Falling For Raine (Ch. 21: Erin)

Watching the sun rise over the Rockies from 35,000 feet up has to be one of the most spectacularly beautiful sights ever. It’s playing peek-a-boo with mounded layers of cloud, turning them all shades of rose and gold over the deep-shadowed landscape below, waiting peacefully for dawn to touch it. It takes your breath away.

I only wish I could enjoy it more. I’d woken up from a light doze to hear the captain announcing we’re ahead of schedule on our flight to Logan International thanks to a nice tailwind. He rattled off some details which breezed right past my muzzy, sleep-fogged brain. What stuck is that in not quite three hours, I’d be in Boston, on my way to Vermont, and we’re actually doing this.

But I’m committed. Or maybe I should be committed. Yesterday, while we nibbled our way through those luscious desserts, this whacked-out scheme seemed like it made sense. Savannah had to go back, breaking her mom’s heart wasn’t an option, we could pretend until she got settled and we knew more about her mom’s situation. Then I’d come home, using work as valid excuse, and we’d handle it however we had to until her mom got better. Being on opposite coasts would make that easier and eventually, when the time was right, we’d “part ways.” It would be gentle, “sad,” amicable and we’d stay friends but our “life paths” simply didn’t allow for us to be together.

All perfectly true—except the being girlfriends part—and nothing has changed or will change. We are on different trajectories and, to be brutally honest, Savannah’s way out of my league. Even if she wasn’t (and that’s a laugh!), I’m not risking my heart again. I learned my lesson and not making that mistake again. No way.

Under the influence of key-lime ice-cream sandwiches and ginger-chocolate shortbread with the best vanilla ice cream I’ve ever tasted it was easy to think, “We can do this.” No feelings need be involved. We’d keep it strictly unreal. No one ever need know. There’s nothing all that wrong about keeping a little secret from a gravely ill parent, is there?

But yesterday, dawn’s early light wasn’t doing magical things in Savannah’s tousled hair as she’s curled up in the window seat of this plane. Her beautiful face, relaxed in sleep, wasn’t this heartrendingly beautiful, and we weren’t a few hours away from launching into the deception of being a new couple who’re very much in love. Acting close to Savannah while keeping a safe distance from Savannah had to be the best and worst of ideas. You’d have to be crazy even to attempt it.

Maybe it’s a good thing I am.

♦ ♦ ♦

The mild thump of the landing gear as the pilot puts us down smoothly on the runway signals the end of our flight. Savannah snaps awake and blinks at me, eyes still unfocused with sleep.

“We’ve landed? You lemme sleep?” Her voice has that soft, rough croon I remember from the morning we woke up together and it stirs a warm feeling in my tummy. She’s adorable in black and pewter sweats with the words Tacoma Rocs! Roc the world! diagonally across the chest, with a little cartoon roc for those who don’t get the joke. I don’t know what the Tacoma Rocs are—it sounds like the name of sports team? That’s one of the first details I’ll have to learn to make this whole fake dating think work.

I dressed for the flight in leggings, my CU Boulder hoodie and one of my favorite T-shirts. It says “A day without fusion is a day without sunshine.” Ash Monroe gave it to me. Yeah, I should’ve seen the light then. (Haha! Get it?) I suppose I should explain that to Savannah, too.

“I figured you needed it.” I booked us a red-eye, business class, because we have a stressful day ahead and I wanted to her to be able to sleep and no one can sleep in cattle-car class. That led to our first, I won’t say argument, much less fight, but debate as I wanted to use my corporate account to get the discount and pay for it while Savannah insisted she pay, as I was the one helping. We settled it by her covering the price of a coach fare while I paid for the upgrade, because—as I insisted—that’s what girlfriends do.

“Did you get any sleep?” She sounds skeptical.

“Yes.” Her eyes narrow. “Some.” Her narrowed eyes don’t waver. Alright lying isn’t a good way to start a relationship, even fake one. “Okay. I don’t sleep well on planes.” That’s one of the reasons I hate flying.

“You should’ve let me keep you company. It’s what girlfriends do.”

Ugh. We’re only a few hours into this and I’m already falling behind. “Next time,” I grumble and she echoes “Next time” with a slight grin that lets me know she’s letting me have this one.

The captain turns off the Fasten Seatbelt sign as we come to a stop at the gate and everyone leaps to their feet as if it’s a feeding frenzy, even though it’s a Sunday morning and I can’t imagine why anyone would be in such a hurry. That’s another thing I hate about flying.

