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The Long Road Home

Song : Home - Edward Sharpe

T he first rule of fleeing Idaho Falls with your emotionally singed Navy veteran boyfriend and a manipulative Chihuahua with Betty Davis eyes: pack snacks.

The second? Don ’ t look back. We hit the road just after sunrise, the Chevy SUV packed to the brim with four suitcases, two plastic tubs of who-knows-what, a suspiciously over-prepared camping kit, and Nacho—snuggly wedged into his pet bed in the back like a tiny, overpaid travel critic.

His expression screamed “About time” as if he hadn’t spent the last week sighing dramatically while Patricia banged around upstairs like a wine-drunk raccoon in a full moon ritual.

The air was crisp as we pulled out of the neighborhood, a clean kind of cold that only existed early in the morning before life had time to disappoint you.

The sky above Idaho Falls was a watercolor blend of soft purples and sleepy oranges, and just for a second—I thought, This place could be beautiful.

And then I remembered Patricia existed here and snapped out of it.

Jon kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, hands gripping the steering wheel like it had personally wronged him.

He hadn’t said much since locking the door to the house, just handed me a thermos of his freshly made sweet tea and nodded like we were robbing a bank instead of casually moving halfway across the country.

“Any specific plan for the next eighteen hours?” I asked, sipping the sugar water Jon made.

“Or are we just driving until Nacho starts hallucinating?” Jon shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but his soul was still processing the trauma of Blake’s girlfriend trying to manifest mushrooms in the backyard and meth in his room.

This has to be affecting his PTSD in a major way .

“I figured we’d take it slow. Camp somewhere along the way. Maybe near water. Nacho likes lakes, right?” Nacho snorted in response.

He was currently glaring at us in the rearview mirror, his head slightly tilted like he was wondering how he got stuck with two emotional disasters who forgot his premade chicken livers and rice meals in the fridge.

We drove in silence for a while, the scenery gradually shifting from small-town backyards and gas stations with suspiciously low hot dog prices to wide open stretches of highway.

Fields stretched out on either side of us like lazy green blankets, dotted with the occasional barn or broken-down tractor that looked like it hadn’t moved since the 80s.

After about six hours of driving, one increasingly passive-aggressive road trip playlist, and three bathroom stops (one for Nacho, two for me), we finally veered off the highway and pulled into a state park in Utah.

Jon said he found it on some military camping app with suspiciously enthusiastic reviews—“peaceful,” “secluded,” “only mildly haunted!”—and it was nestled right along the edge of a lake that shimmered like melted glass under the late afternoon sun.

The air smelled like pine and fresh dirt, and somewhere in the distance, a family of ducks was losing their minds. It was perfect. Like, almost too perfect. The kind of place you’d find in a true crime podcast right before someone disappears during a couple’ s “healing weekend.”

We made a pit stop at a little roadside market right before where it looked like it hadn’t changed since 1989—- complete with hand-painted signs, a cashier named Earl who looked suspiciously like a retired outlaw, and a cat in the bread aisle like he owned the place.

But, against all odds, the produce was fresh and the meat section wasn’t giving murdery vibes, so we stocked up.

Hot dogs. Eggs. A gorgeous slab of salmon that looked like it belonged in a Pinterest photo.

Chicken breast for Nacho—because His Royal Grumpiness eats clean.

Disposable plates, red cups, two bundles of charcoal, potatoes you can just “heat up” and all the hotdog bread and “fixins” one could need, some sodas, and a bottle of whiskey that was going to make me feel like I had emotional depth later and a bag of ice.

Jon grabbed Bud Light, naturally, because the man is consistent if nothing else.

By the time we rolled into the campsite, the sky had shifted into that soft, reddish-blue haze that makes everything look cinematic.

The lake shimmered like it was trying to show off, and Nacho took one look around and did a triumphant zoomie through the pine needles like yes, I approve of this wilderness nonsense now that there’s meat involved.

Jon set up the little charcoal grill like he’d been personally trained by Gordon Ramsay.

I tried to help but mostly just got in the way and asked unnecessary questions like, “Do you think bears can smell salmon from five miles away?” and “If I accidentally start a grease fire, is that covered by rental insurance?” All solid questions.

He didn’t answer. He just gave me that half-smile, half-sigh look he always gives me when he’s internally questioning his life choices but too in love to back out now.

Once the coals were glowing and popping like tiny fireworks, he laid out the food with the reverence of a man conducting a sacred ritual.

First the chicken for Nacho—is seasoned lightly, because Jon is extra and insists the dog has a sensitive stomach.

Then the salmon, skin-side down, seasoned with a little lemon and black pepper we found in the bottom of the grocery bag like fate had planned this.

The hot dogs went on last, hissing like they had secrets.

I poured whiskey into a red cup like a grown-up college dropout, took a sip, and immediately regretted not grabbing ice from the cooler he prepared. Still, the burn felt kind of poetic.

“Remind me again why this isn’t a honeymoon?” I asked, flopping down into a camp blanket I bought at the store like I hadn’t had a good stretch since leaving Idaho Falls. Jon didn’t even look up.

“Because there’s no cake and Nacho is the third wheel.” Nacho huffed from his spot by the fire, eyes locked on the grill like a tiny food inspector. If that chicken didn’t come out perfectly juicy, there was going to be a Yelp review in the form of passive-aggressive barking.

When the food was finally ready, it felt like something out of a rom-com montage.

The salmon flaked perfectly, buttery and soft, with just enough crisp on the skin to make it feel fancy even though we were eating it off paper plates, the potatoes cooked in such an incredible way in the foil that it took me back a little.

The hot dogs were charred in all the right places—smoky, salty, and just nostalgic enough to make me feel like a kid on a summer vacation I never had.

And the chicken? Jon cut it into little pieces, cooled it down, and served it to Nacho like a waiter at a five-star dog bistro.

Nacho ate it like he’d just emerged from a famine.

“This is good,” I said between bites, surprised.

“Like, dangerously good. Like… if I’d known you could cook like this before, I’d have moved in months ago.” Damn, I sound like Patricia… Stop it, Delilah. The crazy has officially rubbed off…

Jon cracked open a Bud Light, leaned back on the blanket next to me and gave me that relaxed grin he only wears when he’s far enough away from Patricia’s orbit to breathe again. “You did move in. You just didn’t realize it.” I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway.

The air smelled like firewood and grilled meat and salt from the lake. The stars were just starting to blink into the sky above, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt… easy again. It wasn’t a honeymoon. But it was something better .

“Do you think Blake even realizes she’s ruining his life?” I asked, tossing Nacho a jerky treat that he caught with the skill of an emotionally unavailable linebacker.

Jon shrugged, “He doesn’t want to. It’s easier to believe she’s just quirky than admit he threw away a solid friendship for someone who thinks gluten is a conspiracy.

” I took a sip of my whiskey and let the dark sky wash over me.

The lake rippled gently, golden light catching in every wave, the trees whispering secrets above us.

It was… peaceful. Strangely so. Like the kind of peaceful that makes you suspicious that something is lurking nearby.

“You think this place has bears?” I asked, immediately ruining the mood.

“Because I swear I saw a TikTok where a girl tried to pee behind a bush and got chased back to her car in her thong.” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“I packed bear spray.” I blinked.

“Is that like pepper spray but for people who believe in camping?” He tossed a crumpled-up napkin at me.

“It’s actual bear spray. And yes, it works.”

Nacho barked once, then trotted over to the tent and promptly climbed into our military-grade sleeping bag like he paid the rental fee. He was done. Checked out. Living his best tiny dictator life.