Page 21 of The Pieces We've Lost

I couldn’t remember the last time I was so stressed over a girl.

It was nine fifty-eight when I spotted her across the street in the parking lot. She seemed to be contemplatingwhether to cross the road or turn around and never look back.

She sighed and made the decision to cross the street. My heart was racing with nerves, even more than the nerves I got from competing. At least roping was something I knew how to control. I had no idea how this conversation would go.

The bells on the door of the coffee shop chimed as she walked in. She looked around for a moment, as if trying to figure out her next move, but then her eyes landed on me. She gave me a small wave in acknowledgment and then walked up to the counter to order.

I hadn’t gotten anything yet because I wasn’t sure if she would show up.

Should I get up and get something or is that weird? Maybe I should just wait for her to get her stuff and then I’ll go?

I was grossly overthinking this. I ruffled the hair on the back of my head and decided to stay in my chair.

A couple minutes later, she walked over to the table and took a seat. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, but a few strands fell around her face, framing it perfectly like a work of art.

“Hi,” she greeted me politely.

“What did you get?” I asked.

“I got a white chocolate mocha.” She seemed as nervous as I was, which was reassuring.

We sat there for a few moments, not speaking, the grinding of coffee beans, baristas frothing milk, and light chatter of the other coffee shop patrons the only noise. I noticed her look away, scanning the room instead of meeting my eyes.

“I’m really not that interesting.” She laughed, finallybreaking the silence. “I don’t know what it is about me that you want to figure out.”

Everything. I want to know everything about you.

I didn’t just want to know her favorite color. I wanted to know why she loved that specific shade of blue or green. What she thought about when she heard her favorite song on the radio. If she sang along or just felt the music.

“Anything. I want to get to know you. Like, if you were a pie, what kind of pie would you be?” I asked the most ridiculous question I could think of.

“What kind of a question is that?” She smiled—really smiled—and in that moment I wanted to do everything in my power to keep that smile on her face.

“It’s just a question. Personally, I’d be an apple pie. It’s classic and everyone loves it,” I offered.

“I don’t,” she responded flatly.

“Well, then you’d be the first,” I joked. “Come on, what would you be?”

“Peach, maybe. Or coconut cream.” She puckered her lips and looked up, deep in thought.

“Ellison?” the barista called out.

She got up to get her drink, taking a sip of it as she walked back. A soft smile appeared on her face as she closed her eyes for a heartbeat, like she was savoring the taste. Her mood instantly changed, and I made a mental note to make sure she always had coffee.

“Anyway, sorry about that. Back to your question. I thought about it and I’d definitely be a peach pie,” she concluded.

“I can respect that, even if you are an apple hater,” I joked, and she blushed a little.

“So, you’re from Montana?”

“Yep. Born and raised. Have you always lived here?” I continued the conversation.

“Yes, I was born here. I left Houston to go to college, but I didn’t go too far. My mother is from Wyoming, but my dad grew up here,” she explained, not getting into too many details.

“Do you think you’ll ever leave?”

“I’m not sure. My mother always tells me I should get out and see the world. That there is so much more out there than this little corner of Texas. But I think I’m happy here.”

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