After a quick cap change in an alleyway, I came back out with the pink cap. He catcalled me, and I swaggered past him, swaying my butt like I was some sort of femme fatal.

His phone buzzed again. He killed it.

“Aren’t you gonna take that at some point?” I turned around and walked backwards, my eyes on him. “It’s okay if you have better things to do.”

“I don’t have better things to do,” he clipped, his mood changing back to sullen.

“Whoever is callin’ might have somethin’ important to tell you.”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized a hookup wouldn’t call him dozens of times a day. Worry settled in my gut. It was more serious than that.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Your turn, Tex,” he called out to me as I charged ahead. “Where to?”

“Ever had a Frito pie, Maine?”

His face broke into the goofiest, sweetest grin I’d ever seen. His eyes twinkled like fine jewels. I’d once watched a documentary about the fall of the Berlin Wall. Saw the thousands of people bringing hammers and bricks to it, demolishing it with their bare hands, glowing with triumph, buzzing with deep, dark ache. This was what I felt happened to my walls of defense the moment he truly flashed me a genuine smile. It was crumbling, brick by brick, as thousands of little Wests pounded their fists upon it, making it collapse.

“Can’t say that I have.” West tilted his head sideways.

“Let’s get Christina, then. We have places to see. Frito pies to eat.” He inclined his head, just as the last brick in my wall shattered.

“Lead the way.”

“It’s … odd.” West leaned back in his seat, dropping his fork directly into the Frito pie. I slapped a hand over my heart, gasping.

“Are you for real right now?”

He nodded, picking up his fork, dissecting the pie with a frown.

“What’s in this thing, anyway? Beef, beans, cheese, enchilada sauce, tortilla chips, sour cream, corn, pecans …” He started naming all the ingredients. “It reminds me of that time Rachel from Friends had two recipe pages stuck together and made that disgusting strawberry beef cake pie. You throw everything into this thing other than the kitchen sink.”

“Oh.” I smiled cheerfully. “The kitchen sink is there, all right. Right at the bottom. One layer away from the crust.”

He burst out laughing. I signaled for the check and paid it. “Besides, I’ll have you know, Joey liked that pie a lot.”

“Joey liked eating everything. That was the joke.”

“I take it you’re a picky eater.”

“Not really. Disgusting shit is where I draw the line.” He scratched at his square jaw, giving it some thought. “And pussy. I don’t eat pussy either.”

I choked on my Diet Pepsi, spitting some of it back into my cup. “Excuse me?”

“You asked about my eating habits. Thought I’d be forthcoming.”

“Why don’t you …” I left the question unfinished. I never talked to guys about sex. Actually, I never talked to Karlie or Grams about it either. Marla was out of the question, for obvious reasons, too. It wasn’t that I’d never done it. I had. When I was sixteen, with my ex-boyfriend, Tucker. But we’d never actually discussed it, and the experience was lackluster to say the least.

“Eat pussy?” He completed the question for me, enjoying my unease. “It seems like an intimate thing to do. I have nothing against pussies. Some of my favorite times were spent inside them. I just don’t want to get too acquainted with ones who’ve been around the block. If I had a steady lay, well, that’d be a different story.”

“Ever had a steady lay?”

He nodded.

“In high school. Ate her out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. How ’bout you?”

“Same.”

“Did he eat you out?” he asked, insultingly casual. I felt the tips of my ears growing impossibly hot.

“Yes.”

“Did you reciprocate?”

“Of course. Equality for all, right?”

West sat back in his chair, his jaw ticking.

“Ever heard of positive discrimination? Whatever happened to feminism?”

I bit down on my lip, trying not to laugh. Was he actually jealous?

“I’m guessin’ your oral sex rule doesn’t apply to being on the receiving end?” I cocked an eyebrow. He smirked down at me, like he was proud that I was carrying the conversation without combusting into a thousand pieces of embarrassment.

“Correct. Never met a blowjob I didn’t like.”

“That’s not very feminist.”

“Hey, do you have any idea how many bras I’ve ruined in my lifetime?”

“And they say romance is dead.” I rolled my eyes. He tugged my cap down. We were both incredibly at ease.

“Where to now, Tex?”

“Another Mexican dig,” I said without missing a beat.

“Another pie?” His eyes flared in mock horror. “You’re putting me through this again?”

“Sure am. Until you admit Frito pies are the best thing to happen to humanity since agriculture and language.”

“Frito pies are the best thing to happen to humanity since agriculture and language,” he deadpanned.

I laughed. “Nice try.”

We got out of the restaurant and walked into the one next to it. He didn’t like the Frito pie there either. After the third one I made him try, he got up from his seat and shook his head.

“No more Frito pies. It’s against my human rights.”

“C’mon, don’t be so narrow-minded,” I teased, catching his steps. My face hurt from laughing, and I wondered if it was because we’d had that much fun, or because I wasn’t used to laughing anymore. “We were just warmin’ up.”

“I’m vetoing the pie.” He shook his head, flipping his keys around his index.

“Maine,” I whined.

“Texas.”

I jerked his hand, but he didn’t budge, soldiering toward his Ducati.

“Pretty please with a cherry on top,” my purr turned flirty—raspy, even—as sixteen-year-old Grace took the reins over my mouth.

“Of course there’d be a cherry on top. You put everything else into this pie.”

My heart, bloated with glee and soaked with laughter, began to deflate. It was nearing late afternoon. Truth was, I wasn’t too hot on another Frito pie either. I just didn’t want to leave. To go back to Sheridan. Let the West and Grace bubble burst. I wanted to continue being careless and happy. To feel beautiful—or at least not hideous—for a few more hours.

West stopped by the Ducati, handing me my helmet. I quickly changed from my cap to the helmet, shoving both my ball caps into the bag I was given by the salesman.

We rode back to Sheridan in silence, my hair whipping my neck and shoulders. When we reached Sheridan limits, West took a turn toward downtown, to Main Street.

“It’s my birthday today,” he said out of nowhere.

“What?!” I shrieked into his ear. My voice was muffled by the wind and helmet. “It is?”

He grunted, “Yeah.”