Casual Wanderer © 2025 All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and specific other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
"The Cookout (Part 2)"
The party had ripened.
Not the rowdy kind of ripeness, but that soft, unhurried bloom of Southern evenings when the heat finally lets go of your neck and the lemonade tastes more like mercy than sugar.
Daisy's backyard was full, loud in the way families are loud, chairs dragged across dirt, spoons clinking against Tupperware, cousins hollering from opposite ends of the lawn like one of them had gone off to war.
"Carla!" someone called, waving a spoon in the air. "You bring that squash casserole again, or am I gonna have to sue for emotional distress?"
"I brought it," Carla hollered back, wiping her brow with a paper towel tucked into her blouse. "And this time it's got bacon in it, so y'all can hush and count your blessings."
"Bacon?" Marla popped her head up from the drink table like a prairie dog. "Well, hell, I might kiss you on the mouth."
"You ain't kissed nobody on the mouth since Jimmy Carter was in office," Carla snapped, grinning. "I ain't worried."
Laughter roared. Someone clapped. A lawn chair snapped shut and nearly took a man's ankle with it.
Down by the grill, old Mr. Percival, whom everyone just called "Purse" on account of his always-hushed voice and the little satchel he carried his dominoes in, was telling one of his long, slow jokes. The kind that took five minutes to reach a punchline that barely earned a chuckle, but you listened anyway because his voice was like syrup over gravel and made you feel like a kid again.
Near the drink coolers, Cassidy was showing off a new pair of boots that had cost her Mama three paychecks and a headache. "I know they're too white," she said, hands on hips, "but I don't care. They're occasion boots. I got occasion feet tonight."
"You got expensive taste and bad judgment," Cash muttered, pulling the tab on a root beer and nodding toward a nearby group of boys trying too hard to look uninterested in Cassidy.
Cassidy smirked. "Takes one to know one."
Not far off, two old men were arguing over who had the worst knees in the county, while their wives sat fanning themselves and exchanging church gossip like state secrets.
"I saw Linda Jean's boy leavin' Janine's house real late the other night," one whispered.
"He's been leavin' everybody's house real late," came the reply.
Daisy moved through the crowd like a maypole — everyone spinning around her, anchoring to her, needing just a second of her time to ask about a cousin's surgery or to borrow a folding chair or to say, "Daisy, I swear to God, you just don't age."
She took it all in stride, laughing, teasing, hugging the children, giving stern looks to the teenagers swiping beers off the porch. She knew every name, every birthday, every family recipe. This was her kingdom, humble though it was, and she ruled it with bare feet, sun-warmed skin, and a voice that could hush a storm or start one, depending on the day.
"Mrs. Daisy," said little Becca, dragging a stuffed unicorn twice her size behind her. "Mama says I can stay till the crickets sing. When do they start?"
"They been singin' all evening, sugar," Daisy said, bending down with a wink. "You just gotta be quiet enough to listen."
Back by the firepit, Jackson and Cash were arm-wrestling on a cooler lid while half the town cheered them on.
"Come on, golden boy!" someone shouted. "That pretty arm's gotta be good for somethin'!"
"Y'all just mad it's prettier than yours," Jackson grunted through a laugh, beads of sweat gathering at his brow as Cash's smirk deepened.
"Loser's gotta dance with Mrs. Pruitt!" Cassidy called, and both boys groaned mid-battle.
At the edge of it all, Blake leaned against one of the porch posts, watching the whole thing unfold, this explosion of life, this place he didn't belong to but couldn't seem to walk away from. He'd never seen anything like it. Not in all his miles, not in all the towns that blurred together.The way people looked out for each other here, not always kindly, not always right, but always, left something raw and soft in his chest.
And then there was Jackson.
That laugh, that magnetism. That way he could light up a patch of grass just by stepping into it. Blake took a long pull from his beer and let Daisy's words echo through his head.
"If you're gonna love him...do it in the light."
He stubbed out his cigarette and pulled back, exhaling deeply.
Ten minutes later, Jackson had lost his arm to Cash and stood near the low brick wall by the yard's edge, nursing a sweating glass of sweet tea that had long since lost its ice. His shirt clung a little to his back, and his golden hair had fallen in loose, damp strands over his brow.
Cassidy sat crisscross on the cooler beside him, sipping her drink through a cherry-red straw and chewing ice like she was thinking her way through the world.
Weston leaned against the fence, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked cleaner than usual, a little better-rested. But his eyes still held that flicker of worry, like a boy waiting for the next door to slam.
Cash was now crouched on the grass, rolling a beer can between his hands and drawing aimless shapes in the dirt with a stick like he was twelve again.
Jackson looked from one to the other and tried to settle. These were his people. His safe ones. But there was a weight pressing behind his eyes. He hadn't looked back at the porch since they'd come over, but he didn't need to. He could feel Blake watching him. His skin was hot from it. His spine too straight. His jaw too tight.
