“Got any of those chicks you keep promising me?” The big cowboy raises an eyebrow.
“Not the Buckeyes. Those won’t be in ‘till next month. But I’ve got Silver Penciled Plymouth Rocks and Rhode Island Reds.” She turns to me, nodding toward the door. “Like Trudy and Ginger.”
“Beautiful hens,” I say.
“Thank you.” She leads us to two large black plastic troughs filled with tiny chirping and scratching sounds. My heart jumpsinto my throat as I peer into the wood chip lined containers, warmed with golden heat lamps. Black and gray fluff balls dart around one, and the other’s filled with yellow chicks.
“Oh, they’re adorable,” I admire.
“May we?” Austin asks.
“Sure. Both are sturdy breeds that lay well,” she continues as Austin cups a gray and black one gently with his too-big, too-rough hands, depositing it gently into mine.
Sparks fly where flesh meets. I giggle, staring at the fluffy little ball of energy. “Adorable!”
“Plymouths too broody, and the Rhode Islands a mite aggressive for my Buckeyes. Better wait,” Austin says.
“True, but they lay better,” Cindy insists.
“Three eggs a week per hen’s enough for me,” he counters, helping me put the little guy back before handing me a yellow one.
“He’s soft as cotton candy,” I say, petting golden down and cooing. The inner spring about to explode relaxes. My shoulders drop, and my pulse slows. Then, I realize it. Life suddenly feels less catastrophic.
Austin stands back, arms folded over his chest. Not smiling, but face gentler.
“I’d take every last one of them if I had a place to put them,” I confess.
Warmth seeps behind his eyes. But he says nothing. Just watches, waits.
Afterward, in the truck I can’t stop smiling.
“That okay?” he asks, side-eyeing me.
“Okay? It was amazing. They’re so unbelievably cute. Oh my goodness.”
He nods, a pleased look on his face.
“Not what I expected, though,” I add. “In a good way.”
At the next stop, Five-Stop Burger Shop, we pull up to a spot to order, cab cozy from the heater.
“Staying warm enough?”
“Between my coat, flannel, and sweater, absolutely. In fact, mind helping me with this?” I ask, shrugging out of my purple puffy coat. He catches a sleeve, tugs gently, then throws it in the backseat as my eyes search the expansive menu.
“Where do I start?” I ask, stomach rumbling and shame rising. “Any salads … or you know, low cal stuff on the menu?”
“Low cal?” he squints. “That like SoCal?”
I giggle. “You’re funnier than you look, Cowboy.”
“Heard that a lot as a kid,” he delivers, stony-faced, making me snort.
“So, what does one order here?” I ask.
He shrugs.
A teen trudges up holding a notepad, black curls buried beneath a red beanie with the restaurant logo. “What’ll it be. Austin? The regular?”
