I could not feel more out of place if Raylan were taking me to Morocco. I’ve never had a pair of cowboy boots on my feet in my life. I’ve
never eaten at a diner. And I’ve sure as hell never ridden a horse, let alone visited a ranch.
I almost think he’s taking me here just to torture me. There’s a lot of other places we could go that are less . . . foreign.
On the other hand, I definitely feel a million miles away from Chicago. And that does make me feel safe, in a strange way.
Before we leave the motel, Raylan calls Dante and lets him know where we’re going. My phone and laptop burned up with everything else in my apartment, so I don’t have any way of contacting anybody.
“It’s better that way,” Raylan tells me seriously. “Dante will tell Cal. But I don’t think anybody else should know. The whole point of taking you here is to keep you completely off-grid. Hopefully your brother and Dante can figure out what the fuck is going on, sooner than later. But in the meantime, I don’t want to risk this guy being able to track you.”
I don’t really like the idea of running and hiding, disconnected from my family and especially my work. But that fire scared me. More than the near- drowning. It felt like an escalation—like a mark of this guy’s desperation to get at me, no matter how safe and protected I might think I’ve made myself.
“I do need to call Dean,” I tell Raylan. “If I just disappear, and I’m not answering any calls or texts, he might call the cops. Bare minimum, he’ll come to my apartment. And probably notice the hole in the side of the building.”
Raylan considers this.
“Fine,” he says, at last. “Call him too, from the motel phone. You have the number memorized?”
I nod. “Yeah, I know it.”
I always remember numbers—addresses, phone numbers, birthdays. And the numbers in legal files. I don’t know why they stick in my brain. I could tell you case file numbers from years back. It’s useless information most of the time—I’d rather keep the brain space for something else. But that’s the way my mind works.
Raylan frowns, like he’s annoyed that I know Dean’s number. Like he thinks it means something.
“Can I get a little privacy?” I say.
“Fine,” he says. “But don’t tell Dean where you are. Don’t tell him where you’re going.”
“I know. I won’t,” I promise.
Raylan goes out to wait for me in the car. He doesn’t have to carry any bags out, because of course we don’t have any bags. We threw the remains of our old smoke-stained clothing in the trash.
I pick up the phone sitting on the nightstand and hit the button for an outside line. I can’t remember the last time I made a phone call on a landline. It feels weird holding a receiver instead of a cellphone. Weird to stay connected to the base of the phone by a long, spiraling cord, instead of being free to wander around during the call.
It’s so funny how things change so fast. One minute a piece of technology is a novelty, and before you’ve even noticed, it’s the most normal and natural thing in the world. And the old way seems like a distant dream.
I can hear the phone ringing. I’m planning to leave a message if Dean doesn’t pick up.
Instead, I hear his grumpy and sleepy, “Yeah?” on the other end of the line. “Dean, it’s me,” I say.
“Riona?” His voice is husky and confused. “What number are you calling from?”
“I’m at a hotel,” I say. I remember Raylan’s injunction against specifying our location.
“Why are you at a hotel?” Dean says. His voice contains equal parts bewilderment and annoyance.
“My apartment, uh, burned down last night.” “WHAT!?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna be staying somewhere else for . . . a while,” I say.
“Where are you?” And then, after a second’s hesitation, “You can stay at my place, you know.”
“Thanks, but I’m still with . . . I still have Raylan watching me,” I say. “He’s with you now?” Dean says. There’s an edge to his tone.
“Not right next to me. But yes, he’s at the hotel.” I say “hotel” instead of “motel” to try to make it sound less sordid.
“Are you staying in the same room?”
“We’re not . . . we didn’t sleep here last night. We just used the shower. Not at the same time,” I hasten to clarify.
“So you’re sharing showers and hotel rooms with him now,” Dean says. His jealousy is obvious. And it’s obvious he’s trying to pick a fight.
