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life unless I change my personality, became more outgoing and more of a people person. The same old stuff she always says. And I just can't change that about myself, you know? I hope, over time, I'll become less shy, less afraid of people, and more able to overcome shyness to do the things I want to do, but I can't imagine fundamentally changing who I am.”
    “You don't have to,” he says. “You're wonderful exactly the way you are.”
    “That's what Dad always says.”
    “Well, your dad's right. I just don't understand why your mother thinks you getting drunk at sorority parties and acting like a vapid idiot is going to get you anywhere in life. I think you're on the right track as it is. You practice all the time, you're off to a great start at UT, you told me your professor is impressed with your talent. Keep doing what you're doing, Wildflower, and you'll do very well for yourself. A lot of people are going to appreciate you, even if your mom can't.”
    I sob audibly and hiccup into the phone.
    “Hey...” I could swear he'd almost called me babe , like he used to when we were dating, but he doesn't. “Why don't I come get you?”
    “Yes,” I say softly into the phone. Right now, there's no place I'd rather be than with Jake.
     

Chapter Three (Jake)
    Wildflower slowly walks to my truck as if somebody had let all the air out of her. She opens the door, pulls herself in, then slumps in the seat. This makes me so fucking mad. I don't know what the hell Mrs. Forsythe's problem is, making her daughter feel so rotten about herself all the time. It just makes me sick.
    But I don't like to act angry around Wildflower. Anger scares her. Honestly, anger sometimes scares me. It reminds me of my dad. He gets angry a lot. Has a real problem with it. Everything makes him mad. Things out in the world. Political stuff. Driving on the road. Shopping in a store and having to wait in a cashier's line. You name it, it pretty much makes him mad. His anger frightens Mom, and she walks on eggshells to keep the peace around the house. I used to walk on eggshells, too, but I moved out of their house when I was a junior in high school. I just couldn't stand it anymore. So I know what it's like to have a tough time at home.
    “Hey,” I say. “Wildflower.” It's my name for her. Ever since we became friends, she's reminded me of a wildflower, and not just an ordinary one, either. A rare and uncommonly beautiful one, blooming way up high on a mountain, hidden from the crazy world and from eyes that just couldn't begin to appreciate her, anyway. She hides herself, yeah, with her shyness, but it's the same kind of thing. Because she's beautiful, on all levels. Her hair, her eyes, her face, her sweetness, her incredible musical talent. She's like a rare flower that blooms all on its own, without needing anybody to watch her. And no matter what the weather, sun or snow or pounding rain, she blooms, she blooms, she fucking blooms.
    She doesn't say anything but scoots closer to me on the bench seat. I put my arm around her, rub her shoulder. I'm glad I have an old truck. I got it from my uncle back in Stoney Creek, a community in Appalachian East Tennessee where I'm from. New cars have bucket seats, so who needs a new car? I want to do more than put my arm around Wildflower. I want to pull her into my lap, kiss her sweet face, smooth her hair.
    But I can't. I'm not good enough for her, and her mom made sure I know that. She told me to give Wildflower a chance to grow and follow her dream. That's why I suggested to Wildflower we not date for a while, so she could find her feet at Boston Conservatory when she won that amazing scholarship. But then she turned it down and didn't go. I don't feel right about yoking her back to me, though. What if I turn out like my dad, ornery, angry, and always frightening her? I don't want any woman feeling about me the way Mom feels about Dad. Yeah, she loves him, but she's afraid of him. Nervous all the time.