TWO.
Ever
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Not that small.
Strawberry Plains is small, but not so small that it feels suffocating.
It sits just off a main highway that locals prefer over the interstate.
This road has red lights, gas stations, mom-and-pop markets, and little strip malls every twenty minutes or so.
But turn left or right off the main drag and drive for ten minutes, and the pavement gives way to fields stretching out flat and quiet under the sun.
It’s not one of those towns where everybody knows your name and your mama’s maiden name, but if you stick around long enough, you start recognizing the same faces behind the counters.
It’s a place you pass through because you live here, because you’re visiting someone, or because your tank is sitting on empty.
When I made my way through the house last night, I was relieved to find the electricity was still on and the water ran clear after I let the faucets flush for a few minutes.
But best of all, someone had replaced the ancient window unit with a newer AC since the last time I was here.
The only thing I couldn’t fix was the empty fridge.
I stood there in the doorway with a sharp pang of stupidity.
How had I driven all this way without so much as thinking to stop and get food? Brilliant planning.
When I woke this morning my mouth was desert-dry and my stomach was twisting in on itself.
So I drag myself into the shower, stood under the lukewarm water long enough to feel human again, and told myself I’d be fine once I got some coffee and food in me.
But when I grabbed my keys and brought them to Gladys, she didn’t even pretend to cooperate.
She sputtered once like she was telling me to f— off. Then went utterly silent.
Luckily, Aunt Linda’s old light-blue 1976 Cadillac Sedan DeVille was parked exactly where it should be in the garage with the keys in the glovebox.
As long as I can remember, this was her car—the one I used to call an “old lady car” when I was a teenager and thought anything without a spoiler or a loud stereo was hopelessly uncool.
She’d laugh every time I said it, never offended, just pat the steering wheel like it was an old friend and tell me beauty was in the details.
Uncle Ray bought it for her on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, a milestone most people don’t reach anymore, and she drove it like it was part of their vows.
He was always out there in the driveway after a rain, buffing the chrome until it gleamed, washing away every speck of red Tennessee mud, making sure the tank was full so she never had to pump gas herself in the heat or the rain.
It was the quietest kind of devotion, the kind that didn’t need grand gestures to prove it was real.
I used to watch them from the porch and think, that’s what I want someday—someone who sees the small things.
But men like Uncle Ray are hard to come by these days.
It feels wrong to be in the driver’s seat without her beside me.
Normally she’d be there, one hand on the wheel, the other waving at every passing car like she knew the driver’s whole life story.
We’d roll all the windows down, let the warm wind whip through, and blast whatever station I picked.
Today I twist the dial until I land on a country station that isn’t in the middle of a tractor-supply ad, and some slow, mournful steel guitar fills the car.
I turn it up a little louder than I usually would, letting it push back against the quiet that’s been pressing in on me since I got here.
I ease the Cadillac out of the driveway and onto the two-lane road that leads into town. The first stop is the gas station. I’m not sure how long it’ll take to get Gladys towed and running again, so I fill the Cadillac’s tank to the brim.
Next I head to Mr. Jenkins’s law office, a squat brick building squeezed between the pharmacy and the dollar store.
The waiting room smells like old coffee and dusty files.
He greets me with the same careful sympathy he’s been using all week, then spreads out the deeds, the will, the stack of papers that suddenly make the ranch feel heavier than before.
He asks—again—what I plan to do with the place.
His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s already picturing the commission check from a quick sale.
He leans back in his chair and suggests, not for the first time, that selling makes the most sense.
“Market’s good right now,” he says. “You could walk away with enough to start fresh somewhere else.”
I tell him I need more time. Aunt Linda’s funeral is this evening at the little church down the road, and I can barely think past getting through that.
I promise I’ll walk the property tomorrow, meet the hands who’ve kept the place going, figure out what feels right.
He nods, but his eyes flick to the calendar on his desk.
“Day after tomorrow, then,” he says. “I’ll need a decision so we can move forward with the estate.”