“He’s a bodyguard,” I say, not even trying to hide my annoyance. “Quit trying to make it sound like something it’s not.”
But even as I’m saying the words, I’m remembering that kiss in the gym. I tried to shove it down to the very bottom of my brain. Tried not to think about it again. It was just a moment of insanity on Raylan’s part—we were both hopped up from the race. Annoyed at each other for our own stupid reasons. It was impulsive and irrational. It didn’t mean anything.
Still, the memory steals the ring of truth from my statement. It makes me sound petulant instead of certain. It leaves a hint of doubt for Dean to hear.
“I’m not okay with this,” he says. “I’m not okay with any of this. Somebody’s stalking you and trying to kill you and I’m just supposed to act like that’s normal? You’ve got some bodyguard with you twenty-four- seven, like you’re the president? This is fucking weird, Riona.”
“I’m so sorry that someone trying to KILL ME is an inconvenience for you,” I say acidly.
“This is fucking crazy! You’re with this guy and—”
All of a sudden, I feel very tired. It’s been a long night, and a strange morning, after one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. Dean’s not going to understand that. He was never going to understand any of this.
I cut him off mid-rant. “You’re right, Dean.”
“I . . . what?” That’s the last thing he expected me to say in the middle of an argument.
“You’re right,” I repeat. “You shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. Let’s take a break, and maybe when I’m not in the middle of running for my life, we can pick things back up again.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line. Then Dean says, “You’re
breaking up with me?”
“Yes,” I say flatly. “I think so.”
“Un-fucking-believable,” Dean says. I hear a click and then dead air.
He hung up the phone.
I set down the receiver, my heart thudding.
I kind of said it on impulse. But I don’t think I regret it. When I examine what I feel, it’s a lot closer to relief, actually. I’ve got too much to deal with without having to baby Dean’s feelings, too. This is for the best.
I leave the motel room, joining Raylan in the car. “So?” he says, putting the Escalade into drive. “So, what?”
Raylan hesitates, like he’s wondering if he should push for details. “Everything okay?” he says, at last.
“Yeah,” I say, looking out the window. “Everything’s great.”
I don’t know why I don’t just tell Raylan that Dean and I broke up. I guess it’s because it seems embarrassing in some way. And also maybe because I’d prefer to keep that barrier between us, for now.
I know Raylan is as aware as I am that there’s no relationship between the two of us. He’s been hired to do a job, which is to protect me. We’re not friends. And we’re definitely not lovers. We can barely stand each other, half the time.
Still, there is that weird energy that arises every now and then.
Like that moment in the gym. Or even our conversation last night.
I don’t want to have to deal with any more of that. So I think it’s better if Raylan believes I’m in a relationship with somebody else. It’s safer that way. For both of us.
We drive the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Mostly in silence. Raylan puts the radio on, and we go in and out of local stations. I hear an endless stream of country songs, punctuated by the occasional rock or pop song, and some oldies.
I can’t deny that Tennessee is surprisingly beautiful. I didn’t realize it was so green. The fields are green, and the smaller mountains, that are really more like hills. Beyond that, I spy the deep blue peaks of the Smokies.
There’s so much open space between towns. Raylan is right—I really don’t get out of the city much. I can’t believe in one day we could drive to a place that looks so different in every way.
As we drive down into a valley between two tall green hills, the radio crackles and a new song comes on, bright and clear. It’s “Please Mr. Postman” by The Marvelettes.
“Please Mr. Postman”—The Marvelettes (Spotify) “Please Mr. Postman”—The Marvelettes (Apple)
My mom used to play that song. She loves it—I have no idea why. She loves a lot of Motown and early rock and blues.
“Mr. Postman” is so cute and catchy that it was a favorite of Nessa’s, and mine, too. Mom would play it, and we’d jump up on the couches and dance and sing along to it, pretending we were holding microphones. Pretending we had beehives and sparkly dresses, and we were an old-school trio. Nessa, ever concerned with choreography even at a young age, would try to make us coordinate, and shimmy in a period-appropriate manner.
