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AMOS

S o what’s our first date story?”

Rebecca slides into the booth across from me at Mel’s Diner, a small place near the fairgrounds that’s seen better decades. The vinyl seats are cracked, and the coffee is hot and strong.

“After tasting your chili at that charity event, I took you on a picnic.”

She wraps her hands around her coffee mug, steam rising between us in the morning light filtering through dusty windows.

“That’s believable. What about our families? They’ll ask about that too.”

Her face lights up immediately. “Mine’s huge and loud and wonderful. Four cousins, three aunts, two uncles, and more second cousins than I can count. Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house with everyone arguing over who makes the best cornbread.” She grins. “They love you.”

The confidence in her voice hits me unexpectedly. She talks about her family like a given—of course they’ll accept me, of course I’ll fit into their chaos. Like belonging is something that happens naturally instead of something you spend your whole life chasing.

“What about yours?”

I stall by taking a sip of terrible coffee.

This is the part I’ve been dreading. How do you explain a father who was Bull Rider of the Year three times but couldn’t stick around long enough to teach his son to tie his shoes?

A mother who worked double shifts to keep us afloat while I chose the same unstable path that broke her heart?

“Let’s just say... it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

Rebecca’s voice carries genuine curiosity, not the polite interest most people show when they’re making conversation. She leans forward slightly, and I find myself wanting to tell her things I’ve never said out loud.

“My dad was famous in this world. Bull Rider of the Year three times running.” I trace patterns on the worn Formica table. “But he couldn’t stick around long enough to be a real father. Mama worked two jobs to keep us fed while he chased the next prize, the next ride, the next town.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead. Thrown by a bull in Texas when I was twelve.” The words come out flatter than I intend.

“Mama remarried a good man who tried to be a father to me, but by then I was already following in Dad’s footsteps.

She wanted me to take a desk job in Tulsa, where they’ve settled down, and have a steady paycheck, benefits, a chance to build something stable of my own. ”

“But you chose the rodeo instead.”

“I think deep down I’ve always yearned for a connection with my dad, so I chose the same path as him. But it’s also the one that destroyed our family.” I meet her eyes, expecting judgment but finding only understanding. “Mother hasn’t returned my calls in three weeks.”

Rebecca reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers.

The contact is warm and reassuring. It makes me feel like my problems are ones that she stands beside me to help me deal with, like I’m not alone.

“Maybe this season could be different. Maybe you could find a way to have both—the riding and the stability.”

“How do you do that? Balance what you love with what’s practical?”

“You find something worth building toward.” She squeezes my hand. “For me, it’s building on my Grandpa’s legacy. What would yours be?”

The question sits heavy between us. I’ve spent so many years focused on the next ride, the next prize, that I’ve never thought about what I’m building toward.

But sitting here with Rebecca, listening to her talk about family Sunday dinners and belonging, I’m overwhelmed by a longing that makes me weak.

“Maybe I don’t know yet. But I’m starting to think I want to find out.”

We spend the next hour creating our fake history, but something strange happens.

As we invent details about our relationship, Rebecca starts sharing real stories about her family.

How her grandmother taught all the women to cook, but none of the men.

How family reunions turn into cooking competitions that last for days.

How her grandfather would make everyone tell their favorite memory of him before they could eat dessert.

I find myself sharing too. The loneliness of constant travel. Hotel rooms that all look the same. The way other cowboys have families to go home to, while I just move to the next town, the next ride.

“You could come to Sunday dinner sometime. For real.”

The offer catches me off guard. “What?”

“After all this fake dating stuff is over. You could meet my family. If you wanted to.”

My chest clenches with longing. Does she even realize the power her invitation has for me?

The idea of sitting around a table with a huge family, is all I’ve ever wanted.

Despite the distance between us, I love my mom, but it was always just us when I was young, and even then I craved the community and belonging of family.

“I’d like that. More than you know.”

“So, tell me how you two met.”

Polly Williamson settles into her chair in the small conference room, her tablet ready, as the photographer adjusts the lighting behind her. The professional setup makes everything feel official, but Rebecca’s hand in mine feels completely natural.

“I was judging a charity cook-off in Raytown.” The lie comes easily, maybe because it’s essentially true—just compressed in time. “One taste of Rebecca’s chili and I knew I had to know the woman behind it.”

“He kept asking for more spice.” Rebecca’s laugh is genuine, and I remember yesterday’s flirtation, the way she challenged me about handling heat. “He calls me his Spice Girl.”

“And how did that first date go?”