"Y'all think Carla's gonna break out the tequila or is this one of those 'wine coolers only' kinda nights?" he said before sipping his drink.
Cassidy snorted. "Depends on whether Marla brought that ancient karaoke machine again. Tequila's got a 90% chance of leadin' to Carla singin" Islands in the Stream' with a broomstick."
"I'd pay for that," Weston mumbled, eyes still on the ground.
"Boy," Cassidy grinned. "I'd PayPal you five bucks right now if she could hit that high note."
Cash grunted. "Hell, last time she sang, the dog ran into the pond and didn't come out for two hours."
Jackson laughed, a full, loose sound that caught him by surprise. For a moment, the tension in his body softened, shoulders dropping, lips parting around a grin that made Weston glance up at him, quiet and wondering.
Cassidy caught the look.
She leaned forward, nudged Weston with her boot. "Alright now, sad sack. You got two left feet or what?"
Weston blinked. "Huh?"
She stood, hand on hip. "Come dance with me before I start feelin' like the ghost of prom night."
"I don't..."
"Come on." She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the lantern-lit patch of grass near the pecan tree. "If you step on me, I swear I'll scream like a snake bit me."
Weston looked helpless but didn't fight her. The two drifted off, her arm looped in his, their banter already trailing behind them.
Cash waited until they were a few steps away before scooting a little closer to Jackson, still crouched on the grass, chin now resting on one palm. "You alright?" he asked, voice low and rough.
Jackson stared into the yard. "Yeah."
"Yeah like you're fine or yeah like you don't wanna talk about it?"
Jackson exhaled through his nose. "A little of both."
Cash picked up the can again. Rolled it. Let the silence stretch. "Blake's been starin' at you like you're the last glass of water in the desert," he muttered finally, not looking at him.
Jackson didn't respond right away. The muscle in his jaw ticked. "Haven't noticed," he said.
They sat there like that, the distance between them thick with what wasn't being said.
Cash glanced up again. "You really fallin' for him?"
Jackson's throat moved. "I don't know what I'm doin'."
Cash nodded once, slow, like he understood. And he did. He always did. "Y'know," Cash said, flicking a bit of grass off his jeans, "you don't gotta keep all this locked up."
Jackson gave a faint laugh, not unkind. "Feels like I do sometimes."
"Well, don't," Cash said. "Not with me."
That made Jackson turn slightly, just enough to glance down at his friend. Cash's eyes, always storm-colored and watchful, were fixed on him with that same look he'd had since they were kids, like he was always half a step away from throwing hands on Jackson's behalf.
Jackson sighed and dropped onto the cooler beside him. "I just...I don't know where to put it all. It's like tryin' to carry water with your hands. No matter how careful I am, it slips through."
Cash nodded slowly. "I see the way you look at him." Jackson flinched, his mouth parting just slightly. Cash's voice was quiet now, level. "I ain't dumb." There was no judgment in it, just plain and raw truth. "But I ain't gonna lie, either. It...it gets to me."
Jackson looked at him now, full-on. "Why?"
Cash swallowed, the muscle in his neck twitching. "I guess…" Cash said, shifting on his haunches, eyes on the dirt, "I guess it's hard, watchin' somebody else step into a space I been guardin' my whole life."
Jackson's heart pinched. "Cash..." he said, voice low.
"That cowboy...he didn't stand outside your window at night when your Mama had to work the late shift and you couldn't sleep. He didn't carry you on his back when you sprained your ankle jumpin' off the church roof. He didn't sit up with you when that boy in tenth grade kissed you and then told everyone it was a lie," Cash said, voice cracking just enough to let something sharp peek through.
Jackson looked away, blinking hard.
"I did all that," Cash said, voice steady again. "And I didn't do it for thanks or nothin'. I just...I thought maybe one day, it'd matter."
"It does..." Jackson whispered before the music shifted again, something old and bluesy, and across the yard, Cassidy let out a loud whistle as she twirled Weston clumsily under the string lights.
Jackson opened his mouth to speak, but Cash swooped in. "I think she's tryin' to turn Weston into a Broadway star."
Jackson laughed. A small laugh, but genuine.
They sat there like they had a thousand times before, side by side, elbows brushing every so often.
Cash rolled the beer can between his palms again, like it might give him something to hold on to. His voice was low when he spoke. "You ever think about runnin'?"
Jackson blinked. "Runnin' where?"
Cash shrugged. "Just...outta town. Pick a road and follow it."
Jackson looked away, toward the string lights swinging overhead. "Couple of times, yeah. Thought about hitchin' out on 61, seein' if Memphis or Baton Rouge would take me in."
Cash nodded. "You never did, though."
