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If I have to walk on thin ice to get back to my sister, so be it.
“Stock the shelves.” Straightening up, Fallon’s gaze falls to my arm. “Think you can handle that?”
“I dressed myself one-handed, think I can fill a cooler.”
“Well, get on it, smart-ass,” she says dryly.
I make my way to the storage room and grab a cart filled with soda cans and cracker boxes. I push it down the aisles to stock the shelves.
My memory banks swim, high on nostalgia.
The vibe of The Corner Store is a cross between a cowboy bodega and a saloon. It’s been in our family for four generations of McGraws. Tucked away in an ancient brick building, it hugs a street corner on downtown Main Street. It operated as a bootlegging still, a mercantile, and then a bank, before becoming the Corner Store. The tin ceiling still bears bullet holes in honor of its wild past.
Nothing’s changed. It smells like pastrami, dark dirt earth from bait and tackle, and tobacco. The scene of my wayward youth. Sweeping floors and stealing candy bars with Fallon. Playing tag in the aisles when it was slow. Writing recipes on notepads while Fallon read those cowgirl books she obsessed over.
I peer over the edge of a shelf. Fallon’s sharpening a knife at the front counter.
“How long have you been working here?” I ask, remembering what Davis told me. I want to hear more of her story.
“Since you left.” Her tone’s neutral, but her eyes flame.
I flinch. “But the rodeo—”
She keeps her gaze on the knife. “Dad gets someone to fill in when I’m gone. As long as I’m riding, he’s good. Then I come back after the season.”
Silence stretches through the corner store and I bite my lip.
I’ve never seen my sister so still. Calm and order doesn’t suit Fallon.
She was born wild. She’s a cowgirl. No one and nothing can rope her. Every weekend she was in the field, skinned knees, no tears. She accompanied our father to auctions, while I filled my notebooks with recipes and perfected my take on cinnamon rolls and croissants. Cooking was therapy. It’s always been my out. A way to make me different from my sister. A way to take me away from Resurrection.
A wave of guilt sweeps me up.
Going aftermyhopes and dreams tanked my sister’s.
I thought by putting culinary school on hold until I was twenty-five that Fallon would be okay.
But she isn’t.
The rodeo is Fallon’s life. Not the store. It should never have been like this.
Just one more thing I’ve made a mess of.
“And you’ll keep working here until…?” I ask, tilting my head, wanting to drag an answer out of her.
“Why do you care? Not like you’ll be around anyway,” she says dryly.
Ouch. Fallon: 1, Dakota: 0
I sigh and go back to the shelves.
We work together in silence for the rest of the afternoon. I avoid the kitchen, preferring to refill coolers with beer and soft drinks. We barely get any customers. Most come for the food—our signature pastrami and fries. But the store stays empty.
“It’s slow,” I venture, wedging a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew behind another. My attention drifts to a mutedDatelineepisode playing on the corner TV of the dining area.
Beside me, Fallon lets out a slow, withering sigh. Like conversation is slowly pulling at the threads of her sanity.
“It’s the off-season.”
