“So?” he says, putting the Escalade into drive.
“So, what?”
Raylan hesitates, like he’s wondering if he should push for details.
“Everything okay?” he says, at last.
“Yeah,” I say, looking out the window. “Everything’s great.”
I don’t know why I don’t just tell Raylan that Dean and I broke up. I guess it’s because it seems embarrassing in some way. And also maybe because I’d prefer to keep that barrier between us, for now.
I know Raylan is as aware as I am that there’s no relationship between the two of us. He’s been hired to do a job, which is to protect me. We’re not friends. And we’re definitely not lovers. We can barely stand each other, half the time.
Still, there is that weird energy that arises every now and then.
Like that moment in the gym. Or even our conversation last night.
I don’t want to have to deal with any more of that. So I think it’s better if Raylan believes I’m in a relationship with somebody else. It’s safer that way. For both of us.
We drive the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Mostly in silence. Raylan puts the radio on, and we go in and out of local stations. I hear an endless stream of country songs, punctuated by the occasional rock or pop song, and some oldies.
I can’t deny that Tennessee is surprisingly beautiful. I didn’t realize it was so green. The fields are green, and the smaller mountains, that are really more like hills. Beyond that, I spy the deep blue peaks of the Smokies.
There’s so much open space between towns. Raylan is right—I really don’t get out of the city much. I can’t believe in one day we could drive to a place that looks so different in every way.
As we drive down into a valley between two tall green hills, the radio crackles and a new song comes on, bright and clear. It’s “Please Mr. Postman” by The Marvelettes.
“Please Mr. Postman”—The Marvelettes (Spotify)
“Please Mr. Postman”—The Marvelettes (Apple)
My mom used to play that song. She loves it—I have no idea why. She loves a lot of Motown and early rock and blues.
“Mr. Postman” is so cute and catchy that it was a favorite of Nessa’s, and mine, too. Mom would play it, and we’d jump up on the couches and dance and sing along to it, pretending we were holding microphones. Pretending we had beehives and sparkly dresses, and we were an old-school trio. Nessa, ever concerned with choreography even at a young age, would try to make us coordinate, and shimmy in a period-appropriate manner.
I can’t help tapping my fingers against the car door, nodding along to the song.
Raylan looks over at me, thick black eyebrow cocked. He reaches over and twists the knob to turn up the volume.
That’s another thing nobody does anymore—no one waits for a letter from the Postman. But the cheerful, wistful tone of the song is as relatable as ever. And the upbeat piano riff. It makes me want to shimmy my shoulders like Nessa and I used to do. Especially as Raylan turns the music up even louder and drums along to the beat on the steering wheel.
I can’t help smiling. I sing along for a couple bars, not caring that I’m shit at carrying a tune. Raylan laughs and turns the music up more. He doesn’t know the lyrics, but he does the “Wa-ooo” accompaniment, like he’s my backup singer.
It only lasts for two minutes. Those old Motown songs are short. The song switches over to something else I don’t recognize, and Raylan turns the volume down again.
We’re driving in silence once more.
But we’re both smiling.
We get to Silver Run just before dinner time, having driven almost the whole day long with only a brief stop in Lexington to pee and buy some snacks. Neither one of us needed a real lunch, not after the massive breakfast we ate at the diner.
I can tell when we get close, because there’s a new tension in Raylan’s shoulders. He sits up a little straighter, looking around at fields and forest that he obviously recognizes in a very intimate way. I know without asking that this is where he grew up. This is his home.
“How close are we?” I say anyway, just to be sure.
“This is it,” Raylan says. “228 acres all around us. This road only goes one place.”
We pass through an open gate with an iron arch at the top. Recessed letters spell the name “Birch Haven.” I guess that’s fitting—that’s exactly what Raylan and I are looking for. A safe haven.
We’re driving steadily upward on the winding road. The slope is small and gradual, but soon a view unspools below us. The ranch house was built at the highest point for miles around.
I see several large barns and stables on either side, but the winding road takes us directly up to the ranch house itself. The house is three stories tall, with a high peaked roof and large plate-glass windows across the front to take advantage of its aerie-like positioning. It’s built of deep reddish-brown boards that aren’t much different from the ones on the side of the barn. Yet the house is much grander in shape and scale, with tall doorways, those expansive windows giving views on all sides, and generous verandas encircling the house on all three levels.
Large, leafy trees shade the windows and the decks. A pretty old-fashioned swing hangs from the ancient oak closest to the front door.
I didn’t hear Raylan’s conversation with his family—I assume he called them while I was in the shower. But he promised that he warned them we were coming.
In a way, that’s worse. As we pull up to the house, I can see several other cars parked in the drive, like they’ve all gathered for dinner. I know they must be excited to have Raylan home. He told me he hasn’t been back to visit in over three years.
I feel like I shouldn’t be here for this reunion. This is too personal, too intimate.
Too late now, though. The door flies open and a short, deeply-tanned woman in jeans and a button-up shirt very like the one I’m wearing—though much more faded—comes hurrying out of the house. She’s limping, one foot in a walking boot, but that’s not really slowing her down that much.
She throws her arms around Raylan and squeezes him tight. She only comes up to his chest in height, but she looks strong and fit, her graying hair pulled back in a sensible low ponytail. Her nails are cut short and unpolished, and her small hands look highly capable as she grabs Raylan’s arms and pulls back to look up in his face. I can see that her eyes are just as bright a blue as her son’s.
“You look skinny,” she says, and she laughs.
Raylan isn’t skinny in the slightest. He’s broad-shouldered and muscular. But as his brother comes out of the house, I can see how Raylan would be considered skinny by comparison. His brother looks like a bear that learned to walk on its hind legs. He has a massive black beard and shoulder-length hair, and he’s three inches taller than Raylan and much broader. I can see the muscle in his arms and shoulders beneath his flannel shirt, but his bulk also includes a generous belly.
“RAYLAN!” he roars.
He throws his arms around both Raylan and his mom, squeezing them tight until his mother shouts, “Alright, don’t break my back, let me out of this hug!”
“Oh, sorry.” He grins, letting her go. “I didn’t even see you there, Ma.”