There’s no real room for argument—he’s the one holding the keys to the accounts, the one who knows where every dollar is supposed to go. I don’t have the energy to push back, so I agree.
After leaving Mr. Jenkins’s office, I drive aimlessly through town for a while.
I pull into the lots of a couple of mechanics’ shops along the way—places with faded signs and oil-stained concrete, the kind of garages that have been here since before I was born.
But after the third shop, I decide I’ve had enough face-to-face rejection for one afternoon.
Maybe I’ll call instead next time—lower my voice, add a little gravel, see if they treat “Mike” with more respect than they’ve shown me.
Strawberry Plains hasn’t changed much since the last time I was here.
The same quiet streets, the same quaint little houses with flowerpots on the porches, the same slow rhythm that makes time feel optional.
It’s peaceful in a way the city never is—no horns, no crowds, just the low hum of cicadas and the occasional pickup rumbling past. But today the peace feels brittle.
Everywhere I go, heads turn. At first I tell myself it’s nothing—just me driving in hesitant circles, squinting at faded street signs, obviously lost. But when I stop at the small corner market on the edge of town to grab groceries, the man behind the counter sets my bag down gently and says, “I was real sorry to hear about Linda.” His voice is soft, practiced in condolences.
That’s when it clicks: it’s not me they’re staring at.
It’s the car. They’re seeing Aunt Linda’s blue Cadillac gliding through town without her in it, they must think they’re seeing a ghost. I can’t blame them.
If I had passed myself on the road, I would have stared too.
— ∞ —
When I get back to the ranch my clothes are damp through, so I change into something simple: a long black dress I’ve owned for years, the kind that doesn’t demand attention.
I slip on my brown one-inch laced heels—the ones that always make me stand a little straighter, feel a little more capable—and braid the top half of my hair, pulling it back so it stays out of my face.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway, smoothing the fabric over my hips, and try to talk myself through what’s coming.
I can do this. It’s only a few hours. The church isn’t big, and not many people will show up anyway.
But the nerves still twist. If they’ve heard the rumors—or the facts—that I’m the one inheriting the ranch, I can already guess what they’re thinking.
I’m a city girl, an outsider. But Aunt Linda and Uncle Ray never had children of their own, I’m all that’s left. That has to count for something, right?
I step out the front door and the humidity hits me like a wet blanket. I groan under my breath, lock the top deadbolt, and pat Gladys’s hood as I pass. “Hold down the fort, old girl.”
I slide into the Cadillac—what I’ve started calling Mandy, because she feels like she deserves a name that’s softer than “old lady car”—and she starts on the first try.
This time I don’t roll the windows down.
Wind-whipped nostalgia is not what I need right now.
So instead I crank the air conditioning as high as it’ll go and let the cool blast over my arms and neck.
Thank God Uncle Ray had the foresight to modernize it years ago.
As I drive down the long driveway, I glance to the barn where I see a man standing.
He must be one of the ranch hands. Or an intruder?
Who knows at this point. But he’s standing leaning against the inside of the walk in like he owns the place—arms crossed, one foot crossed over casually, seemingly glaring in my direction.
The energy he’s sending my way is tense, and unwanted, and it is exactly what I don’t need right now, so I turn my eyes forward and grip the steering wheel as I get to the main road.
I pause for a moment and look back in the rear view mirror to find his eyes lingering on my car. I roll my eyes to myself. Great. One of the ranch hands already hates my guts.
I huff out a breath as I pull out, trying to clear my mind from the tension and crank up the music, but this time I turn it to the classic rock station, and the guitar rifts of Black Dog by Led Zeppelin rattles the windows.
I grin as I pass by the property on my right, hoping that grumpy ranch hand hears my rebellious nature. Letting him know I’m not here to be swayed by unwanted tension.
— ∞ —
The funeral service was a lot more packed than I expected.
I don’t know why Mr. Jenkins told me it was going to be ‘small’, because it most certainly was not.
It was lavish, and beautiful with flower and music arrangements by the church choir she was part of.
There were at least a hundred people, easy.
