Page 6 of Out of Place

My parents neglected to tell me that my flight would leave at eight in the morning. I frantically jump out of bed when Mom storms into my room, clapping her hands and grabbing my things before the sun is even up. I quickly put on some clothes and fix my hair before she rolls my two large suitcases out of my room.

Mom hands me a coffee when I stomp into the living room. I don’t thank her for it because I wouldn’t need this coffee right now if she wasn’t trying to ruin my life.

She looks my outfit up and down like she wants to say something but decides against it. Serena helped me pick out the black mini skirt, white bustier top, and black blazer with my Dior heeled boots. We figured I couldn’t go wrong with classic black and white.

“Alright, ladies, let’s go,” Dad says from the doorway. He’s grabbed both my suitcases while I’ve got my carry-on.

The ride to the airport is tense, and everyone is quiet. I refuse to look at either of them.

Mom hugs me at the terminal drop-off, but I stand rigid, not hugging her back. Dad hands me my plane ticket, and I scoff because I can’t believe he’s not even letting me take our private jet. I have to fly commercial. At least he got me a first-class seat. Really, it’s the least he could do.

They say goodbye and some shit about how this will be good for me, but I wave them off and check my bags before braving security and finding my gate. I don’t need another lecture.

My phone vibrates with a good luck text from Rhett. Like he even cares. I wouldn’t even be in this mess if he hadn’t been a tattle-tale. He’s always been a suck-up to our parents. The perfect child, following in Dad’s footsteps. Boring.

I ignore his text and board my flight, ordering champagne as soon as I’m seated.

* * *

The first thing I notice when I step out of the Savannah International Airport is how fucking sticky it feels.

Like, it’s disgusting.

I slip off my blazer as I pull up the Uber app on my phone and type in the address my parents gave me for Aunt Dottie’s.

It takes forever for the car to show up, and when it finally does, I’m sweating and starving. Not a good combination.

When we get on the highway, the driver asks, “So, whatcha in town for?”

I look at him in the rearview mirror. “I’d prefer if we didn’t talk, thanks.”

His eyebrows raise as he mutters, “Ok, then.”

He respects my wishes, and we sit silently for the entire hour-and-a-half ride to Aunt Dottie’s farm.

We exit the highway, and I stare out the window at the little town we drive through and have to hold back tears. This place is terrible. Absolutely terrible. Serena would describe it as charming. She loves those made-for-TV movies set in small towns. I’d describe it as my worst fucking nightmare.

Where do people have fun around here? The fucking ice cream shop?

At least there’s a coffee shop. Maybe it will have some decent coffee.

The driver turns onto a dirt road and drives under a sign that says Underwood Farms. The house appears at the end of it, and I almost tell the guy to turn around and take me back to the airport. Maybe I could fly somewhere else. Would anyone really notice or care if I grabbed a one-way ticket to Costa Rica? I’m sure Dad would care about the charge on his credit card. Ugh.

The house is nice, if not a little run down, but I guess it could be worse. There’s a cute wrap-around front porch that I always see in movies and several pickup trucks parked out front. Based on what I saw on the main road, that seems to be everyone’s vehicle of choice in this town.

“Is this the place?” I can tell he’s asking because I don’t look like I would fit in here. He wouldn’t be wrong.

“I guess so.”

He helps me get my bags out of the trunk before he takes off, probably hoping never to see me again. I leave them on the gravel drive and walk up the creaky steps to the front door.

I knock on the bright red door and wait.

Finally, the door opens, and a man, probably a few years older than me, stands there with dirt smudged all over his clothes and even some on his face. His hat is backward, but some of his brown hair curls out from underneath. His dark eyes take me in from head to toe before a smirk crosses his lips.

“Um, hello. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s rude to stare,” I say to this strange man.

“I don’t know if you know this, but you stared first,” he says.