“She made me wait two weeks before she’d even consider going out with me.” I grin at Rebecca, improvising. “Said she needed to make sure I could handle more than just her cooking.”

“Could you?”

“Still working on proving myself worthy.” I look at her, and my heart just about stops. There aren’t even words for how badly I want her to be my girlfriend. To be my wife.

Polly makes notes, clearly charmed by our banter. But the strange thing is, it doesn’t feel like a performance anymore. When I look at Rebecca, the words coming out of my mouth feel natural and true. Every moment with her has been easy like this.

“What do you love most about each other?”

Rebecca answers first. “His authenticity. He sees right through pretense—mine and everyone else’s. And he genuinely listens when I talk about my family, my dreams. Along with all my family, Amos is my biggest supporter. He makes me feel like anything is possible.”

The photographer captures her expression as she speaks, but I’m too focused on her words to notice. She’s describing qualities I’m not sure I actually possess, but hearing her say them makes me want to become the man she sees.

“Amos?”

“Her passion.” The words come without thought. “The way she lights up when she talks about her grandfather’s legacy. She’s passionate and driven, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Polly leans forward. “That’s beautiful. What about your families? How do they feel about the relationship?”

“Sunday dinners with her family are my second favorite thing in the world.” The lie feels less like fiction and more like prophecy.

“And what’s your favorite thing?”

I look directly at Rebecca. “Rebecca.”

Her eyes widen, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

“What are your future plans together?” Polly asks, beaming with happiness, like we’re giving her the juiciest interview she’s ever had. It’s clear that she’s on our side and favors our story.

This is dangerous territory. We haven’t discussed how to handle questions about the future because we don’t have one—not a real one. Not yet. But watching Rebecca talk about preserving family traditions and building something lasting, I hear myself saying things I’ve never planned.

“I want to be part of something real. Something that matters.” I squeeze Rebecca’s hand. “She’s taught me that home isn’t a place—it’s the people you choose to build a life with.”

The photographer snaps rapidly as Rebecca stares at me, something vulnerable and surprised in her expression.

“That’s incredibly romantic. And very different from the typical rodeo cowboy image.”

“Rebecca changes everything.” The words come out more intense than I intended. “She makes me want to be better than I’ve ever been. When we met, I realized I’d been searching for something more for a long time, but I didn’t know it until I met her. She changed my life.”

For the posed photos, we move around the room—Rebecca leaning against my chest while I point to something in the distance, both of us laughing at the photographer’s directions, my arm around her shoulders as we look at her family photos.

But it’s the unguarded moments that feel most real.

When Rebecca touches my cheek to adjust my position, and her hand lingers longer than necessary.

When I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, and she leans into the contact.

When our eyes meet between poses, and something electric passes between us.

“You two have incredible natural chemistry,” the photographer comments as he reviews shots on his camera. “These are going to be beautiful.”

As we wrap up, Polly shakes both our hands. “This is exactly the kind of story our readers love. Thank you for being so open with us.”

Walking out of the administration building, I’m hyperaware of Rebecca beside me. The performance is over, but her hand is still in mine, and neither of us seems inclined to let go.

“That felt...”

“Real,” she finishes quietly.

“Yeah. It did.”

We stop walking, standing in the shadow of the building, while fairgoers stream past us toward evening events. The question hanging between us is whether what we felt in there was good acting or something more dangerous.

“Amos, when you said those things about wanting to be part of something lasting—”

“I meant them.” The admission comes out before I can stop it. “Every word.”

She studies my face like she’s trying to read the truth there. “This is getting complicated.”

“Maybe complicated isn’t the worst thing that could happen to us.”

Before she can respond, my phone buzzes with a text. I glance at it and my chest tightens.

“What is it?”

“My mother. She wants to talk.”

Rebecca’s expression immediately softens with concern. “That’s good, right?”

“I don’t know. She doesn’t usually...” I trail off, staring at the simple message: Call me when you get a chance. We should talk.

“You should call her back.”

“Yeah. I should.” But I don’t move to dial. Instead, I find myself looking at Rebecca, thinking about the way she described family Sunday dinners, the easy belonging that’s the foundation of her family.

“I’ll call her tonight. After the People’s Choice competition.” I slide my phone back into my pocket. “Right now, I want to help you win this thing.”

As we head toward the exhibition hall, Rebecca’s hand still in mine, I realize something has shifted.

This started as helping each other out—her getting magazine coverage, me having a distraction from my uncertain future.

But somewhere between the diner conversation and the interview, it became something else.

I love this woman.