Page 15

The North Carolina Road Trip

Song : Fast Car - Luke Combs

I f someone told me two weeks ago that I ’ d be getting dropped off at a trailer park in Riverton, Wyoming with a man I met on a layover flight, with my rescue mutt Nacho in tow and a suitcase full of emotional baggage, I probably would ’ ve laughed. Or cried. Or both.

But here we were—standing in front of what could only be described as a corrugated tin box with satellite dreams, as Blake’s truck kicked up a final puff of gravel and disappeared down the dusty road but not before he gave me an awkward hug that said “ you’re officially part of this incredibly weird family now that Jon’s fallen in love with you”

“I swear to God, this place is held together with duct tape and the dreams of failed country singers,” I muttered as I pulled Nacho tighter into my arms. He whimpered and gave me a look that said, you dragged me into this chaos, lady.

Jon chuckled beside me because of course, he did.

“It’s not that bad,” he said, knocking on the crooked screen door that swung slightly in the breeze.

“Trevor’s harmless.” Harmless was a strong word for a man whose welcome sign read “ Enter at your own risk, motherf*ers ” in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard.

Trevor opened the door shirtless, with a beer in one hand and a cigarette tucked behind his ear like it was the world’s saddest fashion accessory. His hair was long, and unkept, and looked like a Pokémon character, though I suspected that was more choice than style.

“ Well, well, well” he drawled, looking us both up and down. “ Jonny-boy and his lady friend. ”

I stepped forward, clutching Nacho like a toddler and gave him a smile that said I’m judging you, but politely.

“Hi, I’m Delilah. You must be Trevor. I’ve heard… things. ”

Trevor let out a wheezy laugh that made me briefly wonder if he’d ever inhaled something other than cigarette smoke and fried pork rinds.

“We’re leavin’ first light. I’m ridin’ shotgun, but I’ll drive when Jon gets too scared of my playlist.”

“Perfect,” I said, stepping inside, immediately hit with the scent of Old Spice, beef jerky, and something that might’ve once been a cat.

That night, we slept in what Trevor called the “Guest Suite,” which was just a tiny living room with a futon, lava lamp and a vintage collection of Hot Wheels nailed to the wall.

Romantic? Not exactly. But Jon and I curled up together, Nacho tucked between us like a judgmental little meatloaf, and somehow it felt right.

We hit the road just after sunrise, but not before changing into a so-called bathroom where the washer and dryer were probably worth more than the entire trailer itself, the sky still smeared with the last remnants of night.

Our rental car—a dented silver SUV with a suspicious stain on the passenger seat—was packed to the gills.

Trevor insisted on bringing a duffel bag full of “necessities,” which turned out to be a collapsible fishing rod, a tackle box and an old karaoke machine he “never traveled without.” At least the man had his priorities straight.

“Priorities,” I whispered to Nacho, who was perched in my lap in his sherpa-lined travel harness like a tiny disgruntled emperor.

We crossed the state line into Colorado by midmorning, the mountains rising like a promise in the distance. Jon drove first, and Trevor DJ’ed from the backseat, playing everything from Creedence Clearwater Revival to a disturbing number of Taylor Swift breakup songs.

“This one’s about that bastard Jason from high school,” Trevor muttered during “All Too Well,” staring out the window like a man haunted by memories of lost love or a failed high school football career.

“ Are you… okay? ” I asked cautiously.

“No,” he said dramatically. “But thanks for asking.”

By lunchtime, we were in Fort Collins, where we stopped at a roadside diner called The Bacon Barn that promised “Breakfast Anytime” and “Hash Browns the Size of Your Face.” I ordered something called the “Trucker Slamwich” out of morbid curiosity and left twenty minutes later with a newfound respect for cholesterol.

Jon wiped syrup from Nacho’s face with a napkin and leaned in close.

“Still think this road trip was a good idea?” I smiled at him, my heart weirdly full.

“Honestly? I think it’s the best bad idea you’ve ever had.”

Trevor and Jon took turns driving that afternoon, the car filled with the sound of Trevor’s random life stories (“That time I got bit by a raccoon,” “When I wrestled a guy over a waffle iron,” “Why I think raccoons are time travelers”), and Nacho alternating between snoring and looking vaguely annoyed .

When we hit Kansas, the terrain flattened out like a pancake that had given up on having texture.