"No," Jackson said. "I always found somethin' worth stayin' for," he added with a wink.
Cash looked at him sidelong. "That supposed to make me feel guilty or honored?"
Jackson smirked. "Little of both."
Cash gave a quiet laugh but didn't answer right away. The pause stretched. The kind that sat in your chest, not unbearable, but thick enough to make you sweat.
Finally, he said, "I just... I don't know. Lately it feels like things are changin'. Like... we're all different, but in a way I don't understand no more."
Jackson's brow furrowed. "You mad at me?"
"No," Cash said too fast. "Hell, no." He exhaled and laughed, light and rough. "Guess I'm just feelin' like a dadgum character in one of Cassidy's soap operas. All moody and broody and shit."
Jackson smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You are moody."
Cash grinned. "Yeah, well, you're dramatic as fuck, so we're even."
They both laughed at that, and for a moment it was easy again, just them, as they'd always been.
But then Jackson turned to him, eyes softer now. "Cash?"
"Yeah?"
"You know you can tell me stuff too, right? You don't always gotta play the tough guy."
Cash looked at him, really looked at him, and for half a second, the mask slipped. There was something in his eyes, not jealousy, not quite pain, but something in the shape of both. Something close to longing, but quieter, like it hadn't figured out its name yet.
Jackson's heart stumbled a beat.
But then Cash smirked. "If I start talkin' about my feelings, you're gonna have to hold my hand and sing kumbaya."
"Right," Jackson replied with a soft snort, trying his best to brush off whatever he had just seen inside Cash's eyes.
But there was a shift, and he felt it, like the first breeze before a storm, soft but sure. Something had changed. Just a flicker. Just enough for Jackson to notice. He didn't know what it meant yet. Neither of them did.
But it was there now.
Just then, the music shifted to a sultry, swinging number. Something twangy and foot-stomping, with a beat that made your shoulders twitch before your feet knew what to do. A holler rose from somewhere near the grill.
Cash straightened, flicking his eyes toward the center of the yard where Cassidy was already swaying her hips, trying to get Weston to join her again. He shook his head. But Cash's eyes weren't on them. He turned toward Jackson, golden-haired, flushed from the heat, glass in one hand, a suspicious smile forming on his lips.
"Oh no," Jackson said, already pushing his back against the cooler. "Don't even think about it."
Cash grinned. That big, devil-may-care grin that only got wider the more Jackson resisted. "You know the damn steps," Cash said, reaching for him.
Jackson laughed, trying to slide away from Cash.
"You done it a thousand times."
"Yeah, when we was ten and my front tooth was missin'."
"Ya still had better rhythm than most of the girls there," Cash shot back before grabbing Jackson by the wrist.
Jackson yelped but didn't pull away. It was muscle memory, the way he let himself be pulled into that clearing of grass, that soft, sun-warmed patch of yard beneath the lanterns. They stood facing each other, two boys grown into men but still full of the same spark they'd shared since childhood. Jackson shook his head, still pretending to protest, but his smile had broken through now. Cash stepped forward, rolled his shoulder, popped his knee.
"You ready?" he asked.
"I swear to God, if you make me do the chicken wing part..."
"Three," Cash called.
"Don't," Jackson warned, already moving.
"Two..."
"Cash."
"One."
And then it started.
A clap.
A spin.
A footfall in perfect sync.
The crowd turned.
Cassidy stopped mid-step, wide-eyed. "Oh my Lord. They're doin' it."
"They're really doin' it," Weston echoed, jaw open.
In the clearing, Jackson and Cash moved like they were made for it. Every step, every pivot, every shoulder roll hit with precision and ease, as if the beat was buried in their bones. They spun and clicked heels, pointing and stepping like it was choreographed, because, in a way, it was. Years of goofing off in Daisy's living room. School talent shows. Too many Friday nights with nowhere to go and a radio between them.
Cash spun on the balls of his feet and ducked low. Jackson jumped over him without breaking rhythm, and the crowd roared.
Daisy, barefoot and with a wine glass in hand, rushed over with her gals in tow. Carla clapped along. Marla screamed laughing. Becky-Lynn whooped loud enough to startle the dog.
"My boy got moves!" Daisy shouted, beaming, half-dancing in place.
"They both do!" Marla added, fanning herself like it might cool the sudden heat blooming in the yard.
Jackson and Cash danced like they weren't being watched. Cash's shirt had come halfway untucked, his pristine, muscular frame pushing from under it. Jackson's curls were slicked to his forehead, sweat darkening the cotton at his lower back. But they were grinning, wide and wild, entirely and utterly alive. Their bodies moved like a conversation, one that didn't need words. Chest to chest, foot to foot, breath catching in unison. When Cash lifted Jackson by the waist in a mock-dip and spun him once, the crowd hollered like the county fair had just come to Daisy's house.
