Page 16 of Smoked

And I do appreciate her letting me get away with it.

I try my sister, Cora. But I have no idea where she is this month. The call rings out, drops, and I call again. I end up leaving a voice note that I keep vague because what would I even say? Hey, so there's this man, he smells like woodsmoke, he's twenty years older than me, and I can't tell if he's interested in me or if I'm projecting, call me back.

Her reply comes in the middle of the night. She sounds tired, but happy. And the wind’s so loud I can barely hear her. She asks about my summer plants, says something about a generator, and the recording cuts off mid-sentence.

I listen to it just to hear her voice and go back to sleep.

Saturday, I pull into Wade's driveway with the cook schedule I spent an evening rewriting in my own hand.

I reorganized it, laying out the turn-in windows in blocks with margins for overlap, color-coded by protein since my brain works that way, and I’ll take any opportunity I can to use my highlighters.

He opens the back gate with a smile. “Hi, Tess.”

“Hi,” I reply, following him around the house to the rig, already fired and ticking in the late afternoon sun.

Riley's sitting on the back steps with her phone, and she waves at me.

My eyes drift to the prep table. There's a plate with sliced brisket fanned across it, the bark still intact, the smoke ring a perfect pink crescent beneath the crust.

"Is that from last week?" I ask.

He nods. "Saved you some." He glances back toward the firebox. "Figured you should taste the finished product since you sat up all night helping make it."

I take a bite and close my eyes. It's extraordinary—tender and smoky, with that whisper of lavender right at the end, lifting everything. When I open my eyes, he's watching me.

"It's incredible," I say, but it really isn’t a big enough word to describe it.

"Bark held up pretty good for a reheat." He clears his throat and turns back to the fire. "Keep eating. I gotta check the draw."

It was sweet of him to do this. But maybe, meat is just meat, Tess.

I hand him my cook schedule while he's adjusting a vent.

“What’s this?” he asks. He holds it in both hands, gazing at the headers, the blocks, my handwriting filling in the margins where his shorthand needed translating. "You did this yourself?”

I nod. "It helps me learn. I'm a visual organizer."

“It’s really impressive. Can I keep it?”

“Of course. I made two copies. That one’s yours.”

“Thanks.” He folds it once, and tucks it into the pocket of his apron.

An hour in, he hands me the fire, telling me to hold it at 225. “You’re ready. I know you’ve got the smoke color down.” Then he goes inside to prep the rub.

I watch the thin blue line of smoke pulling clean through the stack and I adjust once, barely, a quarter-turn on the intake vent. When he comes back out, he checks the gauge.

“Good job, Tess,” he says, and starts seasoning the brisket.

I never knew I had a praise kink, but hearing him give me approval makes my panties wet. I’m so screwed.

Riley sticks around for the early part of the evening—stealing bites of different types of meat off the cutting board, offering unsolicited opinions on spritz timing, and asking me about a boy named Jordan in my fifth period class.

But when I ask if she likes him, she adamantly says no and stuffs more meat in her mouth, and goes back to texting on her phone.

I grin. Yeah, she likes him.

Around ten, she yawns and pushes herself off the lawn chair. "I'm going up."