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He lifts his hat by the rim then does a swirly motion through the air, gesturing to the rest of the crew to pack it up. I sign the clipboard, he hands me a paper with his name, Floored by Fred, and with a gruff voice says, “Leave five stars and tell your friends.”

Bet he’s a snuggler.

“Looks good, right?” I say, looking around again, seeing it all together, every detail fitting perfectly with the next.

“It does. You still selling?”

I do not want to talk about this.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Gee, Scotty, I don’t know.”

We exchange annoyed looks then she walks outside, rummages through her bag, and returns with a thin square wrapped in a brown bag. She shoves it toward me.

I blink.

“It’s a gift, dummy.”

“A gift?” I take it gingerly, looking from the brown square to her. “Why the hell would you get me a gift?”

“Just open it and don’t be weird.”

I do as she says; it’s a record. I chuckle softly, reading Miranda Lambert, Postcards from Texas.I flip it over and read the track list, swallowing around the tickle of emotions.

I look at her. “You got me a record.”

She frowns. “You have a weird face.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” she punctuates. “It’s dopey.”

“I don’t do dopey.”

Her expression says otherwise.

I gesture with the record. “Fine. In a non-dopey way, thank you for this. I’ve never actually had a record that belonged to me first.” It’s true. It’s just a record, but in my hand, it’s something precious. Like a long-lost artifact people spend forty years wandering through the desert to find. Something travels between us when we look at each other. Something endearing. A little like love. “I can’t wait to play it and dress like a sexy cowgirl when your dad comes over.”

She groans. “You ruin everything.”

I grin.

“Let’s listen.”

I take the plastic wrap off and slip the record out, putting it on the player and dropping the needle. When the first lyrics start in a song about an armadillo, I shake my hips to the beat, laughing at her annoyed expression as I circle around her.

“You can’t fight the Miranda effect, Wren. Don’t bother,” I tell her, poking her in the ribs. “Three songs and you’ll want to buy pink sunglasses and ride a horse out of town.”

She grunt-laughs. “You’re weird.”

“No,” I say, grinning as the beat changes from slow to fast. “I’m dopey.”

She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t fight me when I drop an arm around her shoulder. In fact, she sways right along with me for the entire next song.

Thirty-Two

“Aren’tyousweetasa bootlegged jar of apple pie moonshine?”