Madison:Decent. There's that word again.
Jake:Would you prefer excellent?
Madison:I'd prefer accurate.
Jake:Fine. I make an adequate sous chef.
Madison:Somehow worse.
I'm smiling at my phone like an idiot. Again. This has become a pattern over the past five days, this constant back-and-forth that I can't seem to stop. We text in the morning when she's prepping. We text during slow periods at the truck. We text atnight when she's back at her hotel, tired but wired, too keyed up from the day to sleep.
I've learned things about her. Small things. Important things.
She hates olives but loves olive oil. She reads romance novels but hides them inside thriller covers because she doesn't want to deal with people's comments. She was terrified of horses until she was twelve, when her grandmother put her on one and refused to let her get off until she stopped crying. She cried for two hours. Then she fell in love.
She sings while she bakes. Always the same playlist—a mix of 90s country and early 2000s pop that she's embarrassed to admit she still knows every word to.
She misses her grandmother every single day.
Madison:The bull riding finals are tonight. Winner gets $50k.
Jake:That's serious money.
Madison:Serious talent too. Some of these guys are incredible. Terrifying but incredible.
Jake:You sound impressed.
Madison:I'm allowed to appreciate athletic excellence.
Jake:I didn't say you weren't.
Madison:Uh huh. For the record, I'm not interested in any bull riders.
I'm trying to come up with a response when a shadow falls across my table. I look up to find my sister Emma standing there, coffee pot in hand, watching me with naked curiosity.
"Refill?"
"Sure."
She fills my cup, then instead of moving on to the next table like a normal person, she sets the pot down and slides into the seat across from me.
"What are you doing?"
"Sitting." She props her chin on her hand. "It's my shop. I can sit wherever I want."
"Don't you have customers?"
"It's three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. The lunch rush is over and the after-school crowd won't hit for another hour." She gestures at the nearly empty room. "I have time."
I look back at my laptop. "I'm working."
"No you're not. You've been staring at your phone and grinning for the past fifteen minutes."
"I don't grin."
"You do now, apparently." She leans forward, her eyes sharp with interest. "What the hell is up with you this week?"
"Nothing."
