Chapter 4
Pre-departure
Hayes
There are a lot of good people in Eagle Rock, Alabama who would give you their last bowl of grits if you needed it.
But I also drive by enough Confederate flags on a daily basis to make me sick to my stomach.
I pass the Baptist church where we had mom’s funeral when I was kid.
A few years later the sign in front said, “God Believes in Man and Wife. Only” and my dad said me and my sisters were never stepping foot in there again.
Now we go to a church with a sign that says, “God Wants Spiritual Fruits, Not Religious Nuts.” Still, I grew up ashamed of who I was; the message baked in with the Southern sun.
When I got a scholarship to go up north to Clarkson, I became part of a new world in Connecticut.
Arty students recited their original poems in the lounges and finance geeks pulled all-nighters studying cash flow statements.
Students protested injustice on a weekly basis the same way the entire town of Eagle Rock would come out for a football game.
Clarkson was so different from where I came from that it might as well have been on another planet.
But at least I could be myself thanks to Brady.
He’d grab my hand in the middle of campus without even looking to see who was around.
He never felt a day of shame in his life, and he taught me how to live without it.
The vibration of my wheels hitting the cracks in the road is the only sound until my phone rings again.
I know who it is – the one person who might actually be able to calm me down.
The one person who I can never talk to again.
If only I could hit the gas, drive the thousand or more miles to his place.
Unconsciously my foot presses the accelerator.
I know exactly what he would do. First, he’d make some dumb joke that would crack me up.
Then he’d wrap his arms around my waist and squeeze as hard as he could or let his fingers intertwine with mine.
Finally, he’d tell me how he thinks I’m the best boyfriend in the world and that I’m going to be an amazing doctor.
Sorry, Brady. Wrong on both counts.
I pull over to the side of the road, telling myself that I hear something under the hood that needs attention, but as soon as the truck is in park I know why I’m stopped.
What could he possibly want? What if it’s something important and I’ve been so stubborn that I’ve refused to answer the phone?
I slam my hands against the steering wheel.
Damn. Admit it, Hayes. You want to hear his voice.
My finger hovers over his contact. After the first ring, he picks up and breathlessly says the three little words I have been desperately wanting to hear.