Chapter 1

Chapter One

Tennessee

“This isn’t how I expected our date to end.” Carefully cradling my swollen wrist, I turned toward Gunter. He drove a souped-up Hummer, which should have been my first clue that our date was doomed.

“Uh-huh.” Thus far, the guy appeared to have a conversational vocabulary of twelve words, most of them grunted syllables. Gunter wore a too-small T-shirt advertising a popular gym chain under a thin windbreaker and his nylon track pants were no match for his thickly muscled legs. That should have been my second clue. Gunter was a jock, and I was…well me. Skinny, no muscles, and no idea what to do with weight machines. Oh, and on my way to the emergency room exactly seven minutes into our blind date.

“Maybe we could do dinner after my x-rays?” I didn’t hold out a lot of hope, but the CUPID algorithm on the Heart2Heart app had matched us, after all. CUPID was supposed to find soulmates for us lonely gay dudes—or so the app made it seem.

“Dude, I’m not waiting around.” For a supposed soulmate, Gunter had a surprising lack of soul. And heart. He followed the signs at the Mount Hope Regional Medical Center to pull up at the entrance labeled Emergency Room in giant red letters. “You can get out here.”

“Well, thanks for the ride.” I shrugged, which jostled my injured arm and made me wince. I supposed I should be grateful Gunter hadn’t made me use a ride-share app to get to the hospital. Or worse, call 9-1-1 for what could turn out to simply be a bad sprain. But if he was my soulmate, shouldn’t he want to wait with me? Or at least follow-up? Exchange contact info? Something.

“You sure you don’t want a raincheck? I figured since CUPID’s great track record matched us, you might want to try again?”

“Stupid CUPID is glitchy as fuck.” Gunter’s full lips twisted. He was disgustingly easy on the eyes. If one was into blond muscle-bound jerks, which I was decidedly not. “You’re the third match it’s given me this week. Soulmate finder. Hah. I can’t even get a decent hookup out of the app.”

Hookup was right up there with jock, muscles, off-roading, and gym on the list of words that didn’t apply to me.

“Ah. Good luck then.” I exited the Hummer, which wasn’t easy to do without the use of my dominant hand and with all my other bumps and bruises. Instead of an emphatic stomp off, I had to settle for awkwardly slithering to the ground and limping toward the wide double glass doors. For his part, Gunter zoomed away before I was fully on the sidewalk. Jerk.

Much as I’d like to find my person, I’d settle for someone pleasant to talk with, someone who cared enough to text asking about my day. Someone who stuck around past a single date. Apparently, I’d set my hopes too high.

Or perhaps I was simply a too-nerdy flavor the CUPID algorithm had no idea how to match. A depressing thought. And likely what I got for assuming artificial intelligence could find me a soulmate. Or a date.

Instead, here I was, banged up and bruised in more than one way, entering the ER on a gloriously sunny February Saturday in the Columbia River Gorge. Predictably, the waiting room was packed. The clear day had lured a number of fresh-faced hikers and skiers out, and now they filled the room with hastily bandaged wounds or ice packs. There was also the usual assortment of sneezing and sniffling winter flu patients and injured kids from Saturday daredevil activities. A dude wearing a Kiss The Cook apron with missing eyebrows and singed hair had clearly used the good weather to barbecue.

As I searched for a seat, my gaze landed on a familiar-looking face. Around my age, the man was shorter with muscles for days. Not as thick as Gunter by any means, but someone who evidently knew his way around all those intimidating gym machines. Unlike Gunter and his Hollywood looks, this guy had a face more intriguing than classically handsome with a light golden complexion, mixed-race features hinting at both Black and Polynesian ancestry, and wide, mesmerizing dark eyes. However, before I could figure out why the man seemed so familiar, one of the women working the registration desk waved me over. The badge on a lanyard around her neck with a bored-looking ID picture said her name was Madeline.

Older with a clipped demeanor, Madeline asked the usual triage questions about whether I was experiencing any dire symptoms like chest pain or dizziness.

“Nothing like that.” I pursed my mouth. Perhaps I should have looked harder to see if Mount Hope had any freestanding urgent care options. Madeline’s brusque attitude made me feel guilty for not being more of a critical case. “It’s my hand. Or wrist. I don’t know. I felt a pop when I fell, and it hurts…a lot.”

“Sorry to say you’re likely in for a wait.” Madeline gestured at the full waiting room.

“That’s okay.” I prided myself on being accommodating, especially when a situation was out of my control, so I modulated my voice to be as soothing as possible. “I understand.”

“Do you have your insurance card with you?” Madeline’s tone was somewhat kinder.

“I just started a new job.” I stifled a groan because I hated making Madeline’s job more complicated. “The insurance company hasn’t mailed the card yet.”

“Let’s see if I can find you in the system.” Madeline clicked around on her desktop. “Name?”

“Tennessee Church Stayton.”

“Tennessee?” The man I’d noticed earlier was seated near the registrar. As soon as I said my name, he stood and walked closer. He wore a ski jacket opened to reveal a T-shirt supporting a cancer charity run. He was also holding his right arm, but it was his startled expression I noticed more. “Tennessee Church?”

“Um. Yeah. It’s Stayton now, but yeah.” I peered closer at the man, mind drifting back fifteen years to a much younger face I’d never forgotten. “Tate?”

“Yes!” The guy— Tate— beamed at my guess. “I’m Tate Johnson. And how the heck are you, man? Long, long time no see.”