Eventually, we get our carry-ons out of the overhead bins and make our way into the terminal where we unavoidably encounter the third thing I hate about flying: masses of rushing people that make me feel like a salmon fighting its way upstream to spawn, regardless of whether I’m going with the flow or against it. Add to that, I’ve never been to Logan before and despite all the signs, I feel disoriented. Lack of sleep probably isn’t helping, either.

Savannah seems to know what she’s doing, though, so I stick close behind her while she navigates the teaming throng like she’s surfing. It makes me feel a bit like a baby duck but that’s a lot better than getting lost in this jungle of people and passages and we find baggage claim without mishap. My luggage appears—she only has her carry-on—and I’m following Savannah again to the rental car shuttle. Finally, we have our rental car and I feel I can breathe again.

There’s no question about who’s driving, so I get in the passenger’s side while Savannah slides behind the wheel. Looking at the start button, she sticks her tongue out at it—actually sticks her tongue out at it!—and once she pushes it, immediately turns off the GPS. She’s not kidding about her distain for technology and I suspect her unconventional upbringing (shall we say) helped her build up resistance to the dependency that infects the rest of us. That’s inspiring and promise myself to emulate her example.

I sink into the passenger seat and put my feet up on the dash as Savannah drives to the exit. I’d normally not do with anyone but Casey, but again, we’re girlfriends, aren’t we? The trip to Brattleboro Memorial Hospital, where Savannah’s mom and sister are, is two and half hours without stops, so I might as well try to get some rest. Making the best possible first impression is crucial, after all.

After we pull onto I-90, Savannah turns to me. “Breakfast?”

I could certainly use breakfast, as long as it comes with a bottomless cup of strong coffee. “Sure.”

“I know just the place. It’s like twenty minutes away, though. Is that okay?”

“As long as there’s decent coffee.”

“As much as you want.”

“Perfect.” Since it’s going to be a bit before we arrive at this breakfast place, I figure I’ll take a moment to close my eyes. There’s next to no traffic—I suppose that’s the blessing of this being a Sunday morning—the engine’s purr is hypnotic and Savannah is humming some song I ought to recognize but can’t dredge up the name of.

Just another minute or two, I tell myself. Maybe three. I’m drifting on the low, soft sound of Savannah’s voice and smile as consciousness fades and I fall into sleep’s open arms.

♦ ♦ ♦

“Hey, sleepyhead. We’re here.”

I jog awake and blink to take in our surroundings. We parked in front of a building painted brick-red with white trim that looks like it could date from the 1950s. The sign over the door reads The Knotty Pine, and if it’s anything close to that old, the double entendre could be unintentional. On the other hand, it does sound like Savannah’s kind of place with a name like that, and the style reminds me of the old shops in the neighborhood where her apartment is.

Rubbing my eyes, I try to stifle a yawn and fail. “Coffee, right?”

“Absolutely. Right this way.”

Shaking off the last of sleep’s cobwebs, we exit the car and she opens the metal-framed glass door for me with a bright smile and I don’t get it. Yesterday, she seemed devastated but now she’s all perky. She did sleep on the plane, but how would that account for it? Is this part of the girlfriend act or Savannah being Savannah? Allie did say she always lands on her feet and from what I’ve seen, she is one of those people who always seems to rise to the occasion.

So that’s probably it? But honestly I can’t tell. Yikes… We have so much to figure out.

Stepping inside, I’m greeted by all the aromas of Heaven: bacon, pancakes, muffins, savory omelets and, most critically, coffee. Rich, dark, beautiful coffee. My mouth is watering as Savannah waves to a trim, grey-haired, small-boned woman in her 60s, who rushes over to give her a hug.

“Savannah! What’s up with you?” She draws back to swat Savannah on the shoulder. “It’s been ages!”

Savannah looks appropriately admonished. “Excess of Life, I guess.” She clears her throat. “Erin, this is Layla. The owner. She opened the place. Layla, this is my girlfriend, Erin.”

There. Now we’re “official.”

“My pleasure,” I say, unsure if we ought to shake hands or what but Layla solves that with a crushing hug. The tiny woman has muscles.

“Land sakes! The pleasure’s all mine! Come in! Come in! Sit down. Coffee?”

“Please…” It comes out almost a moan. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiastic greeting, but I’m eager to get to the more crucial matter—caffeine.