Cassidy and Weston couldn't take it anymore. They dove in, awkwardly but full of energy. Cassidy threw her arms up like she was at a rave, and Weston shuffled behind her, laughing so hard his face turned red.
And then the rest followed.
Little Becca Lynn in her frilly pink dress. Old Mr. Purse trying to two-step with Carla. Marla teaching the mayor's wife how to sway her hips like they did back in the day.
Even Daisy, cheeks flushed, eyes glossy with joy, joined the circle, dancing with her bare feet in the grass like she'd just remembered she was still young as the song crackled on, skipping just once as if the record was gasping to keep up with the joy it had conjured.
From the porch, Blake stood still.
One hand braced against the wood railing, the other clenched by his side. His gaze locked on one thing and one thing alone.
Jackson.
The way he moved, so open, so sure, so beautiful. He watched as Jackson turned, laughing so hard he almost fell into Cash's arms, and the way Cash caught him, one arm around his waist, steadying him, holding him just a second too long. Blake's jaw tensed. But he didn't move. He just stood there, watching it all. Letting Daisy's words play again in his head.
"If you're gonna love him...do it in the light."
A moth flitted past his shoulder, but he barely noticed it. His eyes were latched on Jackson. There was something about the way he moved, loose but purposeful, with that wild, unselfconscious rhythm that made people turn to look without even realizing why.
And people were looking, but no one was the way Blake was. To others, Jackson was a golden boy. But to Blake, he was something much more complicated and far more dangerous.
He was real.
And Blake had spent a lifetime avoiding real.
Jackson was kind without performing it. Steady without realizing it. Confident, sure, but not cruel about it. It came from somewhere deeper. From the purest kind of empathy. The kind Blake had never learned how to carry. What the hell am I doin', Blake thought? This wasn't just desire anymore. It wasn't just heat and secrecy.
Watching Jackson move through the world like he made it better just by walking through it, did something to Blake's chest. A slow, terrible cracking. A warmth that wasn't fire or shame, but something softer. He looked down at his hands and thought of all the years they'd spent closed into fists. All the things they'd built and broken. All the nights they'd curled into strangers' skins and left before the light came. Blake had been drifting for as long as he could remember. Town to town. Arena to arena. One motel mirror to the next. Letting no one touch him where it counted. Letting no one see him. Not really. But Jackson had looked at him like he'd always been there. Like Blake wasn't just a man passing through, but a man worth knowing.
"If you're gonna love him...do it in the light."
That terrified Blake more than anything else ever had. Because he didn't know how to live in the light. Not without flinching. Not without hiding a piece of himself behind a closed door or a quick goodbye. But watching Jackson surrounded by people, laughing, radiant, good, buckled something in Blake.
And that's when he moved.
He'd shifted forward, his body leaning into motion, into choice, ready to leave the shadow of the porch and step into the glow of the yard. Ready, at last, to close the space between himself and the boy who'd cracked something open inside him.
But then, the clear, unmistakable clink of metal against glass. Soft. Bright. Delicate. The music cut. Conversations dropped like they'd been snipped mid-sentence. Heads turned in perfect, reverent unison. And there she was.
Daisy Bell.
Standing alone in the middle of the yard, shoulders proud. Her blonde hair caught the glow like a crown. Her sundress fluttered gently against her knees. "Alright now," she said with a smile. "Y'all hush."
The crowd chuckled, warm and obedient.
"I ain't gonna stand here and wax poetic, not with a pound'a ribs sittin' in my stomach and a glass'a Carla's sangria workin' its way up behind it."
More laughter. Carla raised her glass.
"But I do wanna say thank you. To every one of you. For bringin' your bodies and your spirits and your big ole mouths to my backyard."
Scattered hoots. Someone yelled, "We love you, Daisy!"
"I know," she said with a wink.
She paused, letting the moment simmer.
Then she went on, softer now.
"I don't take any of this for granted, you hear me? Nothin' about this is promised. Not the weather holdin'. Not the music bein' just right. Not even folks showin' up when you ask 'em to. Lord knows some of y'all RSVP like y'got arthritis in your thumbs."
Laughter again. But Jackson wasn't laughing. He was watching her. Because he felt it. He knew. Daisy's eyes weren't searching the crowd anymore. They were settled, low and sure, right on him.
"There's somethin' I've learned over the years," she said. "Somethin' life had to teach me the hard way." Her voice wasn't loud. But everyone heard it. "You don't get to choose all the paths your heart takes. Sometimes it takes a turn you ain't ready for. Sometimes it loves things it was told not to. But that don't make it wrong. That don't make you wrong."
The crowd had quieted entirely now. No laughter. No movement. Just breath. Jackson felt Weston shift beside him, glance his way. But Jackson couldn't move. Couldn't speak. He just stared. Frozen.
