15. Arizona
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Arizona
I slide into my usual booth in the Buckhorn Diner by the window with a notebook spread open in front of me, staring at the evidence of another wildly productive writing session.
Three pages. One verse that’s been crossed out so aggressively it practically counts as vandalism. A couple of doodles that have no business existing, and a grocery list I don’t remember writing.
If this is artistic progress, it’s hiding exceptionally well.
Main Street drifts past beyond the glass. A ranch truck rattles by, kicking dust across the road. Somebody ties a horse outside Larsen’s as casually as if it’s a bicycle.
Inside, Betty Lou moves from table to table with the efficiency of a military operation disguised as diner service while Carrie Jo pinballs between customers with enough enthusiasm to qualify as a natural disaster.
Halfway through the lunch rush, Carrie Jo decides she’s either the bravest waitress in town or the most optimistic.
She’s carrying a tray crowded with milkshakes when one of them starts to tip. Then another joins in, and suddenly every head in the diner swivels her way like they’re watching the final seconds of a championship game.
I stop with my coffee halfway to my mouth.
Carrie Jo’s eyes go wide, but somehow she wrestles the tray back under control. The milkshakes settle. Nothing spills. Not a drop.
Three tables break into applause.
Carrie Jo soaks it up, sweeping into an exaggerated bow that nearly earns her another disaster. Behind the counter, Betty Lou keeps working as if none of it happened.
I hide my grin behind my mug.
That’s the thing about this town. A near-miss with a milkshake tray gets treated like a heroic act, and somehow everybody agrees that’s perfectly reasonable.
I can’t even pretend I don’t enjoy it.
The bell over the door jingles. Before I can look up to see who’s arrived, somebody calls my name from across the diner.
“Arizona!”
A blonde missile barrels toward me.
I barely manage to save my coffee before Sadie slams into the booth beside me, wrapping her arms around me like she’s been separated from me for six months instead of two days.
“Good to see you too,” I say, laughing.
Sadie grins. “I guessed right.”
She says it with the confidence of somebody announcing a proven scientific fact.
Emmett arrives several steps behind her, carrying the expression of a man who has already lost today’s argument and knows he’ll lose tomorrow’s too. “You absolutely did not know she’d be here.”
Sadie waves him off. “I guessed.”
Emmett looks at me.
I shrug. “I think she’s technically winning.”
“That’s the worst part,” he says. “She usually is.”
He slides into the booth across from us, hat pushed back, traces of an early morning still hanging around him. Ranch schedules operate on a level of commitment I personally find concerning.
“I get up before sunrise to run a ranch,” he says, reaching for a menu he won’t actually read. “She wakes up five minutes later and somehow runs me.”
Sadie beams. “I’m helping.”
“Tyranny.”
Sadie seems delighted by this answer.
Betty Lou appears at the table carrying a fresh mug of coffee before Emmett says a word. “Your usual?”
“You know me too well.”
“I know everybody too well.” She sets the mug down, then fixes Sadie with a look. “No pie before dinner.”
Sadie’s hand flies to her chest. “But I love pie! I can have cake though…”
A snort escapes Betty Lou before she can stop it. “Nice try,” she says, heading toward another table.
Sadie shrugs. “She liked my idea.”
“It was definitely a no.”
I shake my head and take another sip of coffee.
Talking to Sadie is like jumping onto a moving train and hoping it eventually circles back to the original subject. Somehow she makes every conversation feel like an adventure she started three steps ago and forgot to tell anyone about.
The strangest part is that I never seem to mind catching up.
Sadie suddenly gasps so loudly that a couple people at the next table look over.
I nearly spill my coffee. “What happened?”
Her eyes go wide. “The guitar… will you teach me?”
Across the table, Emmett closes his eyes. “Sorry, this has been non-stop.”
“What?”
“That guitar lesson has been discussed at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and once while I was trying to brush her teeth.”
Sadie frowns at him. “I didn’t want you to forget.”
I laugh and reach down beside the booth for my guitar case.
The second Sadie sees it, she scoots so close she’s practically sitting in my lap. “Can I hold it?”
“You can hold it if you promise not to start a rock band before dessert.”
“I don’t even know how.”
I settle the guitar across her lap, helping her balance the oversized instrument. It looks enormous against her tiny frame.
Sadie runs her hand across the body. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s old.”
“It’s pretty old.” I show her where to place her fingers. “This is called a G chord.”
Sadie plants her fingers in places no human being has ever intended them to go.
The guitar makes a noise that sounds like it’s mildly concerned about its future.
Her mouth drops open. “I broke it.”
“You didn’t break it.”
“It sounded weird.”
Emmett snorts into his coffee.
Sadie tries again.