Layla guides us to a booth, scooping up a pot of coffee and two cups on the way. The cups thunk on the table and the coffee’s poured even as our butts hit the seats. A moment later, Layla comes back with a small pitcher of cream and as I lace my coffee with it, I see it’s heavy cream. This place goes up another notch in my estimation. I take a first, much-needed sip as Layla hands us both menus and gazes at us affectionately.

“Since this your first time, I’ll give you a minute. And who knows? Maybe Savannah here will kick over the traces?”

I raise an eyebrow as Layla bustles off to check on another table. “Kick over the traces?”

She answers with a not very discreet eye-roll. “Uh huh. We used to come here a lot.”

“You and…?”

“Me and Amie. Especially after, well… long nights.” She says it with an abashed look. “The loaded homefries are a great hangover cure.”

I glance at those on the menu. Homefries with bacon, cheddar and sour cream. Maybe the college bros were right after all. “Ah, got it.” I wink, taking another sip of coffee. It’s sooo good. “Any other restorative offerings on the menu?”

She does that endearing head-tilt thing. “I always go for the blueberry pancakes—blueberries are way better out here—but I don’t think there’s anything that isn’t amazing.”

Hmmm… I noted the blueberry pancakes and also the double chocolate-chip pancakes, but my attention is lingering on the blueberry french toast. I’m a big sucker for great french toast.

Layla appears as if summoned telepathically. “Have you girls decided?” We nod in perfect unison. Another girlfriend point for us. “What can I get you?”

Savannah orders the blueberry pancakes and I get the blueberry french toast with whipped cream. Then Savannah adds an order of the loaded homefries. “You gotta try ’em,” she informs me in no uncertain terms.

Layla chuckles. “I always say, consistency is a virtue. Coming right up, dears. More coffee?”

“Please.”

She refills my cup with the ever-present pot and whisks away again.

I can’t resist raising an eyebrow. “So I take it the traces weren’t kicked over?”

Savannah tosses her hands. “What can I say? She’s right.”

We laugh and I go back to savoring my coffee. We still haven’t broached any of the important subjects, but I’m not sure how to do that, so in the pause while we wait for our food, I take a moment to look around. There’s definitely a 50s diner vibe with the red Formica counter and tables, round stainless retro bar stools and blonde wood booths but it’s an authentic vibe, like the décor hasn’t changed much over the years but has been carefully maintained. It’s spotlessly clean and shiny, with a warm friendly neighborhood atmosphere; a place where most of the customers are regulars. In short, it feels like an extension of Layla’s personality. Savannah did say she opened it, so that makes sense.

And we’re sitting here, pretending we’re a couple about to eat pancakes and french toast with way-better blueberries and homefries with enough calories to fuel a pro hockey team. It almost feels like we’re in a time capsule where the unreal is real and we aren’t here to deal with life-and-death issues. Almost feels isn’t the same as actually is, though, and the moment we walk outside this comfy bubble is gonna burst in a big way. That’ll leave us only a couple of hours to figure out how we’re going to do this.

Across from me, Savannah sighs. I notice she’s been nursing her coffee while I’m well into my second cup. Maybe the bubble has burst.

“Are y’thinking what I’m thinking?” Her voice is low as she glances up at me through her lashes.

“Um, maybe,” I murmur back. “Like… how we’re going to make this work?”

She dips her head. “Yeah, pretty much.”

I reach across the table for her hand and she takes it. It’s mostly so our subdued conversation doesn’t look sketchy but Savannah’s warm, slightly calloused fingers squeezing mine back messes with my intent to have this be merely a charade.

“Ah, you two are sweet,” carols Layla as she appears with two heaping plates and a steaming side of fries. She slides all three on the table, making it looks easy, not the remarkable juggling act that it is. “Here ya go! Hoot if you need anything!”

Hoot… I huff a laugh. She certainly is a hoot.

Looking down at my three big slices of golden french toast, mounded with fresh blueberries and topped with real whipped cream—not from a can—I feel my thighs thicken and my waistline expand. The table’s caddy holds maple syrup and olallieberry jam, which surprises me as I wouldn’t expect to find it outside of the Pacific Northwest. I suppose I’m being parochial and need to expand my horizons (not just my waist).

Savannah is engaged in a similar contemplation for her pancake stack, which rivals mine in size and decadence. She reaches for the maple syrup as I reach for the jam. Our hands bump, we laugh and blush.

That was so not planned. Score 2 in girlfriend points.

