Page 43 of Dallas

“You were kind of mean to your friend.”

“I didn’t want him to bother you.”

“Who said he was bothering me?”

“Listen, Sarah, I know that you don’t like men to be in your space, and I know you don’t like to be touched. He doesn’t know any of that, and he was being presumptuous.”

“Yes, Dallas, you do know all that, but I’m also perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have been, in fact, for years, and if I wanted Colt away from me, he would’ve been away from me. But I like him. He’s nice.”

“Oh. He’s not… he’s not nice.”

“You’re the second person to try to warn meoff him today, though I think the first person was trying to warn me off because she has a crush on Colt. Do you have a crush on him too?”

“Please. If I were going to bed down with a rodeo cowboy, it would never be a bull rider. Those pricks are bad news.”

“So, does that mean you’re bad news?”

“To most everybody except you,” I say.

And then I feel bad about it. Because I shouldn’t be saying things like that to her. I’m not even sure which way I meant it, or who I was trying to insult. What I was trying to prove.

I just feel out of sorts and unhappy after seeing that interaction. Sarah, for her part, is clearly annoyed at me, but also kind of amused that I’m bothered.

I can see that amusement in the evil little smirk on her face, and I remember that more playful side of her from when she was a kid, and how it used to drive me nuts. Because whenever she was like that, I knew she was up to no good, and all that no good would eventually become my problem. She was always the kind of kid who would start something so that I could finish it. And I can see that, now that she’s not feeling quite as stressed, now that she isn’t actively afraid for her safety, that’s definitely still part of who she is.

“So, what? You want him to flirt with you?”

“He seems harmless,” she says. “So why not? Get a little practice in.”

Practice.

I don’t like the direction this conversation is going at all. In fact, I hate it. She needs to get established here. She needs to get to where she’s feeling secure. I don’t want her to be so traumatized that she could never date anybody, butI also don’t want her dating Colt, who certainly wouldn’t be much use in healing her trauma.

No. Maybe that isn’t fair, it’s not like Colt isn’t a decent guy, he is. But he’s definitely a one-night stand kind of guy, and that’s not right for somebody like Sarah. Somebody who’s been hurt like she has. A man would have to take his time with her. Check in with her, make sure she was okay. He’ll have to know her. And that just isn’t Colt.

I push all thoughts about what I think my friend might need sexually aside. Because that’s a weird thing to be pondering. And then I gesture for her to cross the street toward the little yellow building where we’re going to grab dinner.

“Well, well, well,” Gloria says, looking up from the register when we walk in. “Look what the bull dragged in.”

“Hey, Gloria,” I say.

She crosses the space and wraps her arms around me, giving me a hug. “Long time without seeing your sweet face, Dallas Dodge.”

“Yeah. I’m home for a couple of months.”

“And who’s this?”

“This is my friend Sarah. She’s…” I need to just start saying it. There’s nothing to be ashamed of and acting like there is puts some of that shame onto her too, and I hate it. “She was my foster sister. Back before I came to live in Gold Valley. Back before Bennett found me.”

“That’s a wonderful reunion,” she says, beaming at us. “Your dinner is on the house.”

“No way,” I say. “You don’t have to give me dinner.”

“I want to. You’re a good kid.” She winks at me.

Sarah and I sit down at one of the tables. The dining room in Mustard Seed is tiny, one little square room, the floor covered in bright copper pennies thathave epoxied into a high-gloss shell. There are quirky fork sculptures — silverware fashioned into creatures with googly eyes— hanging from the ceiling, whimsical and unsettling all at once.

By the end of the month, the seniors at Gold Valley High School will have their names written on the window, celebrating their achievement. It’s hard to believe it’s been six years since my own name was there.

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