2
SPADE
”Good afternoon,” the car rental clerk at McGhee Tyson Airport in Knoxville, Tennessee, greets me after my direct flight from LaGuardia.
“Afternoon.”
The clerk looks at me from head to toe, spotting my cowboy boots, and a knowing smile touches her lips. “Let me guess; you’re going to the festival in the mountains?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been waiting for this weekend since I bought the tickets late last year.”
She nods her head eagerly. “My oldest son goes to the Mountain Country Festival every year and is excited about the new location. This year’s lineup is the best yet—or so I heard.”
“That’s what their site said, too,” I agree with her.
“How exciting. But back to your booking—-what’s your name, sugar?”
“It’s Edmund Spade, ma’am.”
“I love the name. Is it a family name?”
“Yes, my grandpa was Edmund as well. My parents wanted my name to honor him,” I explain like a thousand times before.
“How lovely of them! Can I have your driver’s license to check your booking details, Edmund?”
I nod, offering my ID, a smile forming on my lips—nobody calls me Edmund except my family sometimes. Everyone else knows me as Spade, but as it’s also my last name, it would be odd for my family to call me that.
The clerk’s fingers fly over the keyboard before she smiles sweetly. “I found your information. You’re renting a standard pickup for the next two weeks, and your drop-off will be at JFK in New York. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I’m driving back home and stopping a few times on my way.”
“How fun. Let me get the keys and paperwork for you. There’s freshly brewed coffee on the side table if you need an extra kick this morning.”
“Take your time—I’m in no hurry.”
As I wait for her return, I look around the small space. The travel posters advertising Knoxville must be from at least twenty years ago, but I don’t mind. I’m finally here. Like I told the lovely clerk, I’ve been waiting for this weekend for what seems like forever. And what comes after isn’t too bad, either. I plan to take my time driving from here back home.
First, I was going to ask someone from King Tattoo or one of my sisters to join me, but I realized I could make the trip alone. I’ve never had problems finding new friends, so hopefully, there’s a friend group I can join at the festival. If not, being alone isn’t the end of the world.
Being thirty-eight, I’m used to it. Being alone, that is. Sometimes—scratch that—most nights, I do wish I wasn’t all alone. For some reason, I can’t seem to find a long-term partner. I have often wondered if it’s because I’m not good enough, but friends and family say it’s not ameproblem. More like Ijust haven’t found the oneproblem.
My latest ex from two years ago got a job across the country four months into our relationship and moved. We decided to break up before even trying long distance. The one before her, well, she wanted my former colleague more than she wanted me. And the list goes on.
Definitely a‘just haven't found the one’ problem,right?
After I get the keys to my rental, I leave the outdated office, saying my sincere goodbyes. The silver pickup awaits me in the corner of the parking lot, just like I was advised. I put my sunglasses on as I walk toward it.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, I adjust it to fit my above-average height of six foot four. The bench feels comfy under me with its wider seat. Reaching for the seatbelt, I notice it’s longer than average, too. There’s room to move with it, which I like.
Starting the truck next, I put the hotel address to the navigator, seeing it takes me under an hour and a half to get there if the traffic isn’t slowing me down. I connect my phone to Bluetooth, press play on Audible, and continue listening to a dark romance book I started this morning on my way to the airport.
Just when the couple is finally getting busy after hundreds of pages of sexual tension andI would kill you if I could without getting caught vibes, my phone rings. The opening lines of “Cruise” by Florida Georgia Line fill the cab, cutting off the sultry-voiced narrator. Looking at the screen, I smile to myself, seeing who’s calling me. I was expecting Jax, my boss, to contact me at some point today, but clearly, he misses me too much already.
“Hi, boss,” I greet Jax as the call connects.
“Man, you never called or texted me to let me know if you got there okay. I thought something was wrong for a moment—thanks to the radio silence on your end. I even checked the damn flight information on the website.”
Jax hates flying and not-so-secretly worries when he knows one of us is traveling by plane. He doesn’t want to admit it aloud, but this isn’t the first call like this I have received since knowing him for over ten years. It’s actually sweet coming from a guy who sometimes acts like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything else other than his partner Soph, tattooing, and his bike. But deep down, my boss-turned-friend deeply cares about the people in his life, me included.