I spoon the jam onto my plate while Savannah drizzles maple syrup over her pancakes, making artful little swirls. I like that she doesn’t drench the stack. Cutting off a piece of french toast, I twirl it in the jam, scoop up some whipped cream, heap on the blueberries, pop it in my mouth and outright moan. It’s cooked to perfection, not too sweet, and with a hint of spice I can’t place that ties all the flavors together exquisitely.

Savannah grins at my expression, takes a bite of her pancakes, chews rapturously and swallows. “Good?”

“Heaven…”—swaying gently with my eyes half closed.

“Cardamom,” she says.

“Hmmm?”—consuming another scrumptious mouthful.

“It’s cardamom that makes them special. That’s her secret.”

Sharing secrets too, huh? “I’ll never tell.”

Smiling at each other, we continue to work through my french toast and her pancake stack, polishing off about half of each and a third of the homefries—she’s undeniably right about them and the blueberries which are way better—before the questions hovering over us intrude again. I’m a bit concerned about drawing attention to us, but the diner is half-empty and the other patrons seem too busy chatting—mainly about sports, from what I can tell—to notice us. Keeping my voice down nonetheless, I ask where we should start.

Savannah pauses over an impressive forkful of pancake. “I dunno? Basic stuff, maybe?”

I look down at my plate, close to throwing in the towel on my french toast, but definitely not ready to give up on the remaining blueberries. Basic stuff makes sense. We hardly know anything about each other. I do remember her saying she was turning 25 soon, so that seems like a logical place to start.

“Okay. When’s your birthday? Mine’s November 8th.”

Her face falls and I wonder what’s wrong. Are birthdays a sore subject? She waggles her fork slightly. “Mine’s… actually it was Friday.”

“Oh!” I resist clapping a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry…” Oops, that didn’t come out right. I drop my voice lower. “I mean I’m sorry for everything that happened on your birthday. That’s awful. I wish I’d known. I wish I could’ve done something.”

She responds with a soft smile. “You did, remember? I wasn’t gonna celebrate until Amie got back anyway.”

“Still…” My voice trails off.

“Hey, we had amazing to-die-for desserts yesterday, didn’t we? That’s something, isn’t?”

I suppose it is but Savannah shouldn’t be making me feel better. It’s not fair. I reach out to squeeze her free hand again. “Happy 25th birthday, then. At least let me get you something.”

A self-conscious look spreads across her features. “You already did. Don’t worry about it.”

I don’t want to make her any more uncomfortable, so I hunt for a different subject. Her sweatshirt logo seems to be another obvious choice. I nod at it. “What are the Tacoma Rocs?”

She glances down as if she’s forgotten she’s wearing it. “Oh. It’s a girls’ gymnastics team. Owners think the name’s a funny joke. Amie and me are assistant coaches on it.”

Alright, that makes sense—she did mention she’d done gymnastics as a kid. I hadn’t known about Amie but given how close they are and the pole dancing, it’s no surprise.

“What about you?”

Busy mulling over her and Amie being gymnastics coaches, I’m confused by her question. “About me?”

“Job. I know you’re a bad-ass tech manager.” She pulls one side of her mouth into a half-grin. “What else I should know?”

The corner of my mouth pinches down. With how I’ve been feeling lately, it’s not my favorite topic, but it does fit into things a girlfriend ought to know. She listens patiently while I describe my current situation, condensing it and trying not to descend into a bitch-fest. When I finish, Layla appears, apparently having noticed we stopped eating some time ago.

“Still working? Get the better of you? Like it packed up? More coffee?”

We admit defeat, decide to take the remaining homefries for the road, and say yes to more coffee. She pours before taking the fries to be packed up. In a minute, she back with them and gestures at our plates. “You sure?” she asks with a glint in her eye.

We each take a final bite. “Yep. Sure,” we recite in unison. She chuckles, picks up our plates and leaves the check. “Absolutely no rush. Anytime you’re ready.”

Savannah takes out her wallet, pulls some bills and shakes her head when I try to do the same.

“Next time,” she says and I reluctantly give in. She signals Layla and hands her the cash when she comes over. I saw on the way in this is a cash-only place, which is refreshing given more and more places back home aren’t accepting cash at all these days. Call me outdated, but only being able to pay with chipped card or a smartphone is taking things too far.

“No change,” Savannah tells her as we stand up for another round of hugs.

“You tell Amie we miss her too,” Layla while squeezing the stuffing out of both to us. “I fully expect to see her next time. Take care of yourself, hon. Lovely to meet you, Erin. Come back soon!”

