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It wasn’t hard to spot Kia’s food truck.

IRL, the Diva was even flashier than in the American Fare article.

A life-sized LED screen on the side of the truck showed a GIF of Kia eating stars.

Another LED screen flashed the menu. Destiny’s Child played from a speaker at the top of the truck.

Deja danced to the beats while flipping something on a grill.

Sullivan got in line. There was something about watching Kia from afar.

Kia took naked pictures to remember her real self, but this was Kia’s real life too. She sparkled.

“Love the vibe!” Kia motioned to a customer’s jumpsuit and Afro.

She noted the next customer’s T-shirt. “Metallica, heck yeah!” She made devil horns.

She’d praise whatever the customers chose.

“Y’all know what the good stuff is!” Then she’d hand out a glittery pink pager, call the customer my friend , and move on to the next.

Impossibly, she seemed genuinely fond of everyone.

“Hey, baby!” Kia’s voice bounced over the sound of music when she spotted Sullivan. “That’s my wife.” She pointed to Sullivan.

People in line cheered because… no one had ever gotten married before?

“Hey, gorgeous,” Sullivan called back.

“Sorry, folks, I gotta see my boo. My crew will take good care of you.” She motioned to the other chefs. “Babe, I’m making you a plate. Grab a seat.”

Kia had set up a dining space next to her food truck.

String lights hung on poles. Signs invited people to give up their seats to people with mobility challenges.

Sullivan sat down. A moment later, Kia set a plate in front of her.

She’d piled the plate with baked beans, greens, something that might have been beets, fried jalapenos crusted with what looked like Cheetos, a caramelized corn fritter (maybe…

it could have been a caramelized anything), and a corn dog.

Kia pulled the colorful scarf off her hair.

Her hair exploded from its confines. Then she slid into place behind Sullivan, wrapped her arm around Sullivan’s chest, and took a selfie.

Then Kia sat, shifting in her seat and looking embarrassed.

“Sorry. I should have asked first.”

“You have selfie privileges.”

“Forever?”

If only.

“Absolutely.”

Kia traced a finger along the edge of her plate in a gesture she probably didn’t realize was sexy. Then she reached over, took a caramelized something off Sullivan’s plate, and popped it into her mouth.

“Damn, I’m good!” Kia said. “Admit it, Sully, I’m the best.”

“Sully? I get a nickname now?”

“You are my beloved wife. Of course you get a nickname. Is it okay?”

More than okay.

“I was thinking you’d go for princess or goddess , but I’ll take Sully.”

“Eat your corn dog, Princess Sully.” Kia held out the corn dog, looking eager.

Kia cared what Sullivan thought. It’d hurt her if Sullivan said she hated it.

Sullivan took the corn dog. No matter how much grease coated her mouth, she’d say she loved it.

She didn’t need to pretend. It was everything a corn dog should be.

It was winning every carnival game. It was road trips with your best friend.

It was a ride on the Ferris wheel when you were a kid, before you knew the rides were installed by underpaid day laborers.

“Do you like it?”

Sullivan savored the flavor.

“I’ve been to five-star restaurants that weren’t this good.”

Kia beamed. “Say it again.”

“I will not give you the satisfaction.” Sullivan grinned.

Kia held up her phone in one hand and a fork with a slice of fried jalapeno in another.

“Boomerang fork toast for the fans?” She gestured for Sullivan to pick up the other fork.

“I’m not even sure what that means,” Sullivan said, but she speared a piece of jalapeno nonetheless.

“Just toast.” Kia held the phone out and they tapped their jalapenos together.

Kia checked the video and posted it, speaking the words, “Nothing means as much to me as my wife saying she loves my cooking.” She checked the text, touched the screen, and put her phone down.

Sullivan took a bite of greens, savoring the collards, ham hock, vinegar, and spices. She glanced at her hand.

“Shit. We should do that toast over.” She held out her wrist to show Kia where a potato had splashed hot water on her and scalded her wrist that morning. “Occupational hazard.”

“Baby!” Kia held out her hand for Sullivan’s, gently turning it from side to side.

“It’s nothing.”

In the world of kitchen injuries, this didn’t rate a level one. Sullivan wouldn’t have thought about the welt distorting the geometric pattern of her tattoo if Kia wasn’t filming. The world didn’t want to know that even the best chefs’ hands were a quilt of scars and burns.

“Wait here,” Kia said.

She went back to the Diva and returned a moment later with a glass bottle with a dropper.

“It’s THC-infused aloe. I make it. It works great, but I have to dump it every time I go to a state without legal weed. This stuff could literally get you high.”

“High-wrist behavior?”

“Oh my god, Sullivan! How can you say your family makes puns and you don’t.”

Kia laughed, as warm and wide as the sunshine in July. She held out her hand for Sullivan’s again.

Sullivan hadn’t been aware of the raw heat of the burn until Kia placed a few drops of cool salve on the inside of her wrist and smoothed it in with her fingertips. Her touch was so gentle, tender… loving?

“Is that better?” Kia continued to cradle Sullivan’s hand.

Her skin was better. Her heart ached. Sullivan nodded.

“We’d better take the video again without evidence that a Yukon Gold jumped out of my hand to scald me. Evil little thing.”

“We don’t need to redo it,” Kia said. “That’s what it’s like to be a chef. We have to curate some of what we show the world, but curating doesn’t mean hiding what’s real.”

Sullivan almost said, Like our marriage?

She didn’t, but Kia added, “I know the marriage isn’t real, but your restaurant is.

The dangers of cooking evil Yukons are real.

Tonight is real.” She brushed at a drift of hair that had fallen across her forehead.

“It’s real that I’m happy to be here with you. ”

Sullivan stroked her thumb across the back of Kia’s hand. Kia closed her eyes and sighed.

“I’m happy to be here too.”

Sullivan was in so much trouble.