I stared at Jameson’s closed door longer than I should have. The sound of it banging shut seemed to hang in the still air, an echo with no real sound.

He’d told me to go home. And he’d called me Leah.

He never called me Leah. Always Leah Mae, from the first time we’d bumped into each other at the Pop In. Just now, he’d flung my shortened name at me like an insult. Like he didn’t see me the same way anymore. I wasn’t the girl who’d been his friend when we were kids. Maybe not even his girlfriend, anymore.

Had Jameson just broken up with me?

I was too angry to go after him. I got back in my car—my rental car, I reminded myself—and peeled out in the loose gravel. How could he ask me if I’d given Brock a blow job? He knew me better than that. I was insulted, and hurt, and those were definitely not tears stinging my eyes. I blinked them back, determined not to cry. I was angry, and angry people didn’t cry.

When I got home, I sat in the car, not sure I wanted to go in. I hadn’t actually slept here in a while. Despite Jameson’s long hours in his workshop this week—and how distant he’d been toward me—I’d still been sleeping at his place. Sleeping, and nothing else since L.A., which now I could see was a bigger red flag than I’d realized. I’d thought he was just worn out from working so hard, and maybe a little stressed about the unveiling.

Apparently it was a lot more than that.

The cabin was dark. Looked cold. And just like the car, it wasn’t mine. Regardless of my arrangement with Scarlett, it was a vacation rental, not a place meant for someone to stay long-term. Nothing in my life was long-term.

But that wasn’t new. When was the last time anything had been static in my life? I’d moved more times than I could count since high school. I’d hardly spent more than six months in any one place—often less. For years, Kelvin had been the only constant in my life. Looking back, I could see that’s why I’d been with him. In a life where travel and change were the norm, having one person who was always there was a comfort. I’d mistaken that comfort for love.

Had I done that again with Jameson?

I went inside, the tears starting to spill, despite my best efforts to hold them in. I sniffed my way through undressing, tossing my clothes aside, and rooted around the dresser for something to sleep in. I didn’t care that it was early. I just wanted this day to be over.

Although I’d been staying with Jameson, about half my stuff was still here. I was caught in between, existing in a place where I had no real home. No real roots. No real future anywhere. Everything was temporary.

I slipped on a tank top and shorts and fell into bed.

I was up early the next morning, wondering if I had a text from Jameson. No messages. I showered and dressed. Had some tea and breakfast. Still nothing.

The longer the morning dragged on, the angrier I got. Was he really going to Charlotte without me? He wasn’t even going to apologize?

Pacing around the cabin wasn’t doing me any good. I was fuming, frustration simmering in my belly like water boiling in a tea kettle. If I’d have been a cartoon, I would have had steam coming out of my ears.

For lack of anything else to do, I drove over to my dad’s. Jameson was probably on the road by now, and it was clear he’d meant it when he said he was going alone. I almost turned up the road to Jameson’s instead, just to see if he’d gone. But I didn’t. Went straight to my dad’s house. If that was how Jameson wanted to be, he could go to Charlotte all by his damn self.

When I pulled up to my dad’s house, I was relieved that Betsy’s car wasn’t out front. I was happy for Dad and Betsy, but I didn’t feel like doing this—whatever this was going to be—in front of her.

The front door opened, and Dad stepped out onto the porch as I got out of the car. He must’ve heard me drive up. Tears stung my eyes again, but I swallowed them back.

“Hey, sunshine,” he said as I walked up the porch steps. I could tell by his voice that he could see something was wrong. His demeanor had that soothing dad quality.

“Hi, Daddy.”

He gave me a sympathetic smile. Held out his arms for me and wrapped me in a hug. He felt stronger than he had since I’d been here.

“Come on in, sweetheart.”

Instead of me waiting on him, like I’d been doing when he was sick, he sat me down on the couch and went into the kitchen. Came out a few minutes later with two glasses of whiskey on ice.

“It’s nine in the morning,” I said, taking the glass from him. “I was expecting lemonade or sweet tea.”

“I have a sneaking suspicion this isn’t a lemonade or sweet tea kind of visit.” He sat down in his recliner and rested his glass on the arm. “Wanna talk about it?”

I took a sip of my drink and shrugged. “I suppose. I think Jameson and I broke up last night.”

“Hmm,” Dad said, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “What happened?”

“Well… I went to his house to see if he wanted to go out,” I said. “But he said no, and then we got in this big fight.”

“About going out?”

“No. I guess it kind of started out that way, but we ended up fighting about… well, about his brother Gibson, and then the show.” I didn’t really want to get into the details of all that with my dad. I had a feeling he could figure it out, anyway.

“Gibson Bodine, huh,” he said, the words coming slow, like he was turning that over in his mind. “He’s had a tough time, that one.”

“Has he?”

Dad shrugged off my question. “Yeah, but what about the show? Why were you fightin’ about that?”

“I don’t know, it was like he was just ranting at me,” I said. “He asked me about things he should already know, and it hurt that he’d think that of me.”

“So he kinda blew up at you?”

“Yes, exactly. And then he told me to go home. And he…” I paused, feeling tears trying to well up again. “He called me Leah. He never calls me that.”

