"Give it a week. Someone else'll do somethin' interesting—usually involving a tractor and a bottle of whiskey—and they'll forget about you."
"What if I don't want them to forget about me?"
She glanced at me, surprised. "You want the attention?"
"No, I just..." I loaded the last bag. "I kind of like it here. Is that weird?"
Her expression softened, the guard dropping for a split second. "No. It's not weird."
"Come on," she said, climbing into the driver's seat. "Let's grab lunch at the diner before we head back. You haven't lived till you've had Rosie's chicken fried chicken."
"More fried chicken?"
"It's Oklahoma. We fry everything. Even the vegetables. You'll get used to it."
The diner—"Rosie's Home Cooking"—was packed, and the second we walked in, every single person turned to look at us. Conversations paused. Silverware stopped clinking. It was like a record scratch moment in a movie.
"Just smile and wave," Winnie muttered under her breath.
A waitress who looked about sixty with kind eyes and a name tag that read "Donna" rushed over. "Winnie Jameson! And this must be the famous Beau Sterling!"
Oh, that was the woman Cassie had mentioned yesterday. She worked two jobs at her age?
"Hi, Donna," Winnie said. "Can we get a booth?"
"Course, honey. Right this way." She led us to a red vinyl booth in the back corner, talking the entire time. "We've been hearin' all about you, Beau. The Sterling boy working on Jameson Ranch! What a story! How're you likin' Oklahoma so far?"
"It's... definitely different," I said diplomatically.
"I bet! Well, welcome, welcome. Can I get y'all some sweet tea to start?"
"Please," Winnie said.
As Donna hurried off, the diner slowly returned to normal volume, but I could still feel eyes on us. Hear the whispers.
"Is this what celebrity feels like for you in Dallas?" Winnie asked quietly, leaning across the table.
"Kind of. Except in Dallas, they pretend they're not staring. Here, everyone's just... blatant about it."
"Small town hospitality. We don't believe in subtlety." She picked up a menu even though she clearly didn't need to. "But hey, at least they're interested instead of hostile. That's a good sign."
Donna came back with our drinks and took our orders (I went with the fried chicken because I simply had to), and then we were alone again in the buzz of the busy diner.
"Thank you," I said after a moment.
"For what?"
"For today. For helping me get clothes, for bringing me to town, for... not making me feel like a complete idiot."
"Youarea complete idiot," she said, but her eyes were smiling. "But you're tryin'. That counts for somethin'."
"High praise from Winnie Jameson."
"Don't let it go to your head."
Our food came—massive portions that made Dallas restaurants look stingy—and as we ate, I watched the town move around us. People coming and going, everyone knowing everyone, waves and hellos and conversations that picked up where they'd left off yesterday or last week.
It was... nice. Different from the anonymous bustle of Dallas, where you could live next to someone for years and never learn their name.