Daisy's voice lowered, but her strength rose. "You fight like hell to be yourself. To stay soft in a world that tells you to harden up. To carry your joy like it's armor, your truth like it's a lantern." The silence was holy now. Sacred. "I had my son when I was sixteen," she said, looking away from Jackson for the first time, her eyes sweeping gently across the guests. "And folks said I'd ruined my life."
A long pause.
"But they were wrong." She turned back toward Jackson now. "But they were wrong."
He swallowed hard, eyes glistening.
"Because what I got...was this bright, bold, good boy who made me brave. Who taught me what love feels like when it don't have conditions strapped to it. And whatever path his heart walks down, whoever he chooses to walk it with...I will be right there. I will not move."
The crowd still thought she was speaking generally. About motherhood. About grit. But Jackson knew. This was no sermon. No toast. This was a message.
A love letter dressed as a speech.
"And I just want him to know," she said, "there ain't nothin' he could be that would make me close the door. Not ever. Not even for a second." Her voice caught. "I'm proud of him. Not 'cause of who he might become, or what he might do someday. I'm proud of him as he is. Right here. Right now." She lifted her glass. "To love. In all its forms."
The crowd raised their drinks and murmured approval. But Jackson didn't lift his glass.
He was already crying. Softly. Silently. Tears slid down his cheeks and caught in the collar of his shirt, leaving small, shining stains that nobody noticed but him. And Daisy. She smiled at him. And in that quiet, aching pause between applause and music returning, Jackson smiled back. His whole heart in it. The kind of smile you only give to the person who saved you, again and again.
It was just the two of them.
A boy who had finally been seen.
And a mother who had always seen him.
As the yard slowly returned to form, Jackson wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm, smile still lingering, bruised and brilliant, when he heard it.
Blake's voice. Low. Rough as gravel. And close. "Mind if I steal him for a minute?"
Jackson blinked, startled, and turned. Blake stood just beyond the circle of friends, barely a few paces away, hands in the pockets of his denim, hair pulled back in its usual bun, and face caught in a strange mix of softness and squall. Cassidy, Weston, and Cash all turned to look at him. The air around the group tightened.
Jackson opened his mouth, unsure what to say, but Blake was already nodding toward the yard's edge. "Won't be long," he added, quieter now. "Just wanna talk."
Cassidy looked to Jackson, then to Cash. Weston suddenly became very interested in the label on his drink. But Cash, he didn't say a word. His jaw ticked once, then again. A pulse in his temple, steady as a warning bell. Jackson hesitated, gaze flicking to his best friend in all the ways that mattered. Cash just gave a stiff, silent nod.
And that was it.
Jackson stepped toward Blake.
Blake waited just long enough for their shoulders to almost brush before he turned and began walking, slowly, toward the far side of the property where the light thinned and the trees leaned close together like gossiping elders. Jackson followed.
Cash watched until they disappeared past the hedgerow. Then, slowly, like the wind had been knocked clean out of him, he lowered himself to sit against the porch railing. One arm draped loosely over a bent knee. The other hung limp at his side.
The music had picked back up, something with a lazy fiddle and a swaying beat.
Cassidy dropped back onto the porch steps beside Weston, still a little flushed from dancing. "Lord, I forgot how good it feels to let loose," she said.
Weston laughed, breathless. "You? I thought you trained for this. Like, cardio strictly for dance floors and funeral receptions."
She swatted at him with her hand. "Watch it, boy. I got cousins who'd wear you like Sunday perfume."
Weston chuckled, then leaned forward, squinting into the twilight. There, just past the hedgerow, the silhouettes of Jackson and Blake, walking side by side into the trees like a secret slipping away. "God," Weston whispered, clutching his imaginary pearls. "Look at 'em." Cash, still sitting at the edge of the porch, didn't look up. "Lord, it's like Brokeback County Fair out there."
Cassidy snorted. "Stop."
"I mean it," Weston said, nudging her arm. "That slow walk away from the crowd? The tension?"
Cassidy leaned on her knees, trying to peer into the dark. "They do look..."
"Hot," Weston supplied. "They look hot." At that, Cash made a sharp scoffing sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not. Weston didn't notice. "I mean, Jackson's always been a stunner, but he sure walks different when Blake's around. You ever notice that? Like he's taller. Or shinier or somethin'."
Another scoff from Cash. This one louder. Less contained.
Cassidy glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "You good?" she asked.
"Peachy," Cash muttered.
Weston kept going, oblivious, eyes dreamy. "And Blake...God, that man's got posture. You know he could just break you in half and say it was an accident."
Cassidy elbowed him. "West."
"What? I'm just sayin'!"
Cash cleared his throat and stood up abruptly, walking a few paces down the porch. "Guess you got it all figured out then," he said over his shoulder. "Two pretty boys walk off into the moonlight and that's your cue to start dream-castin' their wedding."
