They walked back to the truck in silence.
“It’s going to be okay,” Sullivan said, her faith in that sentiment shaken. “That’s the woman who served me. She’s a flunky. She’s just flexing because she doesn’t have any real power. She doesn’t know what the judge is going to decide.”
“She doesn’t!” Kia’s conviction sounded brittle.
“Whatever happens, I’ve got you.” It felt good to speak those words to Kia. She might not believe they were going to be okay—whatever okay was—but it felt good to be in it together.
The next day, Sullivan woke to find Kia gone out of bed. She expected to see Kia in the kitchen at her laptop. Instead, Kia was outside, dressed, and sweeping leaves off Old Girl. She waved.
“Come on up, babe. The view is great. I can see your weird squash vines and into the bedroom of the most beautiful woman I know.”
Sullivan could tell Kia was trying to brush off yesterday’s encounter with Mega Eats. Mega Eats wanted to intimidate them. Better to pretend they hadn’t.
“Why are you sweeping leaves at eight in the morning?” Sullivan shielded her eyes from the morning sunlight cutting through the trees and silhouetting Kia like an angel.
Kia clambered down the ladder, jumping off the last two rungs. She put her arms around Sullivan’s neck and gave her a kiss.
“Can we go camping again?” Kia asked. “Just get in Old Girl and drive away and never do anything except cook hot dogs and watch the birds?”
“So you like camping now?”
“In Old Girl with my pavilion.” Kia leaned her forehead on Sullivan’s shoulder. “I have to go out of town tomorrow.” She sighed. “I don’t want to, but these great chefs—I call them the Chets—they’re supposed to take their truck to the Grants Pass Spring Festival, on their way up here to… Taste the Love Land. But Chet Jr. got the flu, and his dad and granddad, who work with him, are worried they’re getting sick too. If they don’t find someone to replace them, the festival will charge the Chets the lot feeand a penalty for being a no-show. The festival organizers are kind of strict. I get it. It’s a new festival. They’ve only got five food trucks. If even one of them cancels, the lines will be insane. People will get frustrated.” Kia sank into Sullivan’s arms. “I told him I’d fill in. But what I’d rather do is just run away with you.”
“I’ll run away to Grants Pass with you,” Sullivan blurted. She shouldn’t leave Mirepoix, but Opal would chide her if she acted like the restaurant couldn’t survive a day without her.
A road trip would give them a few more days before reality set it. The court case was approaching. It was quite possible they’d lose everything in a few days. The judge would rule against them. Kia would leave. Sullivan would start looking for a new place for Mirepoix. If she was smart, she’d sell her house before Mega Eats broke ground on the Mega Plex. But they could steal a few more days of joy.
“Ah, babe. I wish you could come with me, but I shouldn’t bring company. I am so far behind in everything I need to be on top of. And I can work the whole time I’m gone. We hire a driver for the Diva. Deja drives Old Girl, and I sit in the back and work.”
Kia was turning her down. Sullivan was ready to throw responsibility to the wind, and Kia wanted to travel alone and work. Sullivan’s brain understood work. In her heart, she felt like a kid who’d expected a hug only to be told to go away and play in her room.
“I’d love to have you there, but you’d be a wonderful, terrible distraction.” Kia kissed Sullivan again. “I mean it. I can’t believe I’m so nice I volunteered to be away from you for forty-eight hours. I will die of missing you. Deja will just bring back a little box of ashes that says,Kia was an idiot and went to Grants Pass when she could have been with Sullivan.”
That made it a little better.
“But I’ve done fairs in Grants Pass. You know those guys who drive decommissioned police cars because they wanted to be cops but the police didn’t want them and now they think they’re protecting America by buying guns? It’s that vibe. It’s not really the interracial lesbian couple vibe down there.” Kia pulled back, a disappointed frown on her face. “I go to places like that all the time… I used to before I got so many sponsors. I can charm Grants Pass, but I don’t need to put you through that.”
chapter 31
Kia felt badfor throwing shade on Grants Pass. Kia and Deja had installed the Diva at the festival, unhitched Kia’s truck, and gone looking for food they didn’t have to cook themselves. By twilight, they were walking into Shayla’s Diner. Behind the diner, the sky was turning purple. In front of the diner, a man in an eagle T-shirt and leather vest stood by his motorcycle and glared at them. But when Kia waved, his glare disappeared like a wisp of smoke, replaced by a cheerful “ma’am” as he tipped an imaginary hat.
Like so many other places she’d visited, Grants Pass was mostly good. Good people trying to get along, staying out of each other’s business, and hoping tomorrow would be better than today. A beautiful landscape that Kia wouldn’t have appreciated before hearing Sullivan talk about the ecology of the forest. Gritty, vacant lots that Kia appreciated for their stark beauty and a feeling of sonder. Everyone who crossed those lots had a story that was as important to them as Kia’s was to her. Thinking about that was like looking at the night sky without light pollution. So vast.
More than feeling vaguely guilty for dissing Grants Pass (after all, Grants Pass didn’t know; it wasn’t like she’d broadcast it on social media), she regretted telling Sullivan to stay home. Sullivan had looked so wounded and so worried. Kia wanted to hug Sullivan until Sullivan believed her when she’d said she would so much rather be at home with Sullivan than working a fair in southern Oregon.
“This way, dears.” A waitress in a white apron and red slacks guided Kia and Deja toward a booth.
Outside the window, dust stirred in the breeze, catching the last daylight slanting between the buildings across the street.
“Now our specials are the pies,” the waitress began. “Pecan pie, filbert pie—that’s hazelnuts, if you aren’t from Oregon—banana pie, coconut pie, boysenberry pie.”
“Whatareboysenberries exactly?” Deja asked.
The woman’s face lit up as though she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to ask. And perhaps she was an ageless vampire, because as far as Kia could tell, nothing in the diner had been updated since 1949. She guessed 1949 because a calendar turned to May 1949 hung behind the register, the paper fraying. Despite that, everything had been kept up. As much as it could be.
Once they’d made their selection and the waitress left, Deja said, “Did you see the bowling ball on the road when we were coming down I-5 near Creswell?”
“No.”
