Page 63 of Peaches & Pistols

“Livy would be Blossom—bossy, perfectionist, super smart. She even has the red hair!”

“That’s perfect,” I agree.

“That would make Izzy Buttercup—feisty, protective, sarcastic. Oh my god, she’s going to die over this!” Delilah’s soft laughter floats through the stables like windchimes.

“We always fought over who got to be Bubbles…too bad so sad sissy,” she mocks as if her sister’s here with us.

“Oh no! But what about you?” She pouts looking genuinely perturbed by the idea of me being left out. Her friendship spears me right in the heart.

“It was just a silly way for me to say you are like the three musketeers. That’s all. I don’t need to be included.” I chuckle.

“Nope. Not acceptable.” Delilah taps her chin, looking at the support beams high above our heads. She murmurs to herself, “Berry…Bluebell…Birdie…Brownie…Button…”

My head tilts, fascinated by her insistence to make a place for me in their girl group.

“Bunny!” she exclaims.

“Bunny?

“Yes! It’s perfect. You’re gentle and a little shy, but you’re a devoted mother.”

“Bunny it is then.” I grin. Charlie would’ve loved this—and in this moment, thinking of her is more reminiscent than painful.

“I can’t wait to tell the girls, this is so funny.”

“Fine…I’ll be Buttercup, but only because she’s badass,” Izzy sulks playfully.

“Then it’s settled.” Delilah taps her fork against the table like a judge’s gavel.

I met Izzy and Delilah at The Flying Pig at noon, after popping up to the apartment and leaving Greyson a note telling him where I’d be. For as much fun as I’m having with the girls, a part of me wishes I was eating with him—the part that skips a beat each time he looks at me.

A trickle of ice water escapes my mouth when my shoulder’s bumped from behind.

“Here ya go, ladies.” LouAnn, the prickly wife of the owner, Frank, sets our plates down with a clank, leaving us to pass them out ourselves.

It’s been single-digit temperatures all day, so ordering the pot roast was a no-brainer. Tender chunks of fall-apart beef, butter-soft potatoes, tender carrots are slathered in beef gravy. My mouth’s watering from how good it smells.

“Come to mama,” Izzy says, tongue sticking out between her teeth.

The worn, white ceramic plate in front of her is piled high with buttermilk biscuits, drowned in peppery sausage country gravy with an over-medium egg on top, stabbed through with a spoon. Its name on-the-nose, the Greasy Spoon.

She centers it in front of her and takes a deep pull of her Cherry Pepsi.

“Reid’s going to be sooooo jealous I’m eating this without him.” Her guilt is nonexistent as she plucks the spoon from the stacked biscuits and licks it clean.

“He’ll live,” Delilah says with a roll of her eyes.

She wastes no time swirling her spoon in her bowl of pork green chili, a cultural phenomenon in Colorado. It’s slathered over everything, and no two cooks prepare it the same way, living and dying by their secret recipes.

Frank’s recipe is a Swiftwater staple, they sell it by the quart to take home. Delilah’s oversized bowl is swirling with steam as she mixes in sour cream, shredded cheddar cheese, fresh cilantro, and diced avocado.

Since I moved here, I’ve seen people enjoy it as stew, with soft flour tortillas, scooped up with tortilla chips, and today for the first time, I’m fascinated as Delilah dips French fries in it.

LouAnn swings by and slides a new glass of lemonade across to Delilah who hollers thank you to the woman’s retreating back.

“So what’s the deal with you and Daddy Greyson?” Izzy asks, pointing her spoon at me.

Tiny bits of my lunch spray back onto the plate as I nearly choke to death from her loaded question.