“Now, I see why people stay here. It’s not because they’re trapped. It’s because it’s . . . home. Shay is always leaving—she and Luke travel a lot for his work with horses, and she’s so excited to go every time. No matter where they’re headed.” I shake my head a little, chuckling. “She’d be excited about the armpit of New Jersey during a heat wave. That’s just how she is, wants to see it all, do it all. But when they get back, I can tell they’re exhausted. A few days at home, working their asses off in the sunshine and fresh air, and they’re back to being right again. It’s different, but it’s good. And I’ve made my peace with it. I’ll work the land I grew up on as long as Mark’ll let me, sing at Hank’s as long as he’ll let me, and make my life right where God stuck me twenty-eight years ago.” I shrug, a little embarrassed at how unambitious I sound. I might be in a rut, but it’s a good one, with a long, steady, straight line that gets me where I’m going—to a life well-lived and hard-worked day by day.
“And a bar full of folks chanting your name is enough, even though it’s not a stadium and you smell like shit at the end of every day?” she prompts, clicking again.
A cold sliver of ice slices through my heart, knowing that’s not entirely true. But sometimes, what you get has to be enough. Not every singer gets the big deal. Not every farmer owns his land. But I take the opportunity she’s giving me and laugh. “I don’t smell like shit every day. Just on fertilizer days, and I showered.” I sniff my pit obnoxiously, but really, I’m making sure that long shower did its job.
She laughs, and the seriousness is left at mile marker ninety-one.
A moment later, I turn off the main road onto a dirt road that starts climbing quickly. “Is this the part where you take me out to the middle of nowhere to kill me and bury my body? If so, tell my mom I love her for me, ’kay?” she says dramatically, ending with a smile.
“If I were taking you to the middle of nowhere to kill you, I wouldn’t have done it in front of a whole bar full of people. Plus, I own pigs. I’d just feed you to them. They can pick a body clean in a few days. Don’t ask me why I know that,” I deadpan.
She looks over at me, grinning and not scared in the least. At least she gets my humor. That’s a major point in the win column. “Did you know that there was a guy who almost got away with murder because he killed a dog?”
I hiss. “What the fuck?”
She pats my arm. “Wait, it’s bad but surprisingly smart. And bad.” I lose track of what she was saying after feeling her palm on my skin. She continues, “So, this guy killed someone . . . I don’t remember the circumstances, though. Accident? On purpose?” She waves her hand. “Doesn’t matter. But he buried the body way down deep, then halfway back up to the surface, he buried a dead dog. The police dog sniffed around and they dug up the grave. So the police found the dog and thought the police dog had gotten confused. Killer almost got away with it too, except the police dog kept whining then jumped in the grave, pawing at the ground, so they dug a little deeper. And boom . . . dead body. Or well, another one, I guess.”
“Jesus, that’s awful. Why do you know that?” I ask.
“True crime shows on late-night TV. Sad story, but I liked that the police dog outsmarted the criminal.” She seems equally horrified and vindicated.
“I’m surprised you watch that shit,” I say honestly. She seems like she’d watch Hallmark movies or romantic comedies, something light and fluffy like cute kitten shows.
“I work late hours and there’s nothing on but Unsolved Mysteries and infomercials at three in the morning. Netflix is a lifesaver, but when I was saving up for my last lens, I canceled it to save money.”
Frugal. Willing to sacrifice.
I store the informational tidbits away in my mental Rolodex of Willow Parker facts.
We break through the last few overhanging branches and into a clearing. “We’re here.”
There’s the complete blackness of the night surrounding us, broken only by a curved slice of moon too high in the sky to offer any real light. “Where’s here?” Willow asks, looking through the front window and then her side window.
“Lookout Point. Hang on,” I tell her. I pull a U-turn, backing up carefully. In the glow of the reverse camera, I can see the questioning look on Willow’s face. “Trust me. Close your eyes. It’ll be worth it.”