I can’t help tapping my fingers against the car door, nodding along to the song.
Raylan looks over at me, thick black eyebrow cocked. He reaches over and twists the knob to turn up the volume.
That’s another thing nobody does anymore—no one waits for a letter from the Postman. But the cheerful, wistful tone of the song is as relatable as ever. And the upbeat piano riff. It makes me want to shimmy my shoulders like Nessa and I used to do. Especially as Raylan turns the music up even louder and drums along to the beat on the steering wheel.
I can’t help smiling. I sing along for a couple bars, not caring that I’m shit at carrying a tune. Raylan laughs and turns the music up more. He doesn’t know the lyrics, but he does the “Wa-ooo” accompaniment, like he’s my backup singer.
It only lasts for two minutes. Those old Motown songs are short. The song switches over to something else I don’t recognize, and Raylan turns the volume down again.
We’re driving in silence once more. But we’re both smiling.
 |
WE GET to Silver Run just before dinner time, having driven almost the whole day long with only a brief stop in Lexington to pee and buy some snacks. Neither one of us needed a real lunch, not after the massive breakfast we ate at the diner.
I can tell when we get close, because there’s a new tension in Raylan’s shoulders. He sits up a little straighter, looking around at fields and forest that he obviously recognizes in a very intimate way. I know without asking that this is where he grew up. This is his home.
“How close are we?” I say anyway, just to be sure.
“This is it,” Raylan says. “228 acres all around us. This road only goes one place.”
We pass through an open gate with an iron arch at the top. Recessed letters spell the name “Birch Haven.” I guess that’s fitting—that’s exactly what Raylan and I are looking for. A safe haven.
We’re driving steadily upward on the winding road. The slope is small and gradual, but soon a view unspools below us. The ranch house was built at the highest point for miles around.
I see several large barns and stables on either side, but the winding road takes us directly up to the ranch house itself. The house is three stories tall, with a high peaked roof and large plate-glass windows across the front to take advantage of its aerie-like positioning. It’s built of deep reddish-brown boards that aren’t much different from the ones on the side of the barn. Yet the house is much grander in shape and scale, with tall doorways, those
expansive windows giving views on all sides, and generous verandas encircling the house on all three levels.
Large, leafy trees shade the windows and the decks. A pretty old-fashioned swing hangs from the ancient oak closest to the front door.
I didn’t hear Raylan’s conversation with his family—I assume he called them while I was in the shower. But he promised that he warned them we were coming.
In a way, that’s worse. As we pull up to the house, I can see several other cars parked in the drive, like they’ve all gathered for dinner. I know they must be excited to have Raylan home. He told me he hasn’t been back to visit in over three years.
I feel like I shouldn’t be here for this reunion. This is too personal, too intimate.
Too late now, though. The door flies open and a short, deeply-tanned woman in jeans and a button-up shirt very like the one I’m wearing— though much more faded—comes hurrying out of the house. She’s limping, one foot in a walking boot, but that’s not really slowing her down that much.
She throws her arms around Raylan and squeezes him tight. She only comes up to his chest in height, but she looks strong and fit, her graying hair pulled back in a sensible low ponytail. Her nails are cut short and unpolished, and her small hands look highly capable as she grabs Raylan’s arms and pulls back to look up in his face. I can see that her eyes are just as bright a blue as her son’s.
“You look skinny,” she says, and she laughs.
Raylan isn’t skinny in the slightest. He’s broad-shouldered and muscular. But as his brother comes out of the house, I can see how Raylan would be considered skinny by comparison. His brother looks like a bear that learned to walk on its hind legs. He has a massive black beard and shoulder-length hair, and he’s three inches taller than Raylan and much broader. I can see the muscle in his arms and shoulders beneath his flannel shirt, but his bulk also includes a generous belly.