Just… land. Infinite, beige land. Trevor took over driving somewhere around Salina, fueled by Red Bull, sunflower seeds, and spite.

Jon had fallen asleep with his mouth open and Nacho was quietly snoring in his lap.

“I think those two will get married before Jon and I ever do,” I thought to myself and chuckled.

It was somewhere on I-70, the horizon stretched wide with nothing but grain silos and existential dread, that I caught myself singing along to Garth Brooks with reckless abandon.

“I got friends in low places,” I crooned, badly, and Nacho gave a disapproving grunt.

“You shut up,” I whispered.

“You’re just mad because you can’t reach the cup holder.”

We stopped for the night just outside Kansas City, Missouri, crashing at a budget motel that boasted “Free HBO!” and “Water pressure strong enough to peel your skin.” We all needed showers—Jon especially, who had a stubborn bit of nacho cheese in his beard from the gas station snack run two states ago.

Trevor insisted on sleeping in the bathtub because he “trusted no mattress that smelled like lemon Lysol,” and who was I to argue?

Jon and I snuggled under the scratchy motel comforter, Nacho burrowed between us like a furry hostage.

“I can’t believe we still have 1,200 miles to go,” I muttered. Jon kissed the top of my head.

“I can’t believe we haven’t murdered Trevor.”

“Days not over yet,” I said, and we both laughed.

The next morning, we hit Illinois and Indiana in rapid succession.

We stopped in a small town near Indianapolis where Trevor claimed there was a “life-changing” donut shop.

He wasn’t wrong. I had something called a “maple bacon eclair” that made me reconsider every life decision up to that point.

By Ohio, I had full-on road trip hair—flat on one side, a little frizzy, vaguely resembling the hairstyle of a 1980s backup singer.

Jon didn’t seem to mind. He kept glancing at me like I was the prettiest woman to ever navigate a truck stop bathroom barefoot (which I did not do, but thank you for the fantasy).

We spent the night in West Virginia, in a quaint mountain inn that had actual quilts on the beds and a log-burning stove in the lobby.

Trevor flirted with the receptionist, who looked like she’d seen enough men in camo hats to last a lifetime, but she indulged him with a free moon pie and a wink.

I quietly mouthed “ Don’t do it , reconsider” to her but figured I should see where this goes, you know, for the plot.

That night, Jon and I stood outside under a sky so full of stars it looked like it had been photoshopped.

Nacho was doing laps in the melting snow, I couldn’t believe we were nearing July and I’d almost been with this man for over a month, chasing absolutely nothing with the energy of a toddler high on sugar.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I whispered. Jon slid his arm around me.

“I can. It’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

“Even with Trevor?”

“Especially with Trevor,” he said, laughing.

“It’s like traveling with a reality TV show that never got past the pilot.”

By the time we crossed into North Carolina the next afternoon, I felt something deep in my chest shift.

Not in a bad way. In a this-is-what-it’s-like-to-feel-alive-again way.

The trees thickened, the air turned warmer, and the landscape went from beige to vibrant green like someone had adjusted the color settings on life.

“We made it,” Jon said, looking over at me with a soft smile.

“We really did.” Trevor hooted from the backseat.

“And no one died! That’s a win in my book.”

We laughed, and as the car wound down the familiar roads toward Jon’s hometown, I realized something: this trip hadn’t just been about picking up a truck. It had been about us. Our weird little makeshift trio.

The plan was simple. Which, of course, meant it was destined to go sideways.

Trevor—yes, that Trevor, Jon’s ex-brother-in-law via his first ex-wife (because apparently, Jon collects marriages like some people collect vinyl)—was supposed to drop us off at Aunt Becky’s house.

Quick introductions, no lingering, and then we’d bolt straight for our not-so-luxurious accommodations at the Super 8.

You know, the kind of place where the pillows are flat, the curtains smell like wet carpet, and the air conditioner sounds like it’s coughing up its final breath.

But hey, it had a microwave and a fridge, which qualified as amenities in this part of North Carolina.

Trevor pulled up into Aunt Becky’s gravel driveway, which led to a beautifully taken care of manufactured 3 bed, 2 bath home that had a beautifully decorated porch and a yard with a chicken coop and a bed of collard greens, the tires crunching with every bump like we were entering some backwoods version of Jurassic Park.

Jon had that nervous energy about him—you know, the kind that says,