We assure her we will, pick up our packed homefries, and walk out to the car with a volley of waves.

Once inside, Savannah turns to me. “Different, huh?”

“You’re not kidding,” I agree.

“Sorta like going back in time.” She glowers at the start button again before punching it.

“Do you miss it?”

She tilts her head and puts the car in gear. “I didn’t think I would when we left, with coming back for holidays and all. But I kinda do—parts, anyway. I love Tacoma, though. Maybe I’m not ready to settle yet.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that and we drive in silence until we cross the Charles river onto I-95 north.

“So where were we?” she asks as we accelerate up the onramp.

“I was boring you by complaining about my job.”

“As if you ever could.” She looks left and merges into the fast lane. “Lessee… How’d we meet?”

That seems simple: go with the truth. “Like it happened? We met at your restaurant?” I consider for a second. I’d rather leave out Maggie and that whole mess. “Not the fight with my Ex though or getting locked out or any of that, maybe.” In other words, nearly the truth.

“I like that.” She shoots me that dimple-popping grin. “My irresistible charm won you over.”

“Err… right. That.” Her cheeky side, and that dimple, seem to get me every time. “Settled. What next?”

She bops her head side to side a couple of times. “How about easy stuff?”

Easy stuff sounds excellent. “Like what?”

“I dunno. I’ll drive, you pick.”

I put my feet up on the dash again, thinking. “What’s your favorite color?” That seems like an easy one.

“Gosh, that’s hard. There’s so many.” Savannah chews her lip like she’s giving it serious consideration. “Teal and turquoise and when I was a kid I really loved burgundy and especially alizarin crimson. And really deep, deep blues. And purples—mostly the dark ones though lavender is nice too. I can’t decide. You?”

I don’t even have to think. “Purple. Amethyst, actually.” True in more ways than one.

Savannah grins. “That’s precise! I love a woman who knows what she likes.”

“I love lots of colors.” I don’t want her to get the idea I’m rigid on colors. “But purple is magical.”

She glances sideways, a sparkle in her eyes and one side of her lips quirking up. “Magical?”

“Yep,” I say with a smug edge. “It’s the heaviest color. It holds up the rainbow. That makes it magical.”

Savannah bounces as much as her seatbelt allows. “Wow! So cool! I’ve changed my mind. My favorite color is now purple!” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “What’s next? Favorite animal?”

“Dolphins,” I answer quickly; then more sheepishly: “Such a cliché, right? Girls always love dolphins.”

“That’s cuz dolphins are awesome!” She beams at me. “What’s not to love?”

“I’ve heard they can be dangerous to swim with.” If you’re a girl, anyway. A randy dolphin is not to be fucked with. OMG! Did I really think that? I’m horrid! I better keep that side of me under wraps.

Savannah replies with a resolute headshake: “Only boy dolphins. And only sometimes. It’s mostly hype. They rescue people. They’re really sweeties.”

“You’re a sweetie.” I nudge her shoulder. “For coming to the defense of my favorite animal.”

“Ahhhh, you say the sweetest things!” Her voice, sugary enough to frost a Pop-Tart, makes me laugh.

“What about you? Do you have a favorite animal?”

“I love dolphins too—can you tell?—and when I was little I was kind of obsessed with great horned owls. And cheetahs. Amie got me stuck on cheetahs for awhile. They’re her favorite animal.”

Imagine that. “Of course they are.”

“But my favorite has to be sea otters. Especially baby sea otters. There’s absolutely nothing cuter than a baby sea otter, it’s frikkin’ unreal.”

“You’re not wrong about that.” I’ve seen the sea otters at the Seattle Aquarium, but I don’t know if I’m surprised by her choice or not. Part of me suspected she’d pick snow leopards or Siberian tigers or even jaguars—beauty, strength and grace with some danger mixed in. But looking at her now, it makes perfect sense to me she’d go with uber-cuteness. I could see Savannah as a big cat with all those qualities, but at heart, she’s the biggest softy there is.

“I know. The summer before we moved to Vermont, we lived in a commune in the Santa Cruz mountains. Dad was teaching at this dinky school outside Carmel and I got to spend days at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Have you ever been? “I shake my head, not wanting to interrupt. “You should go! It’s amazing! There was this little sea otter there named Milk Dud—steal your heart like that!” She snaps her fingers. “I fell in love. So in love. Sea otters have been my favorite ever since.”