Weston blinked, caught off guard. "Uh...wasn't tryin' to..."
Cash waved him off. "Keep swoonin'. Maybe Blake'll autograph your left tit on his way back."
The words hung sharp and uneven.
Cassidy stiffened. "Cash."
He didn't turn. Just folded his arms and stared out into the dark like it owed him something.
Weston chuckled awkwardly, trying to shake off the tension. "Okay...little spicy for a barbecue." Cassidy narrowed her eyes, suddenly very still. Weston glanced between them, then quietly stood. "I'mma grab another soda," he muttered, heading toward the coolers.
Now it was just the twins. Cassidy studied her brother. The set of his shoulders. The flex in his jaw. And she knew. She didn't say anything. Just scooted closer and let the silence fill the space between them. Cash didn't look at her. He just stared at the dark edge of the yard, jaw tight, a shadow behind his eyes she hadn't seen before.
A few moments passed like that. Then came the soft crunch of footsteps.
Daisy.
She looked at Cassidy, then down at Cash on the steps.
Cassidy raised her eyebrows slightly, then nodded once, lips pressed into a tight smile. "I'll give y'all a minute," she murmured. And just like that, she slipped away.
Daisy sat beside Cash, like Southern women do when they've decided not to rush a thing, her back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded like she was waiting for a choir to begin. Cash stayed hunched beside her, arms draped over his knees, eyes locked on the tree line, where Blake and Jackson had disappeared minutes ago. The music floated low through, a Patsy Cline song, maybe. Something about loneliness.
Daisy sighed, slow and steady. "Y'know," she said softly, "when Jackson was born, he didn't cry at first." She smiled a little, eyes flicking to the stars. "Scared the daylights outta me. Nurse kept sayin' he was fine, breathin' and all, but I couldn't stop starin' at his face. Just this little thing. Quiet as a secret. Looked up at me like he already knew more than he ought to."
Cash didn't move.
Didn't speak.
"And then," Daisy said, voice drifting like smoke, "I sang to him. Just a hum, really. Some old gospel my Mama used to sing. And that's when he started cryin'. Not loud. Just this soft little sound. Like he needed permission to feel." She paused. "I reckon he still does."
Cash's jaw tensed.
Daisy turned, finally, and looked at him. Not hard. Not searching. Just looking. "I know," she said, her voice gentle as linen on a clothesline. Cash stiffened, eyes dropping to the dirt. "I've known for years, baby." She reached out, not to touch, but to lay her hand just close enough he could feel the warmth if he wanted it. "I ain't here to shame you. Lord knows there's nothin' to be ashamed of in love. Not the quiet kind. Not the wrong-timed kind. Not even the kind that hurts."
She waited. Gave Cash space to bolt or breathe.
He did neither.
Just sat, stone still, eyes glassy, throat working.
"I think maybe you didn't know what it was at first," Daisy said, turning back toward the trees. "That fierce way you watched over him. Always ready to fight whoever looked at him cross. Always waitin' by the locker after school. I think it was just loyalty to you, till one day it wasn't." The porch light flickered. "I ain't sure if he ever saw it," she said. "Jackson's got a big heart, but sometimes it's busy beatin' for the whole world." Another pause. "But you deserved it, Cash. And I want you to hear me say that. You were good to him. You are."
Cash blinked, fast, like the wind had caught in his eyes.
Daisy pressed her lips together, then whispered.
"But he loves Blake." The name hung there, sharp and soft. "And I know that hurts," she went on, voice breaking just enough to reveal the wound behind her words. "I know it cuts down deep where you don't let nobody look. But baby...sometimes love ain't about holdin' on." She turned to him again, eyes full and sure. "Sometimes it's about lettin' go, with grace."
Cash finally exhaled. A sound like surrender.
A breeze moved through the yard, rustling the leaves. A child giggled in the distance. The world kept turning. "I know you'd burn for him if he asked," she whispered. "But maybe this time, you're meant to watch him bloom."
And for the first time, Cash's shoulders caved. Just a slow, painful folding. Like a house quietly giving in to rot. A boy breaking in silence.
Daisy looked away, giving him that dignity. "I'll just...sit here with you a while," she said. "If that's alright."
Cash didn't answer.
But he didn't leave.
*
The yard behind the Bell house sloped gently downward, giving way to the edge of the field, acres of tall, whispering corn that rustled like secrets in the dark.
Blake stopped just short of the first row, boots crunching on the dry grass.
Jackson followed, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, shirt slightly rumpled, cheeks still pink. "Well," Jackson drawled, glancing around. "Ain't exactly a five-star date spot, but it's got atmosphere."
Blake huffed a short laugh, eyes on the field. "Least it's quiet."
