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“Can I get you anything?”

I turn to face the peppy redheaded barista behind the counter.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “Serena, what do you want?”

“I’m not done shopping,” she calls.

I squint up at the board. “I’ll have a black coffee.”

The woman taps it into the register. “Sure you don’t want the maple? That’s our signature.”

“I don’t like sweetener, but thanks.”

“It’s not sweet. It’s roasted into the beans,” she says, offering a bright smile.

“Okay, I’ll try it.” I pass over my card. “Just keep it for a second, she’s gonna get some stuff.”

The cashier nods, swiping it and setting it behind the counter. She fills up the coffee, and I take it, bringing it to my face. The scent stops me in my tracks. Sunday mornings with my dad, just the two of us, having pancakes. Dad always watched cartoons on Saturdays and reruns of baseball games on Sundays. When I was little, we’d go back and forth over who got the TV. Then, for my tenth birthday, he got me my own from a garage sale. It had a single sliver of static that used to make it so Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck were constantly getting decapitated, but he never heard a word of complaint from me. After that, he’d sit in his chair in the kitchen. I’d curl up on the far left side of the couch with the TV on the coffee table.

We did that every Sunday until I outgrew cartoons.

I take a sip. It burns my mouth. My attention comes back to the present day and falls on Serena.

From talking to Coen, and my dad’s relationship with her father, I know some basic details about her family. How her parents split after her father cheated. That her mom went to New York after the divorce and got remarried. And they really only saw each other once a year for the holidays. Briefly, I wonder if she feels motherless the way I did.

Then, I shake my head.

This isn’t about the sad parts of my life. Today is about giving her a good enough time that we both feel satisfied when I put her on that plane.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SERENA

I glance over the clothing rack. The clerk passes him a coffee, and he has a sip, going still for a second.

His eyes glaze over. Then, he blinks and makes a hmm face, like he doesn’t mind the taste. The door swings open, and two older men, who look like farmers, come through. They nod to him, and he nods back. I leaf through the sweatshirts and wonder if Jamie ever gets recognized the way Coen does. He doesn’t have the same forward-facing presence. Behind the scenes, I’m sure anyone in the music industry can pick him out of a crowd, but on the street, he probably has the luxury of passing incognito.

From what I’ve learned from my sister, Coen was suffering from burnout and constant exposure. Always on tour, never taking a break from public appearances, always on demand. Unable to go to the grocery store or have dinner out without someone stopping him. It was obvious, even to me, when Coen showed up that he was struggling. At the time, it wasn’t obvious to me the same could be said for Jamie. But now that we’ve spent some time together, I think he’s got more going on below the surface than I initially thought.

He’s a bit jaded.

Maybe a lot jaded.

I wonder if it’s possible to get him to really open up. He’s gotten a little bit out of me, but I haven’t really asked him a lot about himself. I didn’t think about it through all my resentment over his year-long silence.

Is he having his Coen Taylor meltdown? Is his version of that just quieter, more lonely?

I blink, and he’s looking at me. Smiling, I lift a sweatshirt and raise my eyebrows. He nods, face stern, but I see a glimmer in his eyes. When he said he was going to take me out and pay for it, I noticed he lit up a little. Maybe he likes taking care of people. Or it’s a kink for him. Either way, if it makes him happy, it makes me feel lighter.

I motion him over. He pushes off the counter and joins me.

“You ever wear anything that isn’t pink?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don’t get a lot of chances to be feminine at the ranch. It’s a lot of dirty work.”

He studies me. “You like that?”

“Being feminine? Yeah, it’s nice.” I put the sweatshirt back, but he takes it from me and hangs it over his arm.