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We fall into a rhythm after that. She scrolls on her phone, then asks if I’ve seen the trending reality television series. It pains me, but I’m forced to admit that I’m addicted to watching reality TV. That gets her attention.
By the time we’re halfway to Houston, we’re debating who’s going to be the next one voted off. My whole body feels weirdly loose, like the usual pressure in my blood has found somewhere else to go.
“Read any good books lately?” I ask, after a lull.
She glances over, then looks away, a slow smile creeping in. “I bought the new Jackson Dixson release, but I haven’t had time to read it.”
“I’m about halfway through it,” I admit, “but I have to admit I’m not very impressed.”
She sticks her fingers in her ears. “I don’t want to hear about it. I’ve been waiting to read this book ever since it was announced last year.”
I reach over and take her soft hand in mine. “I won’t say anymore.”
She grins wider, then drops her head against the rest and closes her eyes, letting the wind from the vent ruffle loose strands of red around her face. “We can discuss it once I have the chance to read it.” My heart settles into a happy rhythm at her words.
We pull into the parking lot just a few minutes before ten, the asphalt already shimmering with the promise of a hundred-degree day. I nudge her arm. “We’re here.”
She blows out her breath. “Let the games begin.”
I park and hop out of the truck. I help her climb out and follow her over to the little black Corolla.
She squares her shoulders and heads for him, already in full negotiation mode. And as I follow, I realize that for the first time, I’m not here to win. I’m here to back her up.
The white-haired seller introduces himself to us, and Tinsley doesn’t waste time. She gives the Corolla a slow, deliberate lap, stopping at each tire, crouching to check the wells, and then standing back to sight down the body lines.
“Looks even better than the pictures,” she says.
The old man beams like a proud grandpa. “My daughter did most of the driving. She moved out, and I figured it was time for something a little more fun.” He pats the hood. “Never let me down. Kept the oil changed every three thousand, tires rotated regularly, just had them all replaced in March.”
I keep myself at the perimeter, thumbs hooked in my belt loops, trying to look casual and not like I want to wrest control of the whole process. We test drive the little car, and I honestly can’t find a thing wrong with it.
When we get back from the drive, I fight my instincts to step in and watch as Tinsley negotiates with the seller. A little while later, they’ve agreed on a price and have set up a meeting for Monday to close the deal at a bank in downtown Houston.
The drive back is quieter than the morning. I steer onto the interstate and let the engine settle into a low, steady growl. Tinsley sits with one knee pulled up on the seat, head tipped against the window. The sun pours through the windshield in molten streaks, painting everything in Texas gold.
It’s close to dusk by the time the first low buildings of Silver Spoon Falls show up in the distance. The horizon glows with the last hard light of the day, and for once, I wish the road would stretch out longer.
I tap the turn signal, even though the exit is miles off. “You hungry?”
She glances over. “Starving. Why?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “I was thinking we could get some dinner.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She watches the fence posts blur past for a few beats. “Dinner sounds great.”
I want to fist bump the air, but I manage to hold myself back. The corners of my mouth turn up as I take the exit, the truck humming down toward the lights of town.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TINSLEY
Hudson pulls up outside the 5th Avenue Diner and parks the truck. Before I’ve finished unbuckling my seatbelt, he hops out and rushes around the truck to open my door. I give him a look, but he just grins and waits for me to climb down, his hand steady and warm on my elbow.
“You eat here often?” I ask, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice. The last thing I want is to come off as a snob, but I haven’t set foot in a real diner since middle school.
“Absolutely,” Hudson says, not missing a beat. He’s already moving for the glass door, holding my hand. “This place has the best food in town. Trust me.”
Inside, the place is a nostalgia bomb. The walls are covered with old Coca-Cola signs and photos of rock stars from the seventies and eighties. There’s a black-and-white checkerboard tile under my feet that looks so clean I could eat off it. Red vinyl booths line the room, glossy and bright. Each one is trimmed in chrome. The waitress behind the counter looks up and smiles at us. “Have a seat anywhere you like.”
