“It’s no trouble. I can practically work from anywhere. Plus, I haven’t been down in a while and it’ll be good for you—for the both of us,” I insist.
“Okay,” she says.
“Good,” I return. I don’t bore her with the travel details, I just tell her I’ll make them.
However, what I don’t make is a promise of how long I’ll stay.
The flight I book will get in late the next evening and then I’ll make the drive from the airport to the farm, putting me there probably around ten P.M.
I’m not looking forward to packing and hauling myself down there, but it has to be done.
For the most part, I left Harper behind with Nan and Paw to look after the farm. I left her behind to be the one to deal with everything. Our parents died when we were in middle school—me in eighth grade, her in sixth. When I left for college, she still had two more years to go. By that time, Nan and Paw were too old to care for the place the way it needed; so, Harper stayed.
She went to college locally, married her high school sweetheart—and stayed. She was your quintessential small-town girl. Everyone in town knew her name. Hell, for that matter, everyone in town knew everyone’s name. All our names.
My grandparents are Louise and Calvin Whitney. Not that it means much to most of the world, but in the backwoods of Kentucky, where there are more horse farms and national parks than paved roads, Whitney is a very well-known name. Our family’s farm is at the edge of Scott County, and it’s one of the oldest working farms still in the area.
In the fall, they have pumpkin patches and hayrides open to the public. The orchards have always been a popular attraction. City folk always want to come pick their own apples. Corn mazes, sunflowers, fresh laid eggs, you name it. People come from all over to visit and spend the day. Our farm is even on its own road. Whitney Farms is nestled neatly at the end of Whitney Way.
How quaint.
I distinctly remember rolling my eyes any time I had to explain it to anyone as a teenager.
Now, I scroll through my phone until I find a decent ticket for the flight there—a one-way ticket. I don’t know how long I’ll stay and purposely made no mention of it to Harper so I’m not locked in to any timeline. I’ll fly into the Louisville Airport and then make my way two hours southeast.
Oh joy.
I start removing clothes from their hangers inside the closet. I live in a beautiful one-bedroom Boston apartment, on the third floor. I have purposely and meticulously constructed my life. Rebuilt it to be more than it was before.
I worked hard in high school, got accepted into Boston College, obtained an English degree, and almost immediately began writing for various magazines and online blogs. I wish I could say it’s that easy for everyone who wants to be a writer. The truth is, I got lucky—so lucky. And I knew the right people. I networked like a mother trucker leading up to graduation. I kissed ass like it had never been kissed before.
I throw more items of clothing in my bag and realize I have no idea what or how much I should be packing.
A little of everything?
How long do I really want to stay?
As long as my sister needs me to, I decide in the same moment. Within reason, of course. Whatever that is.
I pack an assortment of items, deciding it’s good enough for now. If I wind up without something, I’ll just go shopping for it.
After I finish packing, I email some of my needy clients who like to stay in constant contact. I let them know I’ll be traveling over the next day but all deadlines will be met, no services will be interrupted, and I’ll be accessible just as soon as I settle in.
Then, I text my best friend Cora about the ordeal.
Me: Harper is getting a divorce. I have to go back home for a while.
Cora: OMG
Me: I know, I’ll fill you in later. Can I pack you in my suitcase?
Cora: If it gets me off this date…
Me: OMG. Pretend this is an emergency and bail!
Cora: What? Your goldfish died? I’ll be right there!
Me: Flushing Sir Winston at dusk.
Cora: LOL, travel safe. Let me know when you’ve made it.
Poor Cora.
The woman is gorgeous. I mean gorgeous. But for whatever reason, she has absolute shit luck in her dating life. I’ll never understand it. She’s also my only friend in the city so, aside from my clients, she’s the only person I feel the need to inform of my leaving. I try not to dwell on how sad I find that.
The rest of the day passes rather uneventfully. I text Harper, checking in with her and updating her on my travel arrangements. She lets me know my old room has been freshened up for my arrival. In southern terms, freshened up means more like all the bedding has been washed—even though no one’s slept there—and everything’s been dusted and swept. She’s likely even added fresh flowers to the vase on my dresser.
Good ol’ southern hospitality.
I can confirm there’s nothing quite like it. In the first three days after moving to Boston, I must have been shoulder-checked walking down the sidewalk more than half a dozen times and no one even looked up, let alone muttered a half-hearted apology in my direction. It took me a little while to get used to. Despite their big city indifference, I tried to keep my engrained manners. My nan would have smacked me in the back of my head, or worse, if she thought I was being anything less than the southern lady she raised me to be.
I sit all my bags next to the door. One large suitcase I will definitely have to check. My carry-on laptop bag, which is stuffed with charger cords, my iPad, and all electronics necessary for daily function. My purse with all my essentials. Wallet, contacts, backup glasses, and cash. I tick everything off the checklist in my mind, feeling confident I haven’t forgotten anything. I even remember to schedule a car to pick me up in the morning and take me to the airport, rather than trying to get one last minute. I’m feeling pretty good about my overall preparedness.
I return to my bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed, flopping myself back and letting out a long sigh. Then a thought occurs to me.
I sit back up and eye the second drawer of my bedside table. I debate back and forth before opening it.
I am a woman, okay? There’s nothing to be ashamed of.
It’s the drawer I keep my vibrator in.
How long will I be gone?
What if I need…relief?
Should I…bring it?
Would it be inappropriate?
I mean, I don’t have to announce it to anyone. But hello, I am a single woman. Sure, I manage a date here and there for sexual relief, but continued gratification comes at my hand. I chortle.
Comes at my hand.
At some point, it becomes an absolute necessity to take care of yourself. I think it’s doctor recommended by now. You might even die if you don’t. I start to think about all the ways I can pack this in my luggage and have a security check fiasco due to its presence. And those guys who load and unload the bags…I bet they look in them. I bet they take photos and host secret bets about the funniest things they found that day. Maybe I should leave it behind after all.
I reluctantly shut the drawer and decide I can get through a bit of time without self-medicating. Even as I make the decision, I groan. For the sake of my lady parts, I certainly hope Harper isn’t too broken up over her split. Maybe she’s actually quite resilient. Maybe she’ll bounce back in no time. Maybe she just needs a friendly face and some self-medicating as well. I shake the thoughts from my head.