The next attempt is even worse, but Sadie lights up.
“Did you hear that?”
Unfortunately, we all did.
“I made music.”
“I think that’s still being reviewed by the committee,” Emmett says.
Sadie ignores him completely and plucks another string.
The resulting sound is painful enough that Emmett pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, we’re in trouble.”
“What?”
“She’s confident now.”
I laugh so hard I nearly miss the fact that half her braid has worked itself loose. Blonde curls are escaping everywhere. I reach over and tug lightly on one. “What happened to your hair?”
Sadie grabs at it and looks horrified. “Oh no.”
“Looks like you lost a fight.”
She frowns. “My hair started it.”
I laugh. “Did it?”
She nods very seriously. “It got all knotty.”
I can’t argue with that logic. “Come here.”
She abandons the guitar without hesitation and climbs onto the bench beside me.
While I start separating the tangled strands, Sadie launches into a story so abruptly I’m not entirely sure where it begins. “…and then Molly sneezed.”
“The horse?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Was she okay?”
“Yeah. But she got horse slobber on my boot.”
I glance at Emmett. “Sounds serious.”
“It was really serious,” Sadie confirms.
Emmett nods solemnly. “We almost had to notify the governor.”
Sadie giggles.
I keep working the braid back together while she bounces from one subject to another. Horses, school, a bug she found yesterday, the cloud that looked like a chicken. None of the stories connect, but each one seems extremely important to her.
By the time I tie off the braid, I’ve learned far more about kindergarten politics than I ever expected. “There.”
Sadie reaches back to touch it. Her face brightens. “It’s prettier than Daddy’s.”
Emmett looks offended. “I’ve never braided my own hair.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe I should.”
She nods, apparently satisfied with this solution.
Emmett glances out the diner window before looking back toward us.
“Sadie’s mom called yesterday.” The words are casual enough that I almost miss them. “She’s supposed to come this weekend.”
The second Emmett mentions Tori, Sadie’s fingers stop moving across the strings.
It’s such a small reaction. The guitar rests awkwardly across her lap, one hand still curled around the neck while she stares down at it.
A minute ago she was bouncing between questions, stories, and declarations about her future music career. Now all that energy seems to have drained away.
“Oh.”
The word lands quietly between us.
Emmett notices too. I can see it in the way his expression shifts before he reaches for his coffee mug.
“She called with plans,” he says. “Says she’ll be here Saturday.”
Sadie nods without looking up. “Okay.”
That’s it.
No excitement or questions. No five-year-old rambling. Only one tiny word before she plucks absentmindedly at a string.
The note twangs unpleasantly, but nobody comments on it.
I don’t know Tori, but I’ve heard enough to piece together the broad strokes. She’s Sadie’s mother. She’s not around much.
And every time her name comes up, Emmett starts choosing his words the way people handle dynamite.
Sadie brushes her fingers over the braid I just finished. “Maybe she’ll like my hair.”
The hopeful note in her voice catches me off guard.
Emmett smiles. “She’ll love it, sweetheart.”
Sadie nods again, but she still doesn’t look up from the guitar. A strange ache settles in my chest.
Maybe it’s because I’ve spent most of my life watching people. Songwriters don’t get much choice. We sit in corners and eavesdrop, collecting little pieces of conversations and expressions to build stories out of them later.
You start noticing the things people don’t say.
The pauses. The subjects that make entire rooms shift.
The way a little girl suddenly gets quieter when her mother’s name enters the conversation.
Sadie adjusts her grip on the guitar and studies her fingers with fierce concentration. Her tongue pokes out as she tries to remember where I showed her to place them.
She’s only five.
Five-year-olds are supposed to be worrying about cartoons and playground drama, not preparing themselves for disappointment.
Before I can sink too far into that thought, Sadie strums again. The sound that comes out is so spectacularly awful that I nearly choke on a laugh.
“There you go.”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“That’s definitely a sound.”
A grin breaks across her face. “That one was nicer?”
Emmett lets out a bark of laughter. “Sweetheart, if that was better, I’d hate to hear worse.”
She gasps in outrage. “Daddy!”
“What? I’m supporting your artistic journey.”
“That’s mean.”
“I’m building character.”
“You’re old.”
The betrayal on Emmett’s face hits.
I laugh so hard I have to put my coffee down.
Across the table, Emmett shakes his head while Sadie beams at herself like she’s won the argument.
Maybe she has.
The heaviness eases enough for conversation to start moving again, but it doesn’t disappear completely.
It stays tucked away in the back of my mind while Sadie launches into another story and Emmett pretends he isn’t listening to every word she says.
Whatever history exists between this family and Tori, it hurts more than either of them wants to admit.