Page 22

By the time we crossed into Wyoming, the sun had started its golden descent, and the temperature dipped just enough to make me want to pull my hoodie over my hands.

We stopped at a scenic overlook with a jaw-dropping view of wide, empty plains and distant mountains silhouetted in lavender light.

I leaned against the hood of the truck while Jon lit a pre-roll and passed it to me.

“You ever think about just… not going back?” I asked, half-laughing. He took a hit and exhaled slowly.

“What, just live off the grid? Get a goat? Change our names?”

“Mine would be something dramatic like Raven Winter. You’d be… Buck Maverick.”

“Buck Maverick?” He snorted.

“Sounds like a man who makes his own beef jerky and only drinks moonshine.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.”

Eventually, the wind reminded us we were still human and subject to time and temperature, so we piled back into the truck.

Jon drove while I googled places to crash for the night and found a charming little inn outside Cheyenne that looked like a former brothel turned Airbnb. Naturally, I booked it.

The inn was rustic, clean, and had a faint smell of old whiskey and lavender sachets. The owner, a woman named Marlene who wore six rings and had a voice like gravel and honey, gave us the room at the end of the hall and winked when she handed over the key.

“Y’all look like you could use a good night.” We could.

We brought Nacho in, fed him, and then collapsed onto the king-size bed that felt like heaven.

There was no TV. Just us, a vintage lamp casting golden light across the room, and the soft creak of wood floors under our feet.

Before we could sink into each other too deeply, my stomach growled loud enough to scare Nacho half off the bed.

“Okay, that was either your stomach or a demon,” Jon said, already reaching for his phone.

“What do you want?” I flopped onto my back and sighed dramatically.

“Something deeply comforting. I want food that tastes like someone’s Southern grandmother made it after church.”

Ten minutes later, Cracker Barrel was on its way via Uber Eats.

We ordered chicken and dumplings for both of us—because we’re soulmates, obviously—and a side of chicken tenders for Nacho, who was already eyeing the door like he somehow understood food delivery apps.

The man deserves a Michelin star for patience, and let’s face it, he’d earned his comfort meal too.

When the knock finally came, we devoured dinner sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed, eating out of to-go containers with plastic forks, like royalty who had fallen from grace and landed somewhere much better.

It was exactly what we didn’t know we needed.

The dumplings were soft and buttery, the chicken was tender, and for a brief, greasy, glorious moment—nothing else mattered.

Nacho wolfed down his tenders like he was preparing for hibernation and promptly curled up at the foot of the bed in his usual loaf-of-bread position, snoring within minutes.

We rinsed off the road in the shower—slow, steamy, hands exploring and lingering with the kind of intimacy that only builds when you’ve shared long silences and gas station jerky.

I washed his hair. He washed my back. We dried off, tangled ourselves in the warm quiet of a worn quilt and a low-lit room, and fell into each other like gravity had been trying to pull us here all along.

We didn’t rush. We undressed each other like people who knew every scar and curve and freckle.

We made love like we hadn’t in weeks—slow, deep, and reverent.

His hands are in my hair. My lips on his neck.

Every inch of him felt like home…. That cock … .

Afterward, tangled up and full (of food, of love, of sleepiness), my head rested on his chest, and his fingers lazily traced my spine. I whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe.” He kissed my forehead.

“I didn’t know I could be this happy.” I didn’t roll my eyes.

I didn’t deflect with a joke. I just laid there, heart cracked wide open, full of dumplings and stupid, beautiful hope, and let myself believe it might last. Because sometimes, even the most sarcastic, slightly jaded people find their way home.

Even if it’s via the world’s largest ball of twine and a chicken-and-dumplings Uber Eats delivery from Cracker Barrel.

We hit the road bright and early, leaving our gloriously clean charming inn behind like two road-weary warriors heading back to civilization.

Nacho curled up in his bed in the backseat, looked like he had just returned from war and was processing the trauma of being in a state that doesn’t believe in sidewalks.

I wore another comfortably careless outfit—sweats, a white hoodie, and Sperrys because I refuse to look like I’ve given up, even on a long drive.