“That’s so cool.” I know it sounds incredibly lame, but I’m trying to wrap my head around all the facets of this complex, gorgeous, generous, great-souled woman I’m pretending to be girlfriends with. In what universe could I possibly match up with her? Not this one, I know that much.

“We’re on a roll here.” She opens the package of homefries and snags one. “Keep going. What else?”

What else? Good question. We’re running out of easy stuff. I don’t think I’m ready to dig deeper yet. I take the fry she offers, although I’m still mostly stuffed, and it gives me an idea. “Any guilty pleasures?”

“Oh! Good one!” Savannah laughs before munching her fry. “Does Dr Pepper count?”

I jerk my feet off the dash as I sit up, nearly dropping mine. “Dr Pepper!?”

“What?” She laughs again, bouncing a little. “You don’t like prune juice?”

Ewww… “Fizzy, sickly sweet prune juice is just gross.”

“Y’know, there’s no actual prune juice in Dr Pepper.” I hear the snark loud and clear.

“I think that probably makes it worse”—relaxing back into the seat and propping my feet up again. I pop the fry into my mouth. “Next you’re going to say you like Cheetos.”

“What’s wrong with Cheetos?”

Gak. I suppose everyone has some fatal flaw. I swallow and lick a dab or sour cream off my lip. “Gross! Let’s try something else before I’m forced to reconsider. Favorite ice cream?”

“Joan’s Farm super-premium Java chip… caffeinated.”

Good. We’re back on the right track. “Now you’re talking. Favorite candy?”

“That’s a tough one. I like frozen 3 Musketeers. But probably dark chocolate Milky Ways are the best.”

Also good. “Okay. We can do this.”

“Right on.” She gives me a thumbs up as “My turn. Soft drink?”

“I’m a ginger ale girl.”

“Not bad.” She purses her lips. “Kinda tame, but not bad.”

“I really prefer ginger beer, though. Reed’s Craft or Maine Root. Is that better?”

That elicits a deep nod. “Definitely better. Snacks?”

“I sometimes get a terrible craving for potato chips.” A terrible admission, but true. I delve in the package of fries again. Why am I still eating these? They’re addicting…

We bump hands again grabbing the last two. “What flavor? The normal ones or the weird ones?”

“Weird ones?”

“Yeah”—puckering her lips. “Like chili-lime jalapeno with Siracha sauce and sour cream.”

“There is no such thing.” That actually doesn’t sound too bad, though?

“Thank god—”

I polish off my last fry. “And for the record, chili-lime is really good.”

She glances my way, eyes crinkled as she finishes hers and licks her fingers. “Is that your fav?”

Do not think of her fingers… “Barbeque is my go-to, but those aren’t weird at all. My fav is ketchup.”

Her eyes widen. “Ketchup potato chips? I’ve never heard those.”

“They’re imported.” A friend of Casey’s from South Africa turned me on to them. “You put ketchup on your fries, don’t you?”

She makes a dubious noise. “Not these. But sometimes. I guess.”

“See? Same thing.” I clean my fingers too, but not nearly as sexily as she did, I’m sure.

Her eyes track my fingers and tongue before returning to the road. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” Her throat clears. “Any other snack?”

I grin inwardly; my little display played better than I thought. “Sometimes I get a yen for Pirate Booty.”

“Pirate Booty?” Her voice pitches through the roof as she sits bolt upright. “You’re dragging my ass over Cheetos and you have a thing for Pirate Booty?”

I reply with my best superior sniff. “There’s a world of difference between Cheetos and Pirate Booty.”

“Says you,” she humpfs teasingly. “Favorite candy?”

“That’s easy”—because it is. “See’s dark chocolate almond clusters.”

“Ooh…” she coos in approval. “That’s a goodie.”

“Absolutely. I used to get like a pound on my birthday and almost make myself sick.” There’s a little clutch at my heart thinking of my mom taking me to the closest mall—a little outside Denver—to get those growing up.

“Okay. Noted.” She bites the corner of her lip. “We’ll try to avoid the getting sick part. Pie or cake?”

“Hey! Isn’t it my turn?” I think she jumped me there.

“You didn’t call it”—sounding pleased with herself “So spill.”

I lean back farther into the seat. “Anyone who could choose between pie or cake is a philistine. You?”

“I’m no philistine.” Her hands flex on the wheel for emphasis. “We’re on the same page. Is it a go?”

“Lemme think.” I poise my index finger under my chin and look up for effect. “Yeah. Okay. It’s a go.”