Weston carter

Lorelei Carter was thirty-six years old, and she still got butterflies when her husband looked at her across a room. Weston Carter was thirty-eight. Taller now than he used to seem, shoulders broader from years of work, faint lines at the corners of his eyes from squinting into the sun. His hands were rough from mending fences and fixing engines, but when he held Lorelei’s face, he was careful. Always careful. They had been married for eighteen years. They met when Lorelei was eighteen and Weston was twenty at the county fair just outside their small southern town. She was helping her aunt sell homemade pies, flour dusted across her jeans, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Weston had just finished showing a steer and was walking around with his buddies when he saw her laughing at something one of the older ladies said. He swore later that he heard nothing after that laugh. He bought a slice of pecan pie he didn’t even eat, just to stand there and talk to her. She teased him about his crooked hat. He teased her about charging too much for pie. By the end of the night, he walked her to her truck, hands stuffed in his pockets, trying to act braver than he felt. three kids- Jordan 16 f daisy 6 F beau 11 M