Chapter 8 #2
I think I see her eyes glistening through the window.
I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is the ache in my chest, hollow and heavy at the same time, as I watch her drive away. I don't understand it. Don't want to examine it too closely.
I get in my truck and head to the office.
*****
The paperwork on my desk hasn't gotten any more interesting while I was gone. Property listings. Client contracts. An email chain about a boundary dispute that's been going on for three generations and shows no signs of resolution.
I stare at the stack without seeing it.
My phone sits on the desk beside me. I pick it up. Put it down. Pick it up again.
This is stupid. She's been gone for all of thirty minutes. She's fine. She doesn't need me checking up on her like some overprotective—
I open our message thread before I can talk myself out of it.
Jake: How's the road?
I set the phone down and force myself to focus on the boundary dispute. I'm three sentences into a response when my phone buzzes.
Madison: Icy but passable. Miss me already?
Jake: Just making sure you don't need another rescue. Drive safe. Text me when you stop for gas.
Madison: Sir yes sir.
Jake: Don't call me sir.
Madison: What should I call you then?
I stare at the screen. A dozen responses run through my mind, each more dangerous than the last.
Jake: Jake works fine.
Madison: Boring. I'll think of something better.
I don't respond. Force myself to get through two client contracts before I let myself check my phone again. When I do, there's a new message.
Madison: Stopped for gas. Still alive. The truck is running great. I think the cold was good for her.
Jake: Glad to hear it. How far to Heart River?
Madison: About twenty-five minutes. Should get there in time to set up for lots of hungry cowboys.
Something hot flickers in my chest. I tell myself it's not jealousy.
Jake: Try not to let them fight over your buns.
Madison: My buns are very popular. Can't help it if people find them irresistible.
Jake: I'm aware.
Madison: Oh really? And which of my buns do you find most irresistible?
I shouldn't engage. This is flirting. Blatant, obvious flirting. Nothing good can come from encouraging it.
Jake: The brown butter cinnamon ones. Obviously.
Madison: Obviously. And here I thought you might have developed an appreciation for some of my other buns.
Jake: I appreciate all your buns equally.
Madison: How diplomatic of you.
Jake: I spent years in Silicon Valley. Diplomacy was part of the job.
Madison: Is that what they're calling it now?
I laugh out loud.
Jake: Get back on the road. You're distracting me. Talk later.
I put my phone face-down on my desk and make myself focus on work. It lasts about forty-five minutes before I'm checking for new messages.
Nothing yet.
I get through the rest of the boundary dispute. Start on a property listing. Review the quarterly sales numbers.
My phone buzzes.
Madison: Made it to Heart River. Arena is huge. Setting up now between a BBQ guy and someone selling deep-fried everything.
Jake: Sounds like stiff competition.
Madison: Please. My buns have no competition.
Jake: Confident.
Madison: You've tasted them. Tell me I'm wrong.
Jake: You're not wrong. Good luck.
Madison: Thanks.
Twenty minutes later, a photo comes through. Madison standing in front of her food truck, the serving window open behind her, a tray of fresh buns displayed on the counter. She’s smiling at the camera like she just conquered the world.
Madison: Ta-da! Ready for business.
Jake: Looks good. The truck, I mean.
Madison: Just the truck?
Jake: The buns too.
Madison: And?
I hesitate. Then type the truth.
Jake: And you.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Madison: Careful there. That almost sounded like a compliment.
Jake: Don't let it go to your head.
Madison: Too late. My head is enormous now. Can barely fit through the serving window. Okay, customers are lining up. Talk tonight?
Jake: Yeah. Talk tonight.
I put my phone away and try to focus on work. It's harder than it should be. I keep thinking about her in that truck, smiling at the camera, miles away and getting farther every minute.
Three hours later, my phone buzzes again.
Madison: Sold out of cinnamon buns. Had to make a second batch. The cowboys here are HUNGRY.
Jake: Told you. Irresistible buns.
Madison: A few of them tried to get my number.
Something tightens in my chest. I type and delete three responses before settling on:
Jake: Can't blame them. Good buns are hard to find.
Madison: Are we still talking about pastries?
Jake: Were we ever?
I stare at the screen. We're dancing around something. Both of us feeling it out, neither willing to be the first one to say what this actually is.
Jake: This is dangerous.
Madison: Dangerous how?
Jake: The kind of dangerous where I'm sitting at my desk thinking about cinnamon buns instead of doing my job.
Madison: That does sound serious. You should probably think about something else.
Jake: Any suggestions?
Madison: I hear boundary disputes are very engaging.
Jake: You're hilarious.
Madison: I know. It's part of my charm. Okay, more customers. Talk later?
Jake: Yeah. Later.
It's another two hours before I hear from her again. I've gone home by then, eaten a sad dinner of leftover soup that tastes better than it should because she made it, and settled on the couch with a book I'm not actually reading.
Madison: Made it to the hotel. Exhausted but happy. Good first day.
Jake: Glad to hear it. Get some rest.
Madison: I will. The bed's fine but the company's lacking.
Jake: Anyone in particular you're missing?
Madison: Wouldn't you like to know.
Jake: I'm asking, aren't I?
A long pause. I watch the three dots appear and disappear twice.
Madison: Maybe a certain real estate guy who makes decent coffee and asks too many questions.
Jake: Decent? I make excellent coffee.
Madison: There you go, fishing again.
Jake: Just correcting the record.
Madison: Noted. Your coffee is excellent. Your interrogation skills need work.
Jake: I'll add it to my training schedule.
Madison: You do that. Goodnight, Jake.
Jake: Goodnight, Madison.
I set my phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling. The bed feels too big. The house feels too quiet. Everything feels wrong in a way I can't quite name.
I think about her driving through the afternoon, setting up her truck, charming customers with her smile. I think about all the miles between us and all the miles still to come.
And I think about how much I don't want to be just a story she tells someday. The guy who took her in during a storm. A fun memory from a random town she visited once.
I want to be more than that.
The realization settles into my bones, heavy and undeniable.