Page 100 of Rhodes

I text Granger.

Coastal firm's coming to Oak Moss on Thursday for an elevation survey and shoreline viability assessment. Grandbank's letting them on.

Saw it on the calendar. Good. This is the right way to do it, Til. Send me whatever they write up, and I'll read every page.

I read that twice.

How was the flight? Y'all make it back ok?

Long. I'm still a little cloudy, but we are whole.

Oh, and hey, we're still fucking, so that's a plus. I giggle a little to myself, because the sadistic part of me would love to text that to him.

Good.

I sit with the phone in my hand, staring at our text thread. Rhodes and Oak Moss and my dad actually hearing me all jumble in my brain.

One thing so you're working against the real number. Contractor mobilizes June 15. If you've got something for me, I want it well before then. Not the week of.

This is what I wanted, not a yes, just a door cracked open far enough to make my case, even if seeing that in writing makes my gut tighten. I pull the legal pad over and write it in block letters at the top of a clean page.

JUNE 15.

I count backward on my fingers, then quit and do it properly against the calendar on my phone. It comes to eleven weeks, from Thursday's survey to a contractor putting equipment on that ground. I should be grateful for more time than I initially thought.

I box the date and draw a hard line around it twice so it stands out from everything else on the page. I've got enough time to build a case good enough to convince them that saving Oak Moss and keeping it for our family only is not just a sentimental plea.

He's talking to me like I'm presenting something, not a problem he has to tiptoe around. I want more of that than I want to admit.

My phone buzzes.

Cowbell? Burgers. I'm starving and I refuse to look at the empty fridge again.

I smile before I've decided to.

I would kill a man for a Cowbell burger right now.

I close the Oak Moss folder and set it on the corner of the table for tomorrow.

The burgers come in paper baskets, mine dripping in a way that means I'm going to need every one of these napkins. Rhodes set the fries between us, and it feels like a line between us we aren't supposed to cross. I've got a root beer sweating a ring onto the picnic table, and the last of the sun is cut in half by the old gas-station overhang, turning everything gold.

That's the thing about eating a burger with Rhodes Stone in public. We're two people who've known each other since before either of us had teeth, splitting fries on Oak Street.

"You've got the whole fries basket tilted toward you," I say. "I thought we were sharing?"

"It's for your own good."

I steal three fries at once out of spite.

A truck pulls up to the curb, and Deuce unfolds out of it, all six-foot-five of him, on his way somewhere else. He claps Rhodes on the shoulder hard enough to rattle the table.

"Look at this. Date night." He grins down at us. "Y'all want to be left alone, or you want company?"

"Ew. He's my brother's best friend, and I live in his spare room," I say around a mouthful of burger. "I'm here for the fries."

Deuce laughs and squeezes Rhodes's shoulder.

"Fair. My bad. As much as I know you want me, I'm actually meeting Ford. Just saw you here and couldn’t help but stop and bust your chops." He turns as he says it, then turns back briefly. "Rhodes, we're still on for Thursday at the gym. Don't flake out."