“And how do you know that?” Amber asked. “Do you have a picture?”

“No. But Bud’s not a cowboy, farmer, or rancher,” she said, putting a finger down for each one of the things Amy liked that Jamie didn’t. “He didn’t wear cowboy boots.” Another finger down. “Bud didn’t own a massive rodeo belt buckle.” Down went another finger. “Or a Stetson, like Amy. And he doesn’t wear Wrangler’s,” she put another finger down. “And it sounds like her Bud is cheap. Mine wasn’t,” and another finger folded to her palm. “And what exactly does he drive? Is it a Rivian?” Another finger went down, leaving one of her ten fingers standing. “Most importantly, he likes city girls with style and money.” The last finger went down. “There you go, Amber. Ten reasons why he’s not my Bud.”

“Just a strange coincidence, that’s all I’m saying.” Amber was putting her shoulder-length brown hair into a braid across her left shoulder. “It would be ironic if you were dating the same guy.”

“Nope.” Jamie shook her head. Opening the driver’s side door of the Mercedes, she gently put her purse in the passenger seat, suddenly remembering she wasn’t wearing shoes. She didn’t go barefoot often, and the gravel didn’t hurt her feet at all, which shocked Amber.

“Where are your heels, girlfriend?” Amber laughed.

“In my purse.” Jamie slid into the Mercedes, the black leather interior warm from the sunshine. “It’s not the same guy, Amber. Whatever you do, don’t tell Mom about Bud. Let Amy do that all by herself. I never told her about my Bud.”

“Why the hell not?” Amber asked. “What’s she going to do? Tell me and Amy?”

Jamie glared at Amber. “Probably. And I didn’t want to hear it.”

“Got it. Well, I gotta run. I have a pottery class in,” Amber looked down at her wrist that didn’t have an Apple Watch, “well – whenever I get there. Love you, sis. Talk to you later.”

“Bye, Amber.” Jamie noticed Amy, the middle child. “Bye, Amy. Let me know when we can meet the guy.” She rolled her eyes, “I guess I’ll be there.”

Amy smiled at her baby sister. “Thanks, sis.” Amy half-hugged Jamie, who had her seatbelt on. “Bye, ladies,” Jamie winked, pushing her sunglasses up her nose.

“Do you think she’ll show up this time?” Amy asked Amber.

“If she doesn’t, I’ll,” Amber made finger guns and fired imaginary bullets toward the Mercedes, “blow holes in her aurora. Does that work for you?” Amy smiled, hugging her big sister. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Come on. I have a pottery class. You can come.”

“No thanks. Get that stuff in between my fingers? That’s like gross.”

“Amy? May I remind you that you work on a farm. Dirt is like part of your hyphenated middle name now. How’s that any different than clay?”

“Ewww. No thanks. I gotta go check on the chickens and pigs.”

“Have at it! That’s not for me.”

“Fair enough.” Amy walked over to the truck and Amber got in the Volkswagen, driving down the gravel road, back to town.