ONE. #2
Behind the house rises a familiar hill, crowned by the single sprawling oak I used to climb—back when I’d sit in its branches and dream about running away with T.J.
, the boy with the dreamy green eyes. I don’t know who he was or where he came from.
All I knew was after one day he knew me better than most my friends and it made my stomach flip every time he smiled.
To this day I can still remember the exact shade of green in his eyes, even if I can’t remember much else about him.
Everything looks the same on the surface, yet the shine is gone.
The magic I used to feel—the thrill of summer visits, chasing fireflies at dusk, sneaking sugar cubes to the horses—has dulled into something heavier.
I’m not a kid anymore. I’m an adult standing in front of a run-down farmhouse that’s suddenly mine to keep alive.
The weight of it presses down as I pull Gladys to a stop in front of the house.
I set the parking brake and sink back into the seat, letting out a long, shaky breath.
I can’t believe I actually made it. The dashboard clock reads just past seven, but the sun is still high, generous the way summer evenings are in Tennessee.
I remember how much I loved this time of day back then.
Not too hot, not yet buggy, just warm enough that the air felt alive against my skin.
I stare at the house until the memories rise up as if they happened yesterday instead of years ago.
I see the three of us—Aunt Linda, Uncle Ray, and me—curled around the stone fireplace on cool fall nights, the crackle of logs filling the quiet while they told stories about the land and the people who’d worked it before them.
I remember the summer they surprised me with a bright blue pop-up pool in the side yard, the way I shrieked with laughter as Uncle Ray scooped me up and dunked me under, while Aunt Linda pretended to scold us both.
And then there was Willow. The gray-spotted mare with gentle eyes who let me ride her bareback across the open pasture faster than my heart could keep up.
The wind tore through my hair, the ground blurred beneath us, and for those few wild minutes I felt completely, gloriously free in a way I’ve never quite managed to recapture since.
But the memories aren’t all soft-edged. I also remember the day Mom’s car rolled up only as far as the gate—not even bothering to drive the rest of the way to the house. She leaned over, popped open the passenger door, and told me to get out and walk the rest of it.
“I’ll be back in a few weeks,” she said, no real promise in her voice, no number of days I could count down on my fingers.
I used to tell myself I hated being dropped off here, that I’d make it my personal mission to be miserable the whole time, to prove I didn’t need this place or these people.
But by the second day—every single time—Aunt Linda and Uncle Ray would pull me into their quiet rhythm.
A plate of biscuits still warm from the oven, a horse to groom, a story told over evening chores.
They made me feel welcome, safe, wanted.
Looking back now, I think those summers might have been the only real happiness I knew growing up.
I reach over and twist the key in Gladys’s ignition. The engine coughs once, then dies with a long, defeated hiss. A thin curl of smoke rises from under the hood—definitely not just road dust this time. I wince, already mentally mapping out the nearest mechanic in town tomorrow.
Gladys is a red-and-white 1988 Ford F-150, my high-school graduation present to myself, the same truck that carried me all the way to Chicago for college and every uncertain mile since.
She’s been the one steady thing in a life that’s rarely felt steady.
And the thought of losing her now after everything, makes my chest ache.
I step out and shut the door with a soft thud. I really should have asked Mr. Jenkins for a key. And I really hope this one isn’t locked, because knowing my luck, it will be.
“Here we go,” I mutter under my breath, climbing the single step to the porch.
The storm door creaks as I pull it open. I turn the knob.
Locked.
A deep sigh escapes me. I shouldn’t have shut Gladys off.
I should have left her running just in case.
I could probably sleep outside if I had to—curl up in the bed of the truck or find a spot in the barn with the animals—but after driving all day, my body is screaming for a real bed, a shower, anything that isn’t the inside of this truck.
I turn and scan the fields, letting my gaze drift until it lands on the neighbor’s house.
The orange porch lights still glow, though the distance makes it impossible to tell if anyone’s still sitting out there.
I imagine a guest room with clean sheets, a bathroom that doesn’t smell like dust, hot water that actually stays hot.
Food. God, I should have stopped somewhere for food.
But I know how country hospitality works—and how country suspicion works too.
You don’t just walk up to a stranger’s door at dusk without knowing exactly what kind of welcome you’re walking into.
I spin back toward the door, eyes widening as a memory clicks into place. The spare key. Aunt Linda used to joke about the “just in case” key hidden in one of the hanging planters. I think, deep down, they expected me to run away from the city one day and show up on their doorstep needing shelter.
I drag the old wooden bench underneath the three planters hanging from the porch, climb up, and dig into the first one—nothing but dry soil. The second is the same. My heart starts to thud harder.
“Please,” I whisper, my second prayer slipping out like a reflex. “Please, let it be in this one. I promise I’ll go to church while I’m here. As much as possible.”
I reach into the third planter, fingers brushing through lingering dirt I try not to think about too hard. Then—metal. Cool, solid, the familiar ridges of a key against my fingertips. I pull it out and hold it up to the fading light like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“Thank you,” I breathe, hands clasped in a quick, grateful prayer before I hop down. The key slides into the lock with a perfect, satisfying click and I push the door open. I step inside with a small, triumphant smile breaking across my face, but that smile fades almost instantly.
The air is thick and stale, heavy with the heat of a house that hasn’t been opened in days. No music plays from the radio in the corner of the room. The blinds are’t cracked to let in the last of the evening light. And there’s no scent of supper drifting from the kitchen.
The silence is deeper than quiet. It’s hollow.
The life that used to fill every corner of this place—the laughter, the footsteps, the warmth of people who loved each other—is gone.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, the loneliness crashes over me like a wave I didn’t see coming.
I stand there in the doorway, key still in my hand, and feel truly, achingly alone.