“Is this all surprising to you, sweetheart?”

I blinked at him. “What? Of course it’s surprising. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well… Jameson Bodine is a quiet sort. Keeps to himself.”

“Yeah…” I didn’t understand what he was getting at.

“And lately, he’s had a lot of attention heaped on him,” he said. “Not all of it putting him or his family in the best light.”

“Yes, I know. I feel terrible about that.”

“I’m not sayin’ it’s your fault,” he said. “I just mean he’s a man who’s been under a lot of extra pressure recently.”

“Right.”

“So, him blowing up at you makes a lot of sense.”

“I…” I paused, unsure of what to say to that. I had a feeling my dad was trying to make me feel better, but he was only confusing me. Wasn’t he supposed to be on my side? Mad at Jameson for breaking up with his daughter? “Daddy, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He shifted in his seat. “Sweetheart, people tend to blow up at the ones they trust the most. A child will behave for everyone but his mama, because he knows his mama is going to love him even if he’s bad. Grown men do it, too. It ain’t right, necessarily, but it’s human nature.”

“So you think Jameson and I got in a fight because he trusts me?” I wasn’t quite buying his logic.

“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “We let go when we’re with someone safe. With someone we think is going to love us anyway. I’m not sayin’ he thought it through. If he had, I reckon he wouldn’t have fought with you at all.”

I took a sip of the whiskey. “The show made it look like I had an affair with a married man while we were filming. I didn’t, and I don’t think Jameson believes me. He asked me last night and I just… how could he think that about me?”

“You’ve told him you didn’t?” he asked. “Before last night, I mean.”

“I didn’t think I had to. I thought he knew.”

“You thought…” He sighed. “A man doesn’t know what he doesn’t know. And he sure as hell doesn’t know what a woman is thinking. I fell into that trap with your mama.”

“It’s not that I expected Jameson to read my mind. But I thought he knew me better than that.”

“There’s always things to learn about someone,” he said. “Good or bad. And making assumptions isn’t a good idea, even with someone you know inside and out.”

“Daddy, are you trying to tell me you think this is my fault?”

He smiled, a warm, gentle smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “No, sweetheart. And if I thought Jameson had mistreated you, I’d be of a different mind. So you tell me if I’m wrong, and that boy needs a whoopin’. I’ll visit some Bootleg justice on him right quick.”

“No, he didn’t mistreat me.”

“All I’m saying is that I understand him a bit,” he said. “I’ve seen the two of you together, and I know how he looks at you. If he picked a fight with you last night, it’s because he’s hurtin’ inside. Not because he doesn’t love you.”

“I think he left for Charlotte without me,” I said. “He told me he was going alone, and I haven’t heard from him this morning.”

“Stubbornness is a virtue among us Bootleggers,” he said. “Sweetheart, do you know why Betsy and I fell in love?”

Confused by the sudden change of topic, I stared at my dad for a few seconds. “Um… I guess because you spent a lot of time together and realized you cared for each other?”

“That’s part of it,” he said. “But there’s more. Betsy saw me at my worst. Now, that’s because I was sick, not because I was angry and blew up at her. But I knew there was something special about her when it hit me that she was seeing me at my worst, and she wasn’t walking away from that. Because honey, when you find someone who can see the ugly parts of you—because lord knows we all have them—and love you anyway, that’s a rare thing. So I suppose my question to you is this: Does seeing a bit of Jameson’s ugly side make you want to walk away? If that’s a deal breaker for you, that’s quite all right. Nothing wrong with it. Maybe he’s not the man for you, and fightin’ with him last night made you see it clearly.”

“No,” I said, surprising myself with my vehemence. “No, that’s not how I feel at all.”

He nodded slowly and took another sip. “And perhaps Jameson saw a bit of your not-so-good side, too. I don’t know, that’s just a guess. Maybe he saw it last night. Or maybe he saw it before, and he’s not sure what to do with it. It’s disconcerting when it happens. But the real test is in what two people decide to do about it.”

I settled deeper into the couch. Was my dad right? Had Jameson blown up at me like that because he thought I was safe? Far from making me feel better, that thought made me feel worse. Anger was a heady emotion, easy to hold onto and still be certain you were in the right. Letting go of it meant hurt was creeping in to take its place. Hurt and sadness.

It had hurt when Jameson had asked me about Brock. But my dad might have had a small point. I’d never specifically told Jameson that I hadn’t slept with Brock. We just hadn’t talked about it. It had been easier not to—easier to ignore the outside world and live in our little bubble. It wasn’t so easy now that our bubble had burst.

My heart sank as I realized something else. Not only had I never been clear with Jameson about Brock, I’d never denied it publicly, either. It had felt like I didn’t have a choice. What had Evelyn said? My life savings wasn’t worth my pride, and if the studio went after me, I’d lose everything.

But what was Jameson supposed to think? If I’d never been straight with him about Brock, and I kept quiet about it publicly, was it any wonder he’d question the truth?

Maybe he wasn’t the only one who needed to do some apologizing.

I put my whiskey on the coffee table and stood. “Thanks, Daddy. I need to go.”

“Course you do,” he said. “Take care, sweetheart.”

“I will.”