Jackson grinned, steppin' beside him. "You drag me out here for a reason, cowboy? Or we just admirin' crops now?"
Blake scratched at the back of his neck, his fingers twitching. "Reckon I needed a minute," he said.
A beat.
Then they both laughed, that kind of breathless, crooked laughter that held just a little too much tension to be easy. When the laughter died down, silence settled like a blanket.
Jackson stepped forward, nudging a boot through the grass. "So?" Blake looked at him. "Why'd you bring me out here?"
Blake exhaled slowly through his nose, glancing back toward the house. The warm light in the windows. The sounds of life going on. He rubbed the heel of his palm over his chest like it ached. "I been thinkin'," he said finally, voice gravel-soft. "'Bout...things." Jackson waited. "'Bout you."
Jackson blinked once, his face still, but something behind his eyes shifted.
Blake cleared his throat. "Ain't never been much good at this talkin' stuff. You know..."
Jackson gave him a little half-smile, slow and quiet. "Yeah."
Blake scratched his jaw, then stepped closer, his boots scuffing near Jackson's. "Back in Bogalusa," he started, "folks like me...we didn't talk. Not 'bout feelin's. Not 'bout nothin' real. You kept your mouth shut, kept your head down, and if somethin' hurt, well...you learned to live with it."
Jackson tilted his head, the breeze pushing a strand of hair across his forehead.
"I came up hard, Jackson. My folks...they ain't ever showed me what love was s'posed to feel like. I don't think I knew what I was missin' 'til..." Jackson blinked again. Slowly. Blake looked down, like the words were heavy in his mouth. "First time I saw you, I thought, 'Lord help me, that boy don't belong here.' You were too...bright. Like you had light pourin' outta your skin."
Jackson swallowed.
"I figured it was just lust," Blake went on. "Just somethin' to shake off. Get it outta my system and move on. Like I always do." A beat. "But I...I'm kinda havin' a hard time movin' on, Jackson."
Jackson's lips parted, like he was gonna say something, but he didn't.
He looked down.
Didn't meet Blake's eyes.
"I can't fuckin' stop thinkin' about you," Blake said, softer now. "Even when I try. Hell, especially when I try." He took a step closer. "I ain't good at sayin' this stuff. And I ain't tryin' to mess up your life. I know this might've just been a one-time thing for you...that night in my trailer." Jackson flinched, barely, but enough. Blake saw it. He sighed. "And if it was, I'll walk away. I will. Just say the word."
Jackson looked up at that. His eyes shimmered in the dark.
"Why you think I'd ask you to walk away?"
Blake shrugged. "Figured maybe...I dunno. Maybe you'd want someone easier. Simpler. Younger. Not some worn-out cowboy with too many ghosts."
Jackson shook his head slowly and quietly, followed by a long silence. Then Jackson smiled, but it wasn't cocky or playful. It was soft and sad. He looked away again, out toward the cornfield. "You came out here to tell me goodbye, didn't you?"
Blake frowned. "What?"
"I thought so," Jackson said. "Been thinkin' all night, you'd show up, say it was a mistake, that you're movin' on. Back to the rodeo. Back to the road."
"No," Blake said, stepping forward again. “Hell, Jackson, no..."
Jackson's throat bobbed, but he still didn't speak.
Blake looked down, embarrassed, vulnerable in a way no one in Willow Creek had ever seen. "I didn't want to want you, Jackson. Hell, I fought it. Told myself you were too young. Too good. That I'd just ruin you if I got too close." Jackson looked up again. "But every time you laughed...every time you looked at me that way you do...I swear to God, I came undone." A beat. His voice caught. "And I ain't never come undone for nobody."
Jackson still said nothing. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
"Lord, why're you so quiet now?" Blake asked gently, a note of fear beneath the question. "Say somethin', boy."
For a moment, Jackson just stood there.
Eyes wide.
Mouth parted.
Then something inside him shifted, broke loose.
He smiled.
Bright. Beautiful. Disbelieving.
And before Blake could take a step, Jackson turned and ran.
Right into the cornfield.
Vanished.
"Jackson?" Blake called, startled, stepping forward. "What the hell...?"
He heard laughter. Light and wicked. Like a dare thrown into the night. And Blake couldn't help it. He grinned. Shook his head. And followed.
The tall corn closed in around him. Blake moved through the stalks, his boots catching on roots and furrows. The air had changed. It had thickened. Moonlight poured down in ribbons through breaks in the stalks. The world had narrowed into rows of gold and shadow, the scent of earth and sweet husks.
"Jackson," Blake whispered once, barely audible.
There was no answer, just the swish of leaves. He paused, breath heaving, sweat glistening on the back of his neck. He ran a hand through his hair, his heart pounding, not from the chase anymore but from a slow-burning knowing deep in his belly. A hush settled over the corn.
