Page 16

“Please let my family act normal for once in their lives.” I, on the other hand, was mentally preparing for the possibility that someone would offer me moonshine and call me “sugar tits.” We said goodbye to Trevor since he would be heading to Jon’s ex-wife’s house for Joseph’s graduation in two days and Jon was about to be reunited with his truck after leaving it in a hurry after Blake told him about the woman occupying part of his basement and decided to take that flight to Idaho falls where our romance begun, almost like it was all meant to be.

Surprisingly, Aunt Becky wasn’t the barefoot chain smoker I had imagined from the stories.

She was a short, silver-haired woman in a white T-shirt, Levi jeans and pearl earrings who greeted us with a bone-crushing hug and a “Lord, Y'all look tired,” like I wasn’t standing right there, awkwardly clutching Nacho’s leash while he sniffed a garden gnome’s crotch.

And then there was Billy Joe—her “longtime man friend,” which, in Southern-speak, means they’ve been playing house since the early 2000s but never legally tied the knot because “marriage ruins everything.”

Billy Joe wore a camo hat indoors, had a mustache that could’ve been registered as a wildlife sanctuary, and called Nacho “little fella” while sneakily slipping him chunks of ham from a sandwich he wasn’t offering to share with the rest of us. But honestly? It wasn’t that bad.

Aunt Becky asked us to stay for dinner, but Jon gave her the “we’ll be back tomorrow” line, and before she could guilt us with sweet tea and potato salad, we were in Jon’s burnt orange Chevy Colorado truck (which was named "Lenore") and was also the same truck that he left in Aunt Becky’s care until he returned for it, which was now.After peeling out of the driveway like horny teenagers on prom night Jon was visibly relieved, which only made me wonder what exactly he’d been bracing for.

A goat sacrifice? A family square dance?

A PowerPoint presentation titled ' Jon’s Dating History ' and Why It’s a Cautionary Tale?

As we bounced down the gravel path and back onto the main road, Jon slipped into his tour guide mode, pointing out random landmarks like we were on some twisted, low-budget version of “This Is Your Life.”

“There’s the apartment I lived in after my first divorce,” he said, nodding toward a squat brick building with chipped paint and a sagging balcony.

“And that’s where my son went to middle school. Rough couple of years.”

I stared out the window, nodding politely, while internally wondering if there was a brochure or perhaps a guided walking tour I could sign up for later.

By the time we rolled into the Super 8, I had adjusted my expectations so low they were practically subterranean.

And yet, even then, the room somehow managed to surprise me.

Beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige sadness.

But hey—microwave, mini-fridge, and the faintest scent of bleach.

It was practically a four-star experience in Jon’s hometown.

Across the street was a Hampton Inn I had originally tried to book before being cruelly informed they were hosting some sort of convention—likely involving adults who make questionable life choices and dress like eagles or something, so, the Super 8 it was.

We dropped our bags, released Nacho from his backpack prison, and immediately decided to skip showering in favor of collapsing.

Our version of a romantic dinner? Bojangles.

Two three-wing dinners with Cajun rice and a six-piece chicken tender basket for Nacho, because of course, this damn dog is living his best life.

Jon popped open a six-pack of Bud Light he’d snagged at the gas station, while I changed into the one pair of pajama pants that made me look slightly less like a potato.

It was a Wednesday, which meant Blue Bloods was on.

I made it through two episodes, max. Somewhere between Tom Selleck’s mustache and a particularly dramatic dinner scene, I passed out cold—mouth open, one sock missing, a chicken wing bone under my thigh like some sad, modern-day fairy tale.

The next morning, we were roused from our coma-like sleep by the unmistakable sound of housekeeping making their rounds.

There’s nothing quite like the rattle of a cart and a forced “Housekeeping!” to remind you you’re alive and sleeping in a place where someone once definitely hid drugs in the mattress.

Jon took Nacho out for a morning pee run while I splashed cold water on my face and tried to make myself look like someone who hadn’t eaten her feelings in fried chicken just eight hours earlier.

By the time we were both dressed, the sun was already high in the sky and Jon was eager to head back to Aunt Becky’s for lunch—clean, rested, and slightly more presentable.

We packed up the essentials—snacks for Nacho, an emergency sweater in case Aunt Becky decided to air-condition the house to near-Arctic levels—and hopped into Jon’s burnt-orange truck and listen, I don’t know who told Jon that color was a personality trait, but the truck fit him.

Loud, proud, and completely unapologetic, just like the man himself.

As we pulled out of the Super 8 parking lot, I felt that weird twinge of amusement and panic I always get when I realize, Oh crap, this is real, I’m meeting extended family.

I’m sleeping next to this man in a budget motel.

I just bought fried chicken for my dog like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Who am I? Jon reached over, resting his hand on my thigh like he’d done it a thousand times before, and smiled at me like we weren’t speeding headfirst into a day of family small talk and lukewarm coleslaw.

“You okay?” he asked .

I nodded, then smirked.

“Yeah, just wondering how the hell I ended up in this situation. You, me, your ex-wife’s brother, a Super 8 motel, and now Aunt Becky and Billy Joe. It’s like a Southern rom-com nobody asked for.” Jon laughed.

“Welcome to my world.” Oh, honey. I’m not just visiting. I might be applying for permanent residency… NOT.