Jon wore his standard uniform: Levi’s, a T-shirt tight enough to make me question God’s intentions, and that broken-in navy cap that looked like it’d seen some things .

The drive stretched out in front of us like a dusty ribbon. We passed windmills so tall they looked like alien arms reaching out of the earth, cornfields that never ended, and roadside billboards for fireworks, Jesus, and vape shops—sometimes all in one.

Around noon, our stomachs started having a heated argument with our brains, and I found us a lunch spot in Nebraska—a tiny town off I-80 called Ogallala, which sounded like a made-up Disney villain but boasted a diner with rave reviews called “The Chuckwagon.” Naturally, it was cowboy-themed to the max, complete with servers in bandanas and walls plastered with sepia-toned cowboy portraits.

We ordered burgers the size of our heads—mine with bacon and avocado, Jon’s with extra jalapenos because he hates the lining of his stomach.

Nacho sat under the table chewing a fry like he owned the place.

“This is what America tastes like,” I muttered, licking ketchup off my thumb.

Jon just grinned and stole a bite of my burger like we were already married and he’d earned food tax rights.

Back on the road, bellies full and eyes drooping, the miles ticked by slowly.

Somewhere around Boise, I realized the trees were getting taller, the mountains closer, and that gnawing anxiety in my chest a little tighter.

Jon’s hand found mine over the center console.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

When we finally pulled into Idaho Falls, the air felt lighter.

The town still smelled faintly of pine and cow shit, but it was home.

Or maybe it was becoming one. We rolled past the familiar gas stations and grocery stores, Nacho popped his head up like he could smell his memory foam bed, and I was already imagining a hot bath, wine, and the blessed silence of our own space. But of course, life had other plans.

As we turned down Jon’s street, I spotted it first. A giant, obnoxious orange-and-white U-Haul parked right in front of the house.

“Oh no,” I muttered.

“That better be someone’s midlife crisis, because I swear to God…”

But it wasn’t a random U-Haul. Nope. It was Blake. Jon’s navy brother. And he was unloading boxes onto the lawn like someone who had no intention of leaving anytime soon. Jon stopped the truck in the driveway, his hand frozen on the gearshift.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

From the front door emerged none other than Patricia—Blake’s girlfriend, or as I lovingly refer to her, the human form of a Yelp review no one asked for.

She had her signature short lesbian-like hair, matching lounge set, and that expression she always wore like she just smelled something expensive and disapproved.

She waved like we were welcome guests to her mansion.

“Hey, guys!” I glanced over at Jon, whose face looked like someone had just asked him to perform a solo interpretive dance in front of Congress.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he muttered under his breath.

We got out slowly, like people stepping into a dream they hoped they’d wake up from. Patricia was already skipping down the driveway with that chaotic energy of a woman who believes in manifesting and juice cleanses. “Surprise!” she chirped, throwing her arms out.

“ I decided to move in here while we figure out our next steps!”

“Next steps toward what?” I asked sweetly.

“Becoming the Idaho version of ‘90 Day Fiancé’?” She laughed like I was joking. I was not.

Blake came jogging over, sweaty and smiling.

“Hey, man! Thought we’d just get ahead of the curve and settle in before the wedding.”

“What wedding?” Jon asked, his voice cracking like a teenager whose life was flashing before his eyes. Blake blinked.

“You know… eventually. Maybe. It’s just temporary anyway.” Temporary. The most dangerous word in the English language.

I looked at Jon, and he looked at me, and Nacho let out the most theatrical sigh from the truck like even he was tired of the bullshit.

“Well,” I said with a forced smile, “nothing like an ambush roommate situation to spice up a homecoming.” Jon didn’t even try to hide the horror on his face.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna need a gummy just to process this.”

“You want one now or after we unpack?” I offered.

“Both.”

We stood there, still outside the truck, watching Patricia try to carry a box labeled “ kids room” and I thought to myself “Kids?” Idaho Falls: where love blossoms, U-Hauls bloom in the driveway, and sarcasm is the only thing keeping us sane.