Page 21

Back To Idaho Falls

Song : American Kids - Kenny Chesney

I rolled out of bed, stretched like I’d just survived a five-year war, and pulled on my go-to comfort uniform: worn-in Levi’s, a soft white T-shirt, and my Sperrys—the holy trinity of “I might be traveling, but I still have standards.” I packed my suitcase with the practiced speed of a woman who’d stayed in far too many motels in the last week, then tossed Nacho’s essentials into his little travel bag: blanket, treats, his outfits (yes, dog outfits —don’t judge), and his tiny water bottle with the flip-out bowl.

Jon, already dressed in his standard road trip ensemble—Wranglers, boots, and a flannel with the sleeves rolled up just enough to make me lose track of thought—was loading up the truck like a man on a mission.

He looked absurdly attractive for someone carrying three different bags and a suspiciously crumpled hoodie.

Downstairs in the hotel breakfast nook, the vibe was aggressively wholesome.

The smell of fresh waffles, hot coffee, and artificially cheerful syrup packets hit me like a Hallmark movie set.

Bless them—they even let Nacho sit under our table like a tiny king, observing us like a TSA agent watching for crumb smuggling.

I devoured my plate of cheesy scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, sausage links that tasted like actual joy, and an orange juice that somehow managed to taste fresh despite being poured from a plastic jug.

Jon, ever the overachiever, went full lumberjack mode with a mountain of food: eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, hash-browns, grits, and toast. I looked at his plate, then at him .

“Planning to chop down a forest today?” He shrugged.

“Might have to wrestle a bear or two on the drive.” Fair enough.

We made one final pit stop at Aunt Becky’s to say goodbye.

She hugged me like I was her long-lost daughter and handed me a plastic grocery bag filled with homemade banana bread, a ziplock of boiled peanuts, and a tupperware of something that looked…

wet. I thanked her while silently planning to leave it in a gas station trash can somewhere between here and Kentucky.

Billy Joe gave us a hearty “Y’all drive safe now” while scratching his belly like a man with not a single care in the world.

Sweet people, truly but I was ready to leave this hillbilly Hallmark town behind and head back to the land of cattle, mountains, and way fewer relatives named after beer brands.

We hit the road, Nacho perched like a furry hood ornament on my lap, paws tucked, head on my wrist. He looked at the passing trees with an expression that said, I hope this isn’t another Super 8 situation.

We drove through North Carolina, its winding hills slowly giving way to Tennessee’s dramatic ridge lines.

We passed through Knoxville where I made Jon stop at a gas station because I saw a sign for “World’s Best Homemade Fudge.

” Spoiler: it wasn’t. But the cashier named Loretta did give me a free moon pie and called me “darlin’,” so all was forgiven.

By Kentucky, we were full of Cracker Barrel snacks and caffeine.

I made Jon stop at a roadside antique store shaped like a giant chicken—literally—because I spotted a sign advertising “Taxidermy and Hot Sauce.” I bought neither, but I did get a hilarious Polaroid of Jon next to a mounted possum wearing a cowboy hat.

By the time we crossed into Illinois, the sun was sinking low, spilling gold over the flat land like butter on cornbread.

We were exhausted and slightly delirious, and my Spotify playlist had descended into 90s boy band territory.

We pulled off at a quiet little exit and spotted a Best Western nestled next to a retro-looking diner with neon signs promising “Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Pie.”

“That’s it,” I said.

“This is where we live now.” Jon nodded solemnly.

“I’m down to grow old here.” Just across the parking lot, Jon’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Is that a dispensary?”

Sure enough, a sleek little shop with the name Ascend in modern, backlit letters sat just off the corner like a promised land.

I glanced at it, then at him. He was already muttering, “YOLO” under his breath like a man possessed.

Five minutes later, we were inside. I picked up some mango-flavored gummies because they sounded like they wouldn’t ruin my day, and Jon bought a couple of pre-rolls and a T-shirt with the shop logo.

Of course, he did. He looked like a college freshman about to write poetry and rewatch Pineapple Express.

We checked into the Best Western—thankfully clean, recently remodeled, and with no weird smells, which at this point in our journey was a five-star luxury.

The lady at the desk even gave Nacho a tiny treat from a glass jar labeled “Four-legged Guests Only.” He looked so smug.

