That earned me a giggle.
“Listen, we’re here. We’re family . . . two ways. You’ve got one of my brothers married to your sister and one married to your mama. Technically, I’m your uncle.”
She laughed aloud. “I guess technically you are,” she conceded. “And I was raised to respect my elders.”
I eyed her across the table. “Watch that shit. I’m not your elder. How old are you?”
“Thirty-three. How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“See”—her shoulders bounced up and down in a quick shrug—“elder.”
I waved her off dismissively. “Whatever, man. Talk to me. What’s your thing? What do you like to do?”
She seemed to think about it for a minute. “I like running. I was on the track team in high school. Not like Sha’Carri. I was never a speed runner. I did cross country track. I liked that even though you’re on a team, it’s also individualized. Growing up as one fourth of the Kingsley sisters, I felt like my entire life was a group project. Doing cross country was something just for me.”
“You still run? Do marathons?”
She shook her head as a forlorn expression covered her face. “I don’t. I stopped running years ago. When I met my ex, I introduced him to it. He would go running with me while we were dating. But as soon as I accepted his proposal that stopped.”
“Why?” I took a gulp of my orange juice.
“He said that running wasn’t really for brothers, unless they were being chased by the police. He thought running for fun or just for the sake of running was stupid.”
“Did you agree with him?”
“I didn’t.” She sighed wearily. “But we had just moved in together and the neighborhood wasn’t that great. It was safer for me not to run alone. Once he stopped running with me . . . I let it go.”
I knew her ex was a clown just from the few times I’d been around him. But I didn’t really understand the depth of his clown-ness. I kept those thoughts to myself, and we finished breakfast in a companionable silence.
We left the café and I took her to Second Street. It was the main thoroughfare in Jackson Falls. The street was bustling with Jackson Falls city workers getting everything prepared for the spring festival.
“What is all this?” she asked as we walked. “What are they doing?”
“Getting ready for The Stream Violet Festival.”
“What is a . . . Stream Violet?”
“It’s like a very popular flower in this area of Oregon. I guess back in the day when they would start seeing these Stream Violets grow, they knew that spring was officially on the way.”
“Never heard of anything like that.” She chortled. “So, what do y’all do at this festival? Pick the flowers?”
I stopped walking and turned to look at her. “Don’t do that. People from big cities always try to act like people from small towns are ass backwards. Why would we call it a festival if all we did was pick flowers? Wouldn’t we call it Flower Picking Day or something like that?”
“You’re right. You’re right. It’s not fair of me to make fun of it just because I don’t understand it. Tell me about the Something Violet Festival.”
“The Stream Violet Festival. It’s your run of the mill small-town festival. You’re gonna have your carnival rides, your outdoor concert. You’re gonna have your craft booths and your strawberry pie baking contest. There’s a pet parade that runsright down Second Street. They have about two or three floats, but it’s mostly owners walking their pets. Sometimes they dress them up in costumes?—”
She interrupted me with a small howl of laughter. “That sounds so cute andverysmall-town. Pets dressed up in costumes marching down Main Street.”
“Second Street.”
She rolled her pretty hazel eyes at me. “Same difference.”
“Anyway, there’s actually a charity 5k. The route goes right through the Stream Violet fields and ends at the Jackson Falls fire station. You wanna do it?”
“A 5k?”
