Call eight, two hours later. “Not cool, not hearing from you at all in twenty-four goddamn hours . . . Jesus, Molly. Call me.”

The last message had been left at nine o’clock this morning. A pause, followed by a sigh. “Sucks about your grandma. But, babe, you don’t have to go it alone. You need me, I’m there. Period. You know that.” A muffled noise, then, “Fuck it.”

She hadn’t purposely kept him in the dark. She’d just been so focused on the inevitable that she’d shut down. And Deacon was wrong. She did have to go it alone. She was used to it.

Her stomach rumbled. She shouldered her purse, slipped on her flip-flops, and set out on foot since most places were within walking distance.

Few streetlamps lit Main Street. The buildings weren’t connected, making it easy for someone to lurk in the shadows and grab an unsuspecting, defenseless person.

Stop. You’re not defenseless. Besides, this is Nebraska. The worst thing that’ll happen to you is you’ll run into someone you know and they’ll bore you with talk of pesticides and projected corn yields.

When Molly reached the Silver Dollar Tavern, she pushed open the heavy door and walked in, hating the immediate silence that her entrance caused, a stranger among the locals. She chose a seat at the bar and smiled at the bartender, who looked familiar.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“A rum and Diet Coke. And a menu, please.”

“Sure thing.”

The menu consisted of bar food. By the time he’d brought her drink back, she’d decided. “I’ll have a hamburger.”

“Fries with that?”

“No.”

He ripped the top sheet off the green ticket pad and walked to the pass-through window to the kitchen. “Order.”

Molly had barely taken a drink when a guy plopped down at the barstool next to hers.

“My buddy over there thinks he knows you.”

Lame pickup line. “What’s your buddy’s name?”

“Alan Rossdale.”

She pretended she was trying to place him. “I think he graduated a couple years ahead of me.”

The guy scrutinized her. “You’re from around here?”

“Yes. What’s your name?” she asked, even though she knew it.

“Marcus Olney.”

“Ah. The football player. You were in Alan’s class.”

He grinned. “How we survived high school is a miracle. So, pretty lady, what’s your name?”

“Molly Calloway.” And she waited for the jaw to drop.

There it was.

“But you’re . . . Well, shit. You don’t look nothin’ like you used to.”

“We all change.” Some of us for the worse. Marcus, the good-looking, well-built quarterback had morphed into a pudgy average Joe with thinning hair.

“Why are you back here?”

“For my grandma’s funeral.”

“Right. I’d heard about that. Sorry.”

She’d fantasized about this scenario when Marcus was the senior-class stud and she a lowly freshman—him taking notice of her. But now he didn’t interest her at all. She didn’t want conversation. She wanted to drink alone and wallow.

“How long you staying?”

“Depends.”

Marcus rambled about this person or that person, not noticing Molly hadn’t chimed in at all. His rude behavior, half facing her/half facing the room, rankled.

When the bartender strolled by, she asked for a glass of water since she’d drained her drink.

Thankfully, her hamburger arrived, and Marcus mumbled about letting her eat and left.

She’d finished half her burger when the barstool creaked again.

“Hey, cuz. I heard you were trolling in here.”

Brandi. She’d definitely end up with indigestion now. “Word gets around town almost as fast as you.”

“You’ve got a bitchy attitude these days, doncha?”

The hamburger turned to dust in her mouth. Still she managed to chew and swallow. “I’m just trying to get through this an hour at a time.”

Brandi rested an elbow on the bar. Her whiskey-laden breath stirred the air. “You like playing the grieving granddaughter? Think it’ll get you attention from guys like Marcus and Alan? Dream on. No matter what you look like now, they’ll picture you like everyone else in town does: a sad, fat, unwanted girl.”

Molly spun her chair and faced her cousin. “And they see you as you’ve always been? A skanky bitch with a mean mouth?”

“Watch yourself.”

“Or what? I’m beyond being bullied by you. In fact, I feel sorry for you. Talk about stunted growth. You haven’t changed since third grade. You can’t even come up with new insults.”