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I shake my head. She settles back in the seat and turns on the radio. It’s pop-country, not a song I like particularly, but still a good one. She seems to like it, her fingers tapping on her knee.

“What’s your favorite genre?” I ask. “You never answered me.”

“Like, over any genre?” She leans her forehead on the window. “Cowboy music.”

“Cowboy music?”

She nods. “That includes all kinds of genres. Pop, rock, folk, country. Just about anything can be cowboy music if it’s got the right heart to it.”

I think about that, realizing I’ve never considered it in that light. But she is right.

“Alright, Miss Cowboy Music,” I say. “Makes sense.”

We’re both quiet. She’s picking at her pink nails, and I know her mind is going a mile a minute. Maybe I should have fucked her before we left to wear her out and turn her brain off. But looking at her a little longer, I don’t know whether this is something that can be fixed by sex. I catch a glimpse of her in the side mirror. Her eyes are soft and distant.

I feel a tug deep in my chest.

She seems lost. I clear my throat.

“You like traveling? Or are you homesick?” I ask.

She sniffs. “I’m less homesick when I’m traveling than when I’m home.”

I consider that.

“Care to elaborate?”

She’s pretty quiet, and for a bit, I think she’s gonna stay that way. Finally, she shrugs. “Things changed really fast last year. Coen showed up, then Sabrina was gone, then she came back, and boom—they were a couple. And literally that day, Dad decided to leave and spend most of his time in Portland. He didn’t ask me or anything; he just left.”

She pauses, clearing her throat.

I wait. I don’t want to scare her off.

“Things weren’t the same,” she finishes.

“So you don’t really want to go home, huh?” I say, turning off the state route and heading down a country lane just wide enough for a car and a half.

“No, not really.”

“Maybe you should stay with your mom.”

Her jaw works, lips pursing. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She doesn’t seem to want to talk. That’s alright because we’re coming up on the coffee shop, and I know it’ll put her in a good mood. Everything feels lush after the rain. We crest a hill, deep green trees and foliage leading the way, and there it is on the other side. A log cabin with a green porch and rocking chairs. Everything is decorated with blue-and-white flowers. I look at her as I pull in, wanting her reaction.

“Ooh, this is cute,” she says, lifting her head.

The mood in the truck shifts. Before I can get to her door, she opens it and jumps out, scrambling up the porch steps.

“You’d love it in the fall,” I say.

She’s not listening as she steps through the swinging doors. I go after her, and the faint scent of wood and candles hits my nose. It reminds me that, while I recognize it, I’ve really only been here a few times. Most people know their local barista by name. Not me. I doubt anyone in Little Fairmont recalls who I am. I could be a stranger who passes through every six months or so.

I pause by the door, watching Serena duck through the shelves. She starts sorting through a rack of locally printed sweatshirts. Of course, she goes right for the soft pink.

Again, my brain gets ahead of me. It starts thinking about what it would be like to ask her to keep seeing me. Really going out. I’d like to buy her a nice dress and heels, take her out to my favorite spot in New York City. Order her favorite wine, discover the world through her fresh eyes. Kiss her on the neck in the street, not caring if someone takes a photo and posts it online. Then, bring her home and fuck her until the first pale blue broke over the city.

I clear my throat.