By JD DeHart
Nolan remembered her country way, her porch swing voice like butter melting on cornbread and light white blouses, but now all he could see was the picture of her, baby in tow, and the yokel on her arm. I could have been so much more to her, he thought, and had been a thousand times in his mind.
He tried instead to focus on his work, carefully editing papers, but all his mind would do was ravel and unravel the image: the girl, the baby, the yokel. Finally, he called the only person who could save him from his drudgery.
Morgan was a raven-haired knockout and he would have tried to date her, but she was off-limits, meaning she would punch his teeth in. He had known this since they met their ninth grade year.
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