I flopped onto the bed, sighing like I’d just crossed the Sahara.

The mattress was firm, the sheets smelled like lavender, and the bathroom had real towels—not those sandpaper napkins from the Super 8.

Jon lit one of his pre-rolls on the tiny balcony while I popped a gummy and started unpacking only what we needed.

The sky turned cotton candy pink while the highway lights flickered on in the distance.

The world felt quieter, somehow softer. It was just us, the dog, and the road we’d still yet to travel.

Later, we walked to the diner under the glowing neon signs.

The waitress called us “honey” and brought out pie before dinner “just in case y’all needed dessert first.” I could’ve kissed her.

We shared fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and the kind of green beans that had been simmered in bacon grease since noon.

I watched Jon sip sweet tea and talk about Idaho like it was home. Like I might be part of it now.

Back in our hotel room, Nacho was curled up in the middle of the bed like a loaf of furry bread.

I peeled off my jeans, tossed on Jon’s flannel, and snuggled next to him while reruns of 'The King of Queens' played softly in the background. As I drifted off to sleep, I realized I wasn’t just halfway across the country—I was somewhere entirely new. Somewhere I hadn’t been in a long time. Happy.

We woke upto the smell of bacon wafting through the paper-thin hotel walls and the gentle sound of Nacho snoring like a tiny, judgmental freight train wedged between us.

He was on his back again—paws in the air, mouth slightly open, full of drama.

At this point, I was convinced he was auditioning for a canine soap opera titled Tails of Our Lives.

I stretched out and sat up, wrapped in Jon’s flannel shirt that now permanently smelled like him—cedarwood, warm skin, and a little weed.

Not mad about it. Jon grumbled something about “ten more minutes,” rolled over, and threw an arm across Nacho like he was a second pillow .

“Nope,” I said, patting his shoulder.

“If you want breakfast and a working bladder, it’s now or never.” That worked.

We packed quickly—by now, we were a well-oiled, slightly grumpy machine.

I threw on another comfort outfit: a faded black hoodie, leggings, high-top Converse, and a messy bun that said, “Yes, I’ve been living out of a suitcase for days, and no, I’m not ashamed.

” Jon wore a gray tee that hugged his shoulders in a way that should probably be illegal in three states, cargo shorts, and his usual boots.

And somehow, it still worked. The man could wear a trash bag and still look like an off-duty cowboy.

We checked out, waved goodbye to the diner of dreams across the lot (RIP, cinnamon pie), and started toward Idaho Falls again, this time with the end in sight. But first—coffee.

Jon pulled into a mom-and-pop gas station that looked like it had been built in 1974 and lovingly neglected ever since.

There was a hand-painted sign that read “Hot Java & Homemade Jerky” hanging from the door.

Naturally, I made him go in. Ten minutes later, we had two steaming cups of suspiciously decent coffee, a paper bag of spicy beef jerky, and a local newspaper with the front page headline: Woman Marries Her Cat for Charity. America never changes.

Back on the road, the scenery started to shift.

Illinois’ endless fields turned into Nebraska’s “is-this-still-going” highways.

Flat, straight, and deeply boring in a way that makes you question your life choices and whether you packed enough snacks.

We made a playlist titled Flat States & Emotional Damage and took turns DJing.

Jon played Garth Brooks and Brantley Gilbert.

I retaliated with Alanis Morissette, Kehlani, and angry breakup songs that made him look over like, “Should I be concerned?”Somewhere in Iowa, we stopped for gas and found a roadside attraction proudly claiming to have the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.

Of course, we stopped. Of course, we took a photo with Nacho posing in front of it like he was running for office. I mean, when life hands you twine…

Around mid-afternoon, we hit a detour thanks to some highway construction and ended up on a scenic route that curved along small hills and grassy valleys.

It was kind of beautiful in that accidental Instagram aesthetic kind of way.

We rolled the windows down, and the breeze whipped through the cab.

Nacho, perched on Jon’s thigh with his head out the window, was living his absolute best dog life. Ears flapping. Tongue out. Bliss.

“I think he’s officially happier than both of us combined,” I said.

“Yeah, but does he have to file taxes?” Jon replied. Point taken.