“ Tate. ” I breathed his name, tasting A&W Root Beer, Jolly Rancher candy, and a whole host of other memories from my tween years and the best friend I’d never forgotten. “I…I thought you looked familiar.”

“Uh? Boys?” Madeline gave a little cough. Oh yeah. We were in an ER, not a class reunion. I gave a sheepish smile as she pointed at Tate. “Much as I hate to interrupt this little reunion, Johnson, I need you to sit your hot EMT ass back down.”

An EMT? I had a hard time reconciling this buff healthcare professional with the skinny kid I’d once known and shared a love of trouble and daredevil escapades with. TNT people had jokingly called us.

“Sorry, Madge.” Tate obviously knew her well enough to tease. “I’ll be good.” Turning that infectious grin on me, he added, “And I’m sure I’ll still be here waiting when you’re done, Tennessee. Save you a seat?”

“Sure.” I turned my attention back to Madeline, who’d successfully located my health insurance information. Not continuing to glance at Tate took a lot of willpower, especially when I relayed my address and phone number for Madeline to enter into the computer. The Tate I’d known would have totally kept on listening in, but perhaps this adult version had better impulse control.

After I finished the check-in process, I rewarded myself by scanning the room for Tate. Sure enough, he’d saved me a seat next to him—one of the few open chairs. Not taking advantage of it would be rude, but my stomach fluttered the whole ten steps or so it took to stand in front of him.

“Um. Hi.” Slick. I was so slick. It was no wonder my blind date ditched me at the ER.

“Hi.” Tate was as friendly as I remembered and patted the chair beside him. He’d always been the extrovert to my introvert, my ticket to a larger friend group. “You’re back in town? For good?”

“Yeah, finished my move last week.” Cautious of my injuries, I gingerly sat next to him. “I’ll be working with the local CASA office as an attorney for child welfare cases. I always liked it here, so when I saw the job opening…” I trailed off because having fond but distant memories of a place sounded like a wacky reason to move half a state away. However, perhaps Tate didn’t agree because he kept right on smiling.

“That’s awesome, man.” He narrowed his eyes as he peered closer at me. “But why not tell anyone you’re back in the area?”

“Who would I tell?” I wasn’t playing stupid. My phone truly did lack a single Mount Hope contact, and I knew down to the minute the last time I’d spoken to anyone from here.

“Dude. We were best friends. Practically brothers. TNT. Remember?” Smile fading, Tate made a face like he’d gotten raisins in a cookie instead of chocolate chips. “And then you up and moved. Didn’t tell anyone. Not even the teachers could say where you went.”

Three-fifteen on October eleventh of our sixth-grade year, I’d stepped off the school bus and shouted goodbye to Tate. A big black car had been waiting beside our old white trailer outside Mount Hope’s city limits, and that was it: the last time I’d seen Tate Johnson and Mount Hope both.

“I was taken into state custody.” I was an adult now, pushing thirty, well over fifteen years past that day, and still, my voice shook. “The DHS worker decided the best placement was the family of a second cousin I’d never met down near Eugene.”

“Oh, Tennessee.” Tate croaked like words were fuzzy, oversized things. I sympathized. Tate shifted in his chair as if he might be about to touch me, then winced and rubbed his right arm. “I knew things were never great at home. But that bad? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I couldn’t,” I whispered, not feeling very adult at the moment.

“My folks would have wanted to help.” Tate leaned forward, winced again, then rubbed his closely cropped hair with his left hand. “I would have tried to help. So many people would have helped.”

“I work for CASA. I know all the resources for kids in the system now, trust me. But at twelve? I wasn’t going to tell a soul how out of control my parents’ drug problem had become.” I paused to try to slow my heart rate. Tate wasn’t lying. His family would have readily offered assistance. But their warm and loving vibe with an always-welcoming house was precisely why I hadn’t been able to say anything. “I was scared and confused and ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” Tate sucked in a harsh breath. “You thought it was your fault? God, kid logic is the worst. I’ve seen it on duty, and I hate how kids always seem to blame themselves for bad shit. Hate that you couldn’t tell anyone.” He tried again to touch me but recoiled as soon as he moved his arm. “Ow. Fuck.”

“Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He offered me a far gentler smile, and I could see how he was likely good as an EMT, making people feel calmer with a simple sympathetic look. “The curse was because I tweaked my injured wrist. But whatever went down, it absolutely wasn’t your fault.”

“Thank you.”

“You were never tempted to reach out?” Using his left hand, Tate pulled out a shiny phone with a rugged case, staring at it like he expected my pic to pop up. “I looked for you on social media a few times over the years, but I didn’t know the new last name. ‘Tennessee Church’ got nine zillion hits, none relevant.”

“My last name changed when my foster family adopted me. And I’m not really much on social media stuff.” I stared at my swollen hand, studying the bruising rather than trying to figure out what it meant that Tate had searched for me. “I share pictures of my cat once in a blue moon, but otherwise, I tend to forget the accounts exist. Also, for a lot of years, I felt misplaced shame and guilt over how I was forced to leave. Then I saw the job opening here, and it seemed like a sign.”

“Absolutely.” Tate was back to beaming, voice warm and welcoming. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Thanks.” A family of four trekked past us, jostling my arm as they passed. “Ow.”

“Oh crap.” Tate glanced down, seemingly only now noticing my injury. “Your right arm is hurt like mine? What happened?”

“It’s a long, rather embarrassing story.”

“I’ve got nothing but time. And I’m an EMT. I’ve heard worse, I’m sure.” He winked, an absolutely devastating addition to his charm. “And done worse. Likely today. Spill.”