“RAYLAN!” he roars.
He throws his arms around both Raylan and his mom, squeezing them tight until his mother shouts, “Alright, don’t break my back, let me out of this hug!”
“Oh, sorry.” He grins, letting her go. “I didn’t even see you there, Ma.”
It is unbelievable that Raylan and his brother came out of this much smaller lady. Hard to imagine either of these men being little enough that she could hold them in her arms.
“You must be Riona,” Celia says, coming over to shake my hand.
Just as I expected, her grip is firm and competent. I can feel the calluses on her palm.
“Thank you for letting us come stay with you,” I say politely. “This is Raylan’s home,” she says. “He’s never a visitor here.” There’s no rebuke in her tone. Just a simple statement of fact. “And you’re equally welcome,” she says to me kindly.
Grady isn’t content with a handshake. He pulls me against his broad chest for a hug. I usually would hate this—but despite his wild appearance, Grady smells nice, like soap and woodsmoke. And his grin shows slightly pointed incisors very like Raylan’s. I find myself liking him immediately, despite the fact that he’s loud and overly familiar, things I usually hate.
Raylan’s sister is the only one who hangs back in the entryway, watching us all silently.
She has thick, long, black hair like her brothers. But her complexion is darker—even more deep than her mother’s. Her eyes are brown, not Raylan’s blue. And she has none of her brothers’ laid-back charm. If anything, she looks fierce and a little bit wild. Like she doesn’t really want to be inside a house at all.
Raylan introduces us. “Riona, this is my little sister Bo.”
She watches me, unsmiling. Not holding out her hand to shake, her arms crossed firmly in front of her.
“Nice to meet you,” I say anyway, giving her a respectful nod.
I’m not offended when people aren’t friendly. Actually, it just mirrors how I feel inside myself. So I’m quite comfortable with it. Neither of us has to pretend.
“Come on in,” Celia tells us. “Dinner’s all ready.”
The interior of the ranch house is open and airy, not crowded and cozy as I expected. All the furniture is arranged to focus on those massive windows, and the sprawling view of the Boones’ land.
Everything is made of natural materials. The bare wooden boards of the walls and ceiling, and the worn floorboards. It all looks weathered and natural, though perfectly clean. The furniture likewise looks like someone made it by hand, including the huge farmhouse table on which Raylan’s mother has spread out enough food to feed an army.
Grady’s wife Shelby is already seated at the table with their two sons, who look to be about five and seven years of age.
“Hi!” she cries, as we come in. She’s pretty and petite, with her blonde hair in a plait, and freckles across her cheeks. Her boys are likewise freckled, though they both have the same black hair as the Boone children. They’re staring hungrily at the food, impatient for the adults to sit down so they can eat.
“Sorry I didn’t get up,” Shelby says, pointing to her heavily pregnant belly. “It’s a lot of effort to stand these days.”
“Stay right where you are, and stay comfy,” Raylan says, bending down to kiss her on the cheek.
She throws an arm around his neck and kisses him back with friendly affection.
“You almost missed your first niece!” she accuses him.
“I might still,” Raylan says. “I don’t know how long we’re staying . . . ”
Everyone at the table turns their eyes on me, like it’s my decision. I should inform them that Raylan practically kidnapped me, driving me halfway here while I was sleeping. But I don’t want to tell anyone my personal business. Least of all why we came in the first place.
“I don’t know either,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” Celia says, shaking her head. “We know that nobody can tell Raylan what to do. Least of all us.”
There is a note of reproach now. I glance over at Raylan. It’s clear that everybody at this table adores him. Yet he spends most of his time on the other side of the world. Why is that, exactly?
I’m not usually interested in people’s family drama. But I’m curious, in this particular instance. There’s a lot more to Raylan than meets the eye. I want to know more about him, while simultaneously feeling that I really shouldn’t get close to him in any way, shape or form. It can only lead to trouble for both of us.
