Chapter 9
Jake
Five days.
Five days since I watched her taillights disappear around the corner. Five days of property listings and client meetings and boundary disputes that I couldn't care less about. Five days of pretending everything is normal when nothing feels normal at all.
Five days of texting.
I'm sitting in Emma's coffee shop, my laptop open in front of me, pretending to work on a comparative market analysis. In reality, I've been staring at my phone for the last ten minutes, waiting for Madison to respond.
Jake: How's the last day treating you?
Madison: Exhausting. Good exhausting though. Sold out of everything by 2pm yesterday so I doubled my prep this morning.
Jake: Sounds like you need to hire some help.
Madison: Are you volunteering?
Jake: I make a decent sous chef.
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 at night 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."
"Bullshit. You've been weird since the storm. Distracted." She narrows her eyes. "Does it have anything to do with a certain food truck owner I heard about?"
I set my phone face-down on the table. "Harper has a big mouth."
Emma laughs. "Actually, it was Dean who told me."
"Dean?" I scowl.
"He saw you helping dig out her truck the morning she left. Said you looked—and I quote—'like a puppy watching its owner leave for work.'"
"I'm going to kill him."
"No you aren’t. But that's not the point." She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. Her expression softens from teasing to genuinely concerned. "Seriously, Jake. Are you okay?"
I look at my sister. She's five years younger than me, but sometimes she seems like the older one. She's got her life figured out: this coffee shop she built from nothing, her tight circle of friends, her easy confidence. She's rooted in a way I've never quite managed to be.
Maybe that's why I decide to be honest.
I take a deep breath. "No. I'm not."
Her eyebrows rise. "Okay. Talk to me."
"I can't get this girl out of my head." The words come out in a rush, like they've been waiting for permission.
"I can't stop texting her. I can't stop thinking about her.
I can't—" I break off, frustrated. "It's been five days, Emma.
Five days. That's nothing. That's not enough time to feel like this. "
"Feel like what?"
"Like—" I struggle to find the words. "Like I miss her.
Constantly. Even when we're in the middle of a conversation, I miss her.
I miss the way she smells like cinnamon and vanilla.
I miss the way she argues with me about everything.
I miss the way she laughs at her own jokes before she even finishes telling them. "
Emma is watching me with an expression I can't read.
"I think about her first thing when I wake up," I continue.
"I think about her last thing before I fall asleep.
I think about her in between, when I should be working, when I should be focusing on literally anything else.
I think about her future and I want to be part of it.
I think about her past and I want to go back in time and fight everyone who ever made her feel small. "
I pause, realizing how much I've said. Emma's mouth is twitching.
"I know how this sounds," I say defensively. "I know it's crazy. I barely know her. We had a few days together during a blizzard. That's not—it shouldn't be enough to—"
Emma slaps her hand on the table, startling me into silence.
"Oh my God." She's laughing now, her whole face lit up with delight. "I never thought I'd see the day. My big brother actually fell in love."
"No I didn't."
"Jake—"
"I didn't," I insist. "It's just that she makes me feel things I haven't felt in years.
Maybe ever. When I'm talking to her, I feel like myself.
The version of myself I actually want to be.
She challenges me. She doesn't let me get away with my usual deflection bullshit.
She sees through me and she stays anyway.
She makes me laugh. She makes me think. She makes me want to be better. "
I take a breath.
"And when she's not there, everything feels dimmer.
Like someone turned down the color saturation on the whole world.
I keep looking at my phone, waiting for her next message, and when it comes, my whole chest gets tight.
I feel like a teenager. It's ridiculous.
I'm thirty years old. I should not feel like this. "
Emma shakes her head slowly, a smile spreading across her face.
"That's love, Jake, you dumbass."
I stare at her. The word hangs in the air between us, too big, too real.
"That's what love feels like," she continues. "All of it. The missing. The wanting. The feeling like yourself and wanting to be better at the same time. The dimmer switch thing." She shrugs. "That's it. That's the whole deal."
"It's too fast," I manage. "You can't fall in love with someone in five days."
"Says who?"
"Says... common sense. Logic. The entire concept of—"
My phone buzzes. We both look at it.
Madison: Bull riding starting soon. Wish you were here to explain what makes a good ride. All I know is they have to stay on for 8 seconds.
Another buzz.
Madison: Also I saved you a cinnamon bun. It's getting cold.
And another.
Madison: That sounded sadder than I meant it to.
Something cracks open in my chest. I can picture her perfectly: standing at her service window, phone in hand, watching the arena fill up with people while she sets aside a pastry for a man three hours away.
I pick up my phone and type before I can talk myself out of it.
Jake: Warm it up. I'll be right there.
I'm already standing, already grabbing my keys from the table.
"Wait, what?" Emma sits up straight. "What are you doing?"
"Something reckless."
"Jake—"
"Something I should have done five days ago." I shove my phone in my pocket and head for the door.
"Jake!" Emma calls after me. "Your laptop!"
I don't stop. I don't even look back. I just push through the door and into the cold afternoon air, my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
Heart River is about two hours away.
Two hours.
I can make it in one and a half if I push it.
*****
The parking area is emptying out when I pull in, the last of the day's attendees streaming toward their trucks and trailers.
The sun is setting behind the mountains, painting everything in shades of orange and pink, and the air smells like hay and popcorn and something sweeter underneath that I instantly recognize.
Cinnamon. Vanilla.
I spot her truck near the back of the vendor area. Then I see her.
She's standing at the back of the truck, phone mounted on what looks like a small tripod, talking animatedly to the camera. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail and she's wearing that same flour-dusted apron, and she's so beautiful it actually hurts to look at her.
"—honestly the highlight was this little girl who came back three days in a row for the apple fritters. Her mom said she'd never seen her eat fruit before, so I'm counting that as a win for—"
She stops mid-sentence. Her eyes have found me, walking toward her across the packed dirt lot.
"Madison."
"Jake?" She blinks, like she's not sure I'm real. "What are you—how are you—I thought you were joking."
I don't let her finish. I close the distance between us in three long strides, wrap my arms around her, and kiss her.