And then, he felt it.
Behind him.
A presence.
He turned.
And there he was.
Jackson stood a few feet away, bathed in moonlight, still as a statue carved by some forgotten god. He was completely naked. His skin glowed like something not made for this world, golden and pale in turns, eyes wide and searching, golden hair wild.
Blake's breath caught in his throat.
Jackson stepped closer, the corn parting around his frame like it knew better than to touch him. "I don't wanna hide anymore," Jackson said, voice soft, almost broken. "Not from you." Blake didn't speak. Couldn't. The words had all dried up on his tongue. Jackson's eyes held his, and there was no more teasing in them. No more laughing deflection or boyish charm. Just a kind of sacred honesty. "I want to belong to you," he whispered. "All of me."
Time fractured.
Blake saw everything at once: the bruised boy who grew up too fast, the summer sun caught in his curls, the ache of years spent drifting, and how every mile, every quiet motel room, every dusty rodeo road had led him here. To this. To him. Jackson.
Blake didn't smile.
Not at first.
He stepped forward, slow like a man crossing into church barefoot, and lifted one trembling hand to Jackson's cheek.
Their foreheads touched.
Their breath mingled.
And then, like lightning caught between two ribs, Blake kissed him. No warning. No words. Just heat. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't polite. It was need, hungry and deep, mouths crashing and opening, breath shared like air in a drowning room. Blake's hands gripped Jackson's back, pulling him closer, and Jackson met him with equal fervor, as if they'd been waiting their whole lives to collide.
The cornfield swayed around them.
The stars above burned quietly.
And somewhere deep inside these two men, in places too tender to name, something unlocked. Something that told them, neither would be the same.
Ever again.
*
The yard still buzzed with life as Cash stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing the back of his neck, his boots tapping against the house floorboards as he walked down the hall. He'd just come in to splash his face, clear his head. Everything was getting too loud, particularly his own thoughts.
Cassidy caught sight of him just as he stepped outside. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, and her eyes scanned the yard like she'd lost something. "There you are," she called, striding up, her voice tinged with worry. "You seen Weston?"
Cash squinted toward the crowd. "Ain't seen him in a minute. Said he got a text, 'bout half an hour ago. Then bailed."
Cassidy stopped in her tracks. "He left?"
"Guess so," Cash said with a shrug, reaching for a Solo cup from the porch railing. "Ain't my job to keep tabs on ever'one."
Cassidy stared at him like he'd just spit in the holy water. "," she hissed. "You really let him leave alone? At night? After the way he's been showin' up?"
Cash frowned, defensive now. "What was I supposed to do, Cassidy? Chain him to the grill? He's grown."
"You could've asked where he was goin'," she snapped. "You could've cared."
"I care," Cash muttered, eyes falling away.
Cassidy shook her head, lips pressed tight. "I need to tell Daisy."
Her boots kicked up dust as she rushed across the yard, weaving through groups of neighbors and kids with cotton candy fingers. Cash watched her go, guilt starting to chew at the edge of his stomach.
Then, a sound. A car, slow and unfamiliar, pulling up the long drive. All at once, the music dimmed. Conversations trailed off. A hush fell. The cruiser was old, paint chipped, red and blue lights off but the engine rumbling like it had a bad conscience. Daisy turned her head the second she heard it. Her posture changed. Straightened. Tensed. Her wine glass was still in her hand, but her grip had turned white at the knuckles.
The door opened and out stepped Sheriff Calvin.
Not in uniform but in jeans and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, his hat in his hand.
Daisy stepped forward, slow but steady, like she already knew. "Cal," she said, voice tight. "Don't you start stallin'. Just say it."
The sheriff swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed once. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
"It's Weston."
A sharp inhale passed through the crowd. Cash took a step forward. Cassidy froze in place. Daisy's shoulders drew up.
Cal continued, softly. "He was found down by the river. Out past County Line. Beaten bad."
Daisy's voice cracked as she asked, "Is he...alive?" It came out quiet. Barely breath.
Cal nodded, eyes lowering. "They got him to Mercy General. But he's hurt, Daisy. Hurt bad. They don't know if he'll..." he stopped. "It's...bad."
Daisy closed her eyes.
Only for a second.
When she opened them, something had changed. Her grief folded neatly behind her fury, her pain tucked beneath a steel spine.
She turned to Cash without looking at the rest of the guests. "Go find Jackson."
Cash took off running.
She faced the crowd now, her chin lifted high, but her voice was ice. Her eyes moved across the people she fed, the ones she'd danced with, laughed with just minutes ago.
"Y'all need to say your thank-yous and take your plates to the trash."
No one said a word.
Not a breath.
Daisy turned toward the house, her stride unshakable as she moved toward the porch.
"Fun's over, y'all."
(To be continued...)
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