And they all seemed to know exactly who I was.
I think I probably talked with almost everyone here, and they all said the same thing—my Aunt Linda talked about me all the time.
They told me she was proud of the young woman I’ve come to be, that I always followed my dreams, and I was smart, and funny, and beautiful.
The more people I talked with, the more the tears began to flood.
Because it made me realize how much she loved me.
And in the last few years I was never around for her the way I should have been.
I came to visit and stayed with her when Uncle Ray died, but for the last four years since then I hardly made an effort to call or even text.
She was alone on the ranch, with no one but the ranch hands.
And I regret not putting in more effort.
Especially after hearing what everyone has to say about me.
I’ve been standing with a small group of older women—Connie, Donna, and Ivette—listening to them talk about crochet and their book club at the church, how I absolutely must come to service on Sunday.
And I told them I would. I did, in fact, make a promise to God after finding the key to the house that I would at least try.
From the corner of my eye someone catches my attention. I resist looking over, simply because my heart is thudding in my chest and I’m suddenly chewing the inside of my cheek like a nervous girl. And I have absolutely no idea why.
My eyes flicker to the side and I catch the stare of a man. An incredibly, drop-dead-gorgeous, man. If that’s even enough to describe him. He’s wearing a loose hunter green button down that’s rolled up to his elbows, only half tucked into his dark gray slacks with worn brown boots laced up.
My eyes tail up and down his body, pausing at the flex of his arms and the firmness of his chest that’s peaking through the open buttons of his shirt.
But I linger on his face. Perfectly chiseled, the sharp line of his jaw is accentuated by the stubble beard that seems to be a few days old.
But his eyes. My God—his eyes. Even from afar and under the shade of his beige cowboy hat I can tell they’re green, and they’re blazing into me so intensely I don’t even know what to do with myself.
My body has seemed to stop working, or maybe it’s working too hard, I don’t know.
Because the first name that comes to mind is T.J.
One of the women clears her throat gently. I quickly pull my eyes from the man and find all their eyebrows raised in question.
“You two have quite the tension between one another,” Connie says softly, as if someone outside of this circle might actually be eaves dropping on us.
“Oh, I don’t…” I stutter, and I turn my eyes back to the man, but he’s already turned and talking with two other men. A gentleman about the same age with black hair under a cowboy hat, and a younger man with blond wavy hair. “I don’t know him.”
“You don’t?” Ivette asks quickly, and they all give each other a curious look.
“Should I? Why? Who is he?”
“Oh, deary,” Donna says playfully, motherly almost, just like Aunt Linda would say when she knows I’m about to get myself into trouble. “I fear you’ll learn soon enough.”
“What does that mean?” I say panicked, and when I look over again, the three men are already walking away.
“You have nothing to worry about, you’ll be just fine.” Fine? My mind is racing. What aren’t they telling me? Who is that man?
“He’s not as bad as he seems,” Connie says further, and I finally throw my hands up, giving up trying. They obviously know him, so he must be a local, but why won’t they tell me who he is? Is he trouble? Someone to stay away from?
“Should I be concerned with the way you’re talking about him?” I ask quietly. They wave their hands at me.
“No, no. He’s a sweetheart deep down. You’ll see,” Donna says, and my eyes widen. I’ll see? I’ll see what?
I shake my head quickly and try to wipe away all the thoughts of a small town bad boy running through my mind. But his arms, and his eyes. I bet he could lift me over his shoulder and—
“I should get going!” I say quickly, my cheeks flushing red, but at least I can blame the heat. “I have to read through some paperwork at the ranch, but it was lovely to meet you all.”
“We’ll see you on Sunday, dear?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be there,” I say with a smile. They give a warm wave and a smile as I turn, huffing under my breath as my mind races.
That man had no business being that good looking, and I hate the way he was looking at me. Like he wanted me, and despised me at the same time. And he was here at the funeral so he obviously knew my Aunt Linda. But what are the odds I’d see him again?
Strawberry Plains is small, but it’s not that small.