Chapter 1 – Dallas
“Nine-ninety-nine, sweetheart,” the cashier with crooked teeth and teased hair says through a thick Texan accent I’m not yet accustomed to as she pops her bright pink bubble gum and eyes me suspiciously.
I smile politely and hand her a ten-dollar bill. She gives me a penny change along with my groceries, all stuffed into a single thin plastic bag I’m certain will break on the short walk to my truck.
"Thank you," I respond then slide the change into the tiny donation slot in front of the register. She nods, still eyeing me curiously as I leave the hardware store, my chosen shopping location for the day.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over how much cheaper things are in Texas compared to California. And it isn’t just the fact they still use plastic bags, a questionable decision for our struggling environment. I can get a week’s worth of groceries for just ten dollars and a full tank of gas for under twenty.
Texas is as big as a country yet has zero income tax, which means more money in the pockets of its’ residents. You’d think with less taxes, the ability to walk into almost any hardware or convenience store and get anything you need—including groceries, clothing, and a warm hot dog—and cheap real estate, that prices would be higher. Despite the state having some of thewealthiest people in America living here, they seemed to have a handle on how to draw people in and keep them from leaving.
I wondered if it’d do the same for me.
I head out to my new Ford F-150, a significant upgrade from the vehicle I had when I first arrived in Texas a few short months ago and toss my groceries in the truck bed.
The short drive from the Dixie hardware store to my farmette in the small town of Lonestar Junction isn’t particularly picturesque. I pass some abandoned shops off the main highway and rows of crops, but most of the town is clustered on the other side, away from the farms and ranches that make up the cities thriving economy.
It takes me about fifteen minutes to navigate the straight, dusty roads that connect the rural land to the town square until I finally reach my turn off. I pull into the long driveway to my new home, Golden Farm, wearing a smile. The old wooden sign next to the mailbox still reads 'Evergreen Farmstead,' and sways listlessly in the wind. I remind myself that updating it is yet another task to tackle when I find the time. It seems like everywhere I look, there’s something to change about the place but that’s exactly why I'd purchased it. It was a work in progress, a constant way to challenge myself to learn new things. Something that I’d always needed in my life.
I’ve been living here for a couple of months now, having moved from Los Angeles after being honorably discharged from the marines. The nearest metropolitan city was Austin and that was over three hours away. San Angelo was closer, but I’d hardly consider that a city compared to where I’d come from. It was an adjustment realizing how isolated I could become on my property if I really wanted to be.
Most of my friends back in Los Angeles couldn’t fathom living somewhere as quiet as Lonestar Junction, where the biggest excitement was the century-old rodeo or the occasional loose pack of cattle that needed to be wrangled. But I enjoyed thesolace and simplicity of the smalltown life—or at least, most days I thought I did.
It was evenings like tonight, when the cooler November weather had settled in and a rare hailstorm kicked up, that I was reminded of just how achingly lonely I felt. The loneliness had never bothered me much while in the marines, but something had shifted since landing in Texas. It was the knowledge of being out in the country, surrounded by farmland and ranch acreage, yet not having anyone nearby.
I park my car in front of the old, white clapboard home that’s riddled with hundreds of years of memories from the previous owners and in desperate need of some upgrades that I’d been putting off. My first order of business has been to clear out the overgrown, neglected garden, till the soil, and replant it with vegetables to contribute to the new co-op in town, Nourish.
When Stevie Vector accidentally contacted me four months ago to partner with her non-profit, I jumped at the opportunity to contribute to the town's latest venture and used it as a catalyst to push forward on the improvements I had planned for the farm. Anytime I had the chance to do something new, step out of my comfort zone, and meet people in this small town I now called home, I was all in.
Her beautiful face, plump lips and curves were just an added bonus to doing business with Nourish, a co-op dedicated to providing fresh produce and goods from the neighboring ranches and farms to families in need. I hadn't seen much beauty after being in the midst of war for almost a decade. And when I heard her marriage was a ruse, I thought I might actually have a chance on scoring a date. However, my new neighbor and friend, Wylie Cameron, quickly reassured me that their marriage was anything but one of convenience.
I might be a former Marine, but I was a pacifist at heart, always seeking peace in every aspect of my life. Thankfully, Wylie recognized my good intentions, and we’d become close friends,often helping each other with our homes. I even saved his life after a scorned ex of Stevie’s unexpectedly attacked him, leaving him wounded and abandoned in his field a few miles from the border of mine.
It’d been good timing that I’d found him when I did. I'd arrived looking for his help with one of my tractors and feeling like a city boy who didn’t know what he was doing at the exact right moment and was able to get him to the hospital before he bled out in the middle of his field. Sure, it was an unlikely friendship, but one that I'd come to value over the past few months while I learned the ropes and figured out what the hell I was doing living in this small town.
I sit the groceries I’ve picked up from the store onto the counter—just enough to get me through the next week until I head back to Los Angeles for the holidays. After placing the last item in the fridge, I turn to the pile of mail tossed on my dining room table.
I flip through it listlessly, sipping on a bottle of water while my mind is elsewhere. Nothing but junk from the last family who lived here and old communications from the Marines that have been forwarded from my parents' address in Los Angeles. I’m ready to toss the whole pile into the trash when the last letter, sealed in a brown envelope with a familiar ‘I heart Texas’ stamp placed in the upper right-hand corner, catches my eye.
The handwriting looks sloppier than it has in the past, and a brown stain at the bottom of the weathered pages indicates some sort of liquid has been spilled along with what looks like might be a smear of chocolate.
At least, I hope that’s what that is…
Despite the condition of the letter, I instantly recognize who it’s from. The familiar slanted attempt at cursive spelling out my name and the way the author slashes through the letter ‘T’—as if it’s wronged her personally, are all dead giveaways to the source.
Dove.
I tear open the letter a bit too eagerly, ripping a small corner of the page in my haste to see what’s inside. A brown stain covers one of the words, but there they are—those hauntingly beautiful letters arranged into a symphony of attitude and humor that I’ve studied and memorized for years, often during some of my darkest, war-torn moments abroad.
They always started the same back then:‘Dallas – if that’s even your name,’and ended with those exes-and-ohs that I'd rolled my eyes at as a younger man. But before I even get through the first line of this one, I can tell the tone is much different. It’s less playful and teasing, and I get the sense she wasn’t happy while writing it.
As I read over the words, I’m transported back in time to the first letter I'd accidentally received from Dove when I was just eighteen years old...
The letter that Dallas just received:
May 2024
Dear Dallas – (if that’s even your name,)
