Stop being an ass, Lyla.
Like it or not, Lyla Elizabeth Whitney, by this time tomorrow, your feet will be planted right back on the soil you dug your roots up from all those years ago.
Three
Lyla
I wish I could say it was a quick drive to the airport, or a smooth flight. I wish I could say, despite the drive being two hours, it went by fast. I wish I could say any one of those things, but I can’t. If I had to sum up my travel day in one phrase, it would be pure hell. The car was late picking me up and had to haul ass to the airport. The driver didn’t help me with my bags, so I had to drag my large suitcase out of the trunk all by myself—I’m short and curvy, mind you. Then, I had to run to the gate—like actually run. I didn’t get to check in as early as I wanted so I had a middle seat—a freaking middle seat—between a not-very-nice woman wearing so much perfume it made my eyes water, and a man who alternated between elbowing me in the ribs and trying to use my shoulder as a pillow. So much for a nap on the way down.
After landing, I discovered the only rental cars still available were either big pick-up trucks or small sports cars. Despite reserving one online, all I got for my inconvenience was an apology and no discount on the Chevy Silverado they rented me. But, to my delight, it was a pretty nice truck. You can take the girl out of the country, but you cannot take the love for big trucks out of the girl.
The drive to the farm was painful and slow and felt like it took so much longer than it was supposed to. By the time I pulled onto Whitney Way, I could have slept inside the truck until morning and been perfectly fine.
As I pull up to the house and shut the truck off, I inhale a deep breath and take in the sight of my childhood home. While it’s true Nan and Paw only looked after me and Harper since middle school, we lived here our entire lives. Nan and Paw are my mother’s parents. Mom and Dad moved here before we were born to help work the farm. This place is the entire Whitney way of life. With the exception of me, of course.
If I ever have to describe this house to someone who doesn’t know it, I tell them to close their eyes and picture a big white house from the front of a Southern Living magazine. Whatever they’d conjure in their minds would likely be pretty close.
The Whitney home is three stories. Columns in the front, a big wrap-around porch, two porch swings. Tidy landscaping. Black shutters, and lace curtains. The place hasn’t really changed at all since I was a child. Each time I visit, I’m amazed at its consistency. Even now, in the dark, I can make out the familiar lines.
As I get my bags from the back, I hear the familiar creak of the back door swing open and slam shut on the spring. Footsteps pad lightly across the wooden planks of the porch and stop near what I assume is the edge of the steps.
“You’re actually here!” Harper quietly exclaims, with a tad too much disbelief in her voice. There’s a small smile plastered across her face.
Harper is a stark contrast to me. Where my skin is pale and my hair dark, she carries a light golden tan and long, blonde hair. Where my eyes are a strange foggy hazel, hers are a cool and clear blue. I’ve been blessed with enough boob and butt for the both of us while she’s of the petite variety, and much more proportionately sculpted. Which is to say, she was born for small-town life and I was not.
She was prom queen. She competed in beauty pageants. She was crowned Pumpkin Princess at the Harvest Festival and Parade around the same time. She and her jock boyfriend were voted “Cutest Couple” in her senior class.
Now, they’re getting a divorce, her small-town life coming full circle.
My poor baby sister.
“Try not to sound too shocked,” I say, laughing off her surprise.
She waves her hand at me and descends the porch steps, reaching for the bags in my right hand and gesturing for me to follow her like I don’t know my way around. “Nan and Paw are already asleep but they’re excited to see you in the morning,” she says.
That figures. It’s pretty late for them. In fact, it’s pretty late for me. I own the fact that I like sleep and have no problem being in bed early. Absolutely no shame.
I nod to her in understanding, and then we head upstairs—straight to my old room. She opens the door and I take in the sight all at once. I shift my eyes from one side to the other, looking over all my old stuff with a bit more care. Harper definitely washed the bedding. I can smell the fabric softener in the air. I also note the fresh vase of wildflowers on the dresser and smile.
I sit on the edge of my bed gently, as if I need to try it out first before fully committing. Harper finishes setting my bags down and sits beside me. The thought occurs to me that we haven’t actually seen each other in almost two years, if my math is correct. Despite this, we haven’t even hugged hello and it makes me sort of sad.
I seek to correct it and reach for her. At first, her body doesn’t respond—undoubtedly surprised by my actions. Then I feel her relax and hug me back. Her shoulders start to shake next, and I know she’s crying. I reach up to stroke her hair then, knowing being held is probably what she needs right now.
“I just didn’t see it coming, Lyla,” she cries. She pulls away from my embrace and wipes at the tears streaming down her face.
“I know, honey,” I say, rubbing soothing circles on her back.
“There will be time for all this blubbering later. I’ll let you get settled and get some sleep,” she says.
I nod and give her a small smile. Harper has never been one to freely cry in front of anyone. She keeps her emotions bottled up. So, I know this whole ordeal is difficult for her in more than one way.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s talk tomorrow then.”
“Yes,” she says. She stands from her spot next to me and walks across the room, to the door. Before she leaves, she turns back to me and says, “Thank you.”
Knowing exactly what she means, I simply nod and watch her leave.
I glance around the room once again, remembering moments of my youth brought forth by the books lining the bookshelf and the trophies on the dresser. While my sister was busy wearing dresses and waving gingerly at the judges, I was running. Across tracks and fields. Well enough to become team captain and win some medals and trophies too. Once again, I’m reminded of our paths—such a stark contrast. Not that there was anything wrong with her path or mine, they were just very different.
I fling myself back on my bed, utterly exhausted from the day of travel, and grateful it’s over. I want nothing more than to peel out of my clothes and crawl underneath the blankets right away, but I think better of it and decide I should at least wash my face and brush my teeth. Being tired doesn’t mean I can forget basic hygiene, after all.
I search through my suitcase for a set of pajamas and settle on a tank top and shorts. Nan and Paw are in bed and it doesn’t matter if Harper happens to see me. There are fewer greater joys in life than removing your bra at the end of a long day. Any woman who disagrees should be evaluated. I shrug out of my stiff travel wear and into the comfort of my pajamas, the thin material so light on my skin, I exhale a sigh of relief.
I grab my toiletry bag and slide into the hallway as quietly as I can, walking to the bathroom nearest my room where I turn the knob without a thought. The sight I uncover, however, is enough to make me want to get back in my rental truck, drive back to the airport, and fly all the way back home right this second.