Riley may be less exhausted than me and she may not be fighting a stitch, but I have longer legs and I am too sore a loser not to beat her to her car. It costs me, though. I can hardly breathe after the three-mile race back to the start of the trailhead, which started out friendly enough until I realized she was going to beat me and I had to kick it up a gear.
"You're competitive," she says with a laugh when she reaches me, fishing her keys out of her bag to unlock her mud-splattered Honda Civic. The shade has moved since she parked here and the car's been sitting under the full sun; it's like stepping into a sauna, even worse when I am already sweating buckets from pushing it too hard. My elbow brushes against the buckle and I swear it's hot enough to give me a third degree burn.
"Just one of my fatal flaws," I say, panting. Riley gets the windows open and sticks the aircon on full blast but it comes out warm.
"It takes a minute to kick in," she says as she pulls out of the dirt and onto the road into town. We pass the turning for Ponderosa Way, trundling down the winding road at no more than forty miles per hour. Riley's a safe driver, verging on cautious, her hand resting on the gearstick like she might have to get into reverse real quick.
"Thanks for this," I say, my words coming out more measured and less ragged once I've got control of my breathing. "Everyone in Fisher is so nice to strangers."
"Yeah, but you're not, like, a real stranger. You've been coming here for years and you're staying with my mom's best friend. Just because you're kinda new to me doesn't make you a stranger."
"I like that."
She doffs an imaginary hat. "Plus, we're used to meeting new people here. We're excellent at it, I like to think. Some resort towns are weirdly rude to and about their tourists, but it's a symbiotic relationship — we need them or half the stores in Fisher wouldn't survive. We treat us well, they spend more money, they tell their friends about this cute, quaint little town a couple hours outside of Boise, and boom." She mimics an explosion with her hand.
"Boom?"
"The cafe can afford to hire extra staff. Eileen Wiseman gets to sell her home for triple what she paid for it and move to California to be with her grandkids. We don't die the slow death of a lot of towns like ours."
"I guess I never really thought of it like that," I muse. "When we used to come as a family, I kind of felt like we were taking over. I'm not gonna lie, I never felt bad about it — I was a kid — but we really invaded this place."
"Oh, you guys definitely invaded. Pretty impressive, really, for one family to stand out so much in this town's collective memory when we see tens of thousands of visitors every summer." She laughs, flexing her hands on the steering wheel.
"Shit. We were outlaws."
"Oh, yeah. For sure. I was so jealous. You guys always looked like you were having so much fun, and, okay, this might be TMI but I had the biggest crush on your brother."
"My brother?"
"Grayson, right? The tall one?" She holds her hand above her head.
"He's the oldest, yeah. He's twenty-seven now."
"I mean, obviously nothing ever happened — he was so cool and I was way awkward back then and I spent my life at the cafe — but I used to, like, accidentally give him a free cookie and watch him out on the lake on my break."
"Holy shit." I snort a laugh, my arm trailing out of the window to catch the breeze. "Grayson is not cool. He thought he was hot shit back then but in reality he spent every summer trying to look like he got all the girls and ended up with none. You should've made a move. He would've fallen at your feet."
"Damn it." She playfully slaps the wheel and shrieks when she catches the horn as we pull into town, making everyone on the street jump out of their skin. "Shit! Sorry!"
*
Riley isn't wrong. The thrift stores here are stocked with popular brands and designer labels. Of the three, Pop's Place has the best yield: nothing costs more than five dollars and after thirty minutes of scouring every rail and trying things on for Riley's opinion, I come away with an absolute haul. Two pairs of running shorts, a brand new sports bra with the tags still on, the perfect high waisted jeans, three tops, and a playsuit. All for less than thirty bucks. And then I have to go back when I spot the shoe selection as I leave: everyday sneakers, unworn flip-flops, and a pair of sandals for eight dollars.
Riley is a great hype woman. She's effusive when something looks great and even if it doesn't, she finds something to compliment. I tried on the most hideous dress that gave me a lumpy, disproportionate figure and managed to be both too long and too short, too big in the chest and too tight in the arms, and she said that the brown of the buttons was a perfect match to my hair.
The athletic store, Lake Sport, is pretty pricey — especially after the absolute bargains I've found already — but Riley's boyfriend has no qualms about adding his fifty percent staff discount when I find the most perfect running shoes that cushion my feet and put a bounce in my step and make me realize the sneakers I'm wearing are actually dangerous.
"Give me those," Robbie says the moment I've paid. He holds out his hand but I don't know what for. "Those things on your feet."
"My ... shoes?"
"You can't call those shoes. Your feet are actually in contact with the earth. Literally the opposite of what a shoe is supposed to do."
Riley, leaning across the counter and watching us, laughs at her boyfriend and at my bemusement. "He's right, Charlotte."
"It's Charlie," I correct automatically.
"Okay, he's right, Charlie. You need to throw those in the trash, like, a year ago."
Robbie holds up a wastepaper basket, shaking it at me. "Put them in. Now."
I reluctantly take off my shoes and drop them in. Riley cheers and unboxes the shoes I just got for a steal. She dangles them in front of me and puts on a voice when she says, "Put me on, Charlie! Please!"
These two are ridiculous. But I do have to suppress a groan of satisfaction when I pull on the brand new shoes and I can't feel the fibers of the carpet beneath my feet. I might need new socks, too. Riley must read my mind because she vanishes to the other side of the store and returns with a ten-pack of ankle socks that match the accidentally lesbian coded colors in my new shoes: pink, orange, and white.
"My gift to you," she says, ringing herself up and scanning Robbie's discount card. Either he has a chill boss or he just doesn't care. "If we're going to be running partners, I need to know you're not giving yourself major blisters with your shitty shoes and your threadbare socks."
"You really didn't have to do that." I have my card in my hand. "I've spent, like, a hundred bucks today. I can afford ten dollars on socks."
"That's not how gifts work, Charlie." Riley slips the socks into my bag — the one from Fisher Thrift, where I found a pair of comfy lounge pants, two sweatshirts, and a sling bag like hers. "Now, I don't know about you, but all this running and shopping has me absolutely famished. I think it's time we used my staff discount."
She kisses Robbie and wraps her hand around my wrist, pulling me down the street towards Cafe Au Late. Her dad is behind the counter along with a couple of the summer workers and he fixes us up with a perfect post-run feast: turkey and provolone ciabattas; sea salt chips; a couple of raspberry blondies. Everything is locally sourced and produced, the chips from a potato farm down the road and the coffee processed by South Pine Coffee Roasters, just outside of town.
"How long have you and Robbie been together?" I ask, pulling a stringy piece of melted provolone from my chin and wiping greasy fingers on my sweat-soaked pants.
"Five years." She says it with a bright beam, her eyes on her ciabatta as she layers her chips beneath the turkey and the bread.
"Whoa. Is he the one, d'ya reckon?"
"Oh, for sure. We already live together — we have an apartment on the other side of the river — and we'll get married one day, I know it. If he ever asks me. We've talked about marriage a lot so he knows it's something I want. We both do. He's just biding his time."
"That's sweet," I say, almost to myself. I'd like to feel that confident about someone someday. I did feel that way about Zahra — after a few dates, I was already picturing our future, imagining the two of us getting an apartment of our own; by the time we'd been together nearly a year, I was daydreaming about being her wife. Would I take her last name? Would she take mine? Would we hyphenate, become the Abadi-Millers?
"Have you got anyone?" Riley asks.
I have people, sure. I have my friends, my family. But no-one to call mine. I quickly check my phone to see that Gaby still hasn't replied. She's probably busy — she is always busy — but I can't help feeling like she's ignoring me. Like she doesn't want to admit that in the week she's been gone, she's moved on and she doesn't have space for Tay and me anymore. Or worse, just me. "Not in a while," I say, stirring my iced latte. I've gone for banana cinnamon today, the flavors working together better than I thought. "I've been single for about a year."
"What's the story?" She leans forward like I'm about to impart some juicy gossip.
"Yet another tale of me falling head over heels for a girl who's only kind of in love," I say. Riley pouts. It warms me that she doesn't react to the whole queer bombshell. It can get awkward easily, when people who thought I was straight learn I'm a lesbian and they either try to ignore it or they massively overcompensate for their ignorance.
"I'm sorry," she says. "That was me before Robbie. Mom says I hand out my heart like free samples in the grocery store." She chuckles to herself and says, "Robbie's the only one who wanted to stick around for the real deal." She reaches out and pats my hand and says, "Keep trying. There's nothing wrong with falling in love easily."
"I've gotta be behind that counter in forty minutes and I desperately need a shower," Riley says. "I can give you a ride back to Lou's."
"Don't worry about it, I can walk. It's not that far."
"That run nearly killed you and you have a whole bunch of bags now, and it's eighty-five degrees out there." She shakes her keys at me. "Get in the car, Charlie."
*
a short and sweet one today! i hope you like the chapter (and riley!)