Page 64
It slides open to reveal a man and woman in their early twenties. The second the guy sticks his head through with notepad in hand, I know he recognizes Coen. His eyes widen and he shakes his hair out of his eyes for a closer look.
“Holy shee-it,” he says. “Coen Taylor?”
The strangest thing happens. It’s like Coen puts a mask up and slips into someone else’s skin. He shakes the kid’s hand, smiling.
“Hey, man,” he says.
“Holy shit. I saw you in Cali,” the kid says. “Hey, Kelly, get over here. It’s Coen Taylor!”
The girl cracks her blonde head through the window and pops her gum. “Can we get a picture?”
Coen nods, saying of course they can. Luckily, there’s nobody but us in line, because both the cashiers come out and want a photo together and separately. Then, they make him sign a napkin for everyone in their crew. I’m quiet, watching him work and wondering if this split in who he is and who he presents to the world is part of the reason for his burnout. I don’t think I could handle having to play the part of a different person like that.
“Alright,” the guy says. “Sorry, what can I get you both?”
I smile. “Can I just get an iced coffee?”
“I’ll do a black coffee, hot,” Coen says, taking out a twenty.
“Nah, man. It’s on the house.”
Coen doesn’t fight it, but he puts the twenty into the tip jar. A car pulls up, and a family climbs out, saving us from standing by the window. We sidle out of the way. Coen with his eyes on the ground. When the guy hands our drinks out through the side window, he thanks Coen for being so relaxed and willing to take photos. They go back and forth with small talk, then shake hands.
“Alright,” Coen says. “Let’s hit the road, cowgirl.”
I smile, tickled from my head to my feet, and follow him back to the truck. He digs around in the back while I get settled and comes back with a handful of granola bars and fruit snacks, stacking them in the console.
We pull out and get back on the endless strip of road. I reach behind him, unzip my bag, and pull my bikini top out. Before he has a chance to glance over, I pull my shirt off and unclasp my bra. He does a double-take.
“Hello,” he says, swerving slightly.
“What? You wanted me in a bikini,” I say innocently.
I tie the string between my boobs. He’s having problems keeping his eyes ahead.
“Goddamn,” he says. “Every time I see your tits, it’s like the first time.”
Pleased, I grab my coffee and settle back.
“You handled that well back there,” I say lightly.
He shrugs. “Yeah, I always feel like I don’t.”
“Really? They seemed thrilled.”
He thinks. He’s got this way of flexing his jaw when he’s deep in thought that I’ve come to realize has to do with why he was in Wyoming in the first place.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
“You know,” I say contemplatively, “it might help you with everything if you’d talk about it more. I feel better after our conversation last night.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, but you got real problems. I got champagne problems.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “You can still talk.”
He shrugs, reaching for his coffee. “Maybe. Let me think about it.”
That means he won’t bring it up again, but I’m not giving up that easily. What he needs is some alone time to bring down those walls the way it did for me. I set my coffee down and open the bag, digging through until I find a pack of sour candy strings. I peel all the raspberry ones out and bite down, sugar crunching. He glances sideways.
