Page 31 of Smoked

The ground drops out from under me. My hands keep moving because they have to, but something in my chest crumbles. I close my eyes and summon the strength to keep going.

The ribs go on at six, the chicken at nine, and then there's nothing left but the turn-in windows—four of them, ten minutes each, starting at noon.

And the clock sits on the back of my skull like a fist.

Tess and I work beautifully together and it's awful. Every handoff is clean, every temp check called out and confirmed, her hands moving through the prep with a competence that makes me want to break things and crawl on the ground in front of her groveling at the same time.

We don't make eye contact.

We don't touch.

We're the best team on this row and I'd give the trophy back to undo what I said.

The first three turn-ins blur together. I can barely hold onto any of it. At this point, I’m going by feel, since I’ve done this so many times, I just let my hands go.

My phone goes off and it’s a text from Riley.

dad. update me IMMEDIATELY. also mackenzie says hi and that you owe her mom a brisket for hosting me this weekend

are you winning? don't lie to me i'll know

turn-ins almost done. brisket's up next. tell macKenzie's mom she's getting a brisket and a thank you card.

a thank you card?? who are you

I almost smile.

how’s ms fields doing?

I tuck my phone back in my pocket.

The brisket window opens at one-thirty, and I pull it from the Cambro, unwrap it, and the bark holds. The smoke ring lovely. The flat slices clean and the point pulls apart in ribbons. I fan six slices in the turn-in box, garnish tight, and Tess walks it to the tent.

I watch her go. Her hands, steady around the box. Her back, straight. She’s a natural.

Once the box is gone, we’re officially done.

I wipe the sweat off my brow.

“Great job, Tess,” I say.

“Thank you,” she replies, evenly.

We start cleaning up, putting the fire out, and closing the coolers. I’m wiping down a table, when my hand bumps into hers.

"Tess," I say, and she turns to me. "I'm sorry, what I said to you this morning was uncalled for. You didn't deserve it, and the foil wasn't the problem."

“What was the problem, then?” she asks.

I rub the back of my neck. My eyes burn from smoke and adrenaline.

"Last night, after you went to the truck to sleep, I sat at that fire talking myself into letting you go. I told myself you should have everything you described—the kid, the house, the full life—with somebody your own age. Somebody smarter. Somebody more suited to you, who could hand it to you instead of weighing you down." My voice cracks. "I dressed it up as doing right by you. But it was only cowardice wearing fancier clothes."

She’s furrowing her brow.

"But the thought of losing you took the ground out from under me. I've never felt this way about anyone…not once, not even my ex…and it's been the best time of my life."

Her eyes are shining, now.