I think Mrs Mae is incapable of making a bad meal. But because I haven't been able to stomach anything but water all day.

I haven’t even moved from bed, hiding away from everyone after I texted Colt that I felt like microwaved shit. I needed space today away from Cowboy Batman. Cowboy Dickhead. Cowboy Twatface. Whatever you want to call him.

Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, whether it’s some weird friendship or at least a mutually respectful working relationship, he goes and fucks it up. The anger that continues to simmer from how he spoke to me just makes the tequila-fuelled headache worse.

The bowl I’d been staring at for ten minutes disappears, replaced by two slices of plain toast, two painkillers, and a glass of water.

“Get those down at least, sweetie. You need to eat something.”