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“I’ll go wherever you go,” I whisper to him.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
J.R. dips his lips to mine, and he kisses me, pulling the covers over our heads and making the remainder of this night ours.
36
Kelley and Adam picked the most beautiful venue to get married in the Upstate. I knew that Kelley would never be happy with a small, coastal wedding like J.R. and I. She’s been planning this day since she could hold a crayon. I’ve never really understood her fascination with a big wedding and all the glam that comes with it, but when J.R. and I arrived at the venue fully decorated, I understood it all.
I’m not a bridesmaid. I’m not even a matron of honor. Kelley wanted this day to be about her. She didn’t want her guests gazing at her bridesmaids. She wanted her guests to be looking at her. And I can honestly say, all eyes are on Kelley this evening. She is absolutely beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but she’s extraordinarily beautiful.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving for Tennessee next week.” Kelley hugs me before the wedding. “Do you really have to go?”
“You seriously should be thinking about Adam and your honeymoon right now. Not me and Tennessee.”
“I can’t help it. Besides, it takes the wedding anxiety away.”
“I’m proud of you,” I tell her. “You are a beautiful bride.”
“I know.” She smiles. Typical Kelley—and yet I love her.
The wedding ceremony itself turned out to be just as beautiful as the bride. Perfect in every way right down to the music and lighting. The reception was of equal beauty. I watched my friend mingle with her new husband, and I realized that neither of us needs each other the same way we needed each other before. I have J.R. again, forever, and she’s with Adam. We’re officially grownups, aren’t we? It feels so strange.
J.R., Knox, and I drive back to Tybee the morning after the wedding, and perhaps, that was the drive I was dreading the most. The drive back to Tybee meant that packing must resume. On January 2, we were moving—albeit, not permanently, but still.
***
This isn’t the first time I have left this house on Tybee in January. I’m emotional, like the last time I left here, but for different reasons now. We aren’t sure how long we’ll be in Tennessee, but I know I’m going to miss my home. There’s something about seeing your life packed in boxes that makes you feel funny.
The farm has a barn that we’ll live in. I’m told it’s not a barn with animals in itanymore, but instead, it’s been converted into a home. There are a few bedrooms, a couple of bathrooms, and a kitchen. Still, I haven’t seen actual pictures, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about it.
Roger insisted on having the barn renovated before our arrival. However, his idea of renovations and my idea of renovations could be two completely different things. Somehow, no matter how grand it may be, I don’t think the barn could ever match up to our home here on Tybee. It’s special in its own way.
I don’t want to hope that we won’t be gone that long. Hoping for that means hoping that Roger will die sooner rather than later. None of us are ready for that. Especially J.R. And no one wants to hope for death.
It’s a six-hour drive north, though I think it will take a little longer. We left the house about an hour ago, but the baby has made a trampoline out of my bladder. I’m sure J.R. is ready to set me out on the road because we have stopped three times in forty-five minutes. J.R. is a patient man, and Knox is just proud that she’s not the one asking to stop and pee.
On the trip so far, we’ve seen everything from the big city that Atlanta is to the country sides of northern Georgia. I think it’s funny how the scenery can change so drastically in so few miles. From tall buildings and interstates that curve into each other like spaghetti noodles, to flat farmlands with cows and mountains that rise up from the ground like a giant mole hill. The earth’s canvas can change quickly yet be so subtle about it at the same time.
Now, as the Tennessee border seeps into the horizon, I watch as the mountains seem to swallow us up in their deep valleys. The road grows thin, and it pulls us deeper into its belly. We pass waterfalls and wide rivers, golf courses and national parks. The trees around us are so thick that if it weren’t for a break in their shade every now and then, I wouldn’t know that the sun is shining. Finally, the valleys open again, and the mountains spit us out to flatter land. We’re in Tennessee.
I look over at J.R., and he looks exhausted. He sits up on the steering wheel slightly, his eyes peeled wide, and I think he’s attempting to keep his full attention on the task at hand—getting his family to the farm safely.
I’m tired, too, although I'm not sure why, and I rub my pregnant belly out of habit. Knox is asleep, but that doesn’t surprise me. She always gets her best sleep on road trips. I relax back in my seat, trying to release the tension that built up as we followed the curvy roads through the mountains. One wrong move, and J.R. could have driven us all off the side of the mountain.
Finally, I hear the words I’ve been longing to hear since we first set off on this journey: “We’re here.” J.R turns the truck off the main road and onto a dirt drive that no one, except for someone who knew it was there, would have noticed. The drive is lined with tall trees, and the path is a bit bumpy as we continue forward.
My heart starts to pound a little, and I pray that whatever we find at the end of this driveway isn’t like something we’d see out of a murder mystery movie. I’m not sure what to expect out of the farm since J.R. has never really talked about it, but I trust that he wouldn’t lead us into a situation where Knox and I could never live comfortably.
To my surprise, the drive opens to a beautiful scene, and for a moment, I wonder why J.R. hates this place so much. The land is flat, and it seems to roll on forever. Mountains paint the backdrop of the farm. I can see cows grazing in the nearby pastures, and there are even chickens roaming free. There’s a brick ranch home that sits just off to the right of the drive. Ellie and Roger’s place. The home where J.R. grew up.
It’s a cute, quaint, little thing, typical of brick ranch homes built in the 1960s. It’s got a red brick façade, a large window overlooking a wide front porch, and smaller windows along the front of the house. The landscaping is nice and simple. The front porch is decorated with a wooden swing and two wooden rocking chairs. I imagine J.R. as a teenager, plucking at his guitar in that swing. I see him there with wild hair and the look of teenage angst on his face. The thought makes me smile.
Beyond the house, the land opens to pastures. Cows, horses, even pigs, inhabiting each gated piece of land. There’s a barn, tall and red, with a black tin roof, just beyond Roger and Ellie’s. I think it’s our barn.
To the left of the barn is a trail that leads down to a pond. “A Roger-made pond,” J.R. told us earlier on our trip up here. There’s a dock and a small boat there, but J.R. says that no one takes the boat out anymore. It’s got a hole somewhere in the bow, and it can’t be trusted.
