Between the Lines

Copyright © 2023 by Brandyland Books All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Developmental editor: Melanie Yu at Made Me Blush Books Copy/line editor: Beth Lawton at VB Edits Cover designer: Sam Palencia at Ink and Laurel For Clara Jean, who gave me books. And everything else. BETWEEN THE LINES PLAYLIST “Sweet Pea” - Amos Lee “Start Nowhere” - Sam Hunt “Everything Has Changed” (Taylor’s Version) - Taylor Swift feat. Ed Sheeran “Dandelions” - Ruth B “Peer Pressure” - James Bay feat. Julia Michaels “Butterflies” - Kacey Musgraves “Better Man” - James Morrison “On My Way to You” - Cody Johnson “Write a Book” - Maddie & Tae “Speakers” - Sam Hunt “Angel” - Aerosmith “Strangers” - Maddie & Tae “Set Me on Fire” - Estelle “Try Losing One” - Tyler Braden & Sydney Sierota “Great Ones” - Maren Morris “What My World Spins Around” - Jordan Davis CHAPTER ONE LUKE Secrets don’t keep in small towns. Not forever anyway. And mine is one of those kinds. The kind that weighs a man down, makes his soul weary. No, it isn’t scandalous. I haven’t committed murder or robbed a bank. No defacing of beloved local landmarks or engaging in a torrid affair. Secrets don’t keep; yet somehow, I’ve managed to keep mine for years. It weighs heavy on my heart as I sit in my truck in the parking lot of my daughter’s elementary school. My routine back-to-school conference with her teacher starts in exactly five minutes, and I can’t bring myself to exit the truck. But Hannah Shipley is my entire world, all five-years-and-plenty-of-sass. And she has me wrapped like nothing else. So for her, I take a deep breath and step out. The late-afternoon sun burns down on the asphalt as I make my way across the parking lot. August in central Georgia is brutal. I’m only halfway to the front doors when a bead of sweat makes its way down my spine and into the waistband of my jeans. I pass two or three cars on my way in, and there are a handful of buses parked at the north end of the lot, baking in the sun after their afternoon runs. This is exactly why I chose the last time slot Mrs. Gibson had available. I don’t have the capacity to be overly friendly today, even to people I’ve known most of my life. Not with this damn secret eating at me with such ferocity that there’s a physical ache in my gut. Bennett, Georgia, my hometown, is small. Not one-stoplight small, but in a town this size, it’s hard not to know everyone—and most of their business. Though very few know my secret. My best friend knows, but Cordell is loyal to a fault. He’s carried it with him for years, never pressuring me about it. And my parents, of course. But hell, I’m not sure they really know how bad it is. The inside of Bennett Elementary smells like it did when I was a student here—like a mixture of Play-Doh, cleaning supplies, and kid. I chuckle softly at the wave of nostalgia it brings on as I head to the office window to sign-in. The office staff are gone for the day, but the visitor clipboard sits on the windowsill, so I grab a pen and scribble my name on the next available line, leaving the other two columns blank, even though the rows above have all been filled in. The hallways seem so small. When I was a kid, this place felt massive, like I would never be big enough to leave it. Clotheslines full of artwork line the halls, reminding me of the refrigerator door at our house full of Hannah’s scribbles and masterpieces. I pass by the wing that holds the second-grade classroom where I first met Cordell; his family moved to town a few weeks before school started that year. We bonded over a game of Jackpot at recess that first day, and we’ve been friends since. Other than my dad, he’s the best guy I know. Mrs. Gibson has been in the same classroom since before I started school here. She wasn’t my teacher, but I definitely remember her. Her kids were a grade or two ahead of me in school. They’re married up and moved on out; lots of folks get out of Bennett the first chance they get. Some just can’t cope with the small-town vibes. Taking my sweaty Braves cap off my head before I enter room four, I run my hand through my hair and give a courtesy knock before stepping through the open door. Here goes nothing. “Lucas Shipley, get yourself in here, son!” Mrs. Gibson calls from a horseshoe-shaped table in the back of the room. She’s the definition of an elementary teacher—maternal and kind but firm when she needs to be. Her light brown hair is cut short and styled, with streaks of gray showing through. She takes off a pair of reading glasses as I cross the room. “Luke’s fine, ma’am,” I respond as I try to fit my six-one frame into a tiny red plastic chair across from her. “Luke.” She gives me a warm smile. “Gosh, I can’t believe you have one in school this year. How’re your mama and daddy doing?” “They’re good, thanks.” “They probably spoil Miss Hannah something fierce, right? She’s the sweetest little girl.” “Thank you, ma’am. She sure does love school. A lot more than I ever did.” Understatement of the century. Other than sports and Cordell, school was torture. “I remember you as a little guy. Joined at the hip with Coach Watkins. Only one thing on y’all’s minds: ball. He’s doing such a good job with those boys up at the high school, isn’t