Three miles outside town, I turn onto Crayfield Road, and our family's land comes into view. Five hundred acres of corn and soybean fields, with the farmhouse and outbuildings nestled in a grove of massive oak trees. The corn is tall and green, almost ready for harvest, rustling in the breeze like nature's own white noise machine. The soybean fields are beginning to yellow in places, maybe six weeks away from the harvest that will occupy Dad's days and nights.
The house itself is a two-story white clapboard with a wraparound porch, built in 1924 by my great-grandfather with lumber from trees he cut down himself. It's been updated over the years; a new roof after a storm, a modern kitchen when Mom finally convinced Dad that avocado green appliances weren't making a comeback, central air conditioning installed the summer I graduated high school.
The barn, painted the traditional red with white trim, dominates the landscape behind the house. Its weather vane—a rooster—spins lazily in the breeze. To the right are the smaller outbuildings that make up the functional heart of the farm: thechicken coop with its slanted roof and wire run, the equipment shed where Dad keeps the smaller machinery, the old milk house that hasn't been used for milk in twenty years but serves as his workshop for fixing whatever needs fixing. And scattered across the nearest pasture are the animals Mom insists on keeping despite Dad's protests that they're not practical: six goats that exist purely for her amusement, a handful of pigs, and two old cows named Bessie and Mabel that are basically very large pets at this point.
"Holy fuck," Blair breathes as we turn up the gravel driveway that crunches under our tires. "This is where you grew up?"
"Language, Sailor," I joke. "Mom's rule. No swearing on the property. Dad pretends to enforce it, but he curses when he thinks no one's listening. Especially during harvest season."
The house grows larger, and I see Mom's flower gardens blazing with late summer color—zinnias and marigolds in shades of orange and yellow, purple cosmos swaying on tall stems, black-eyed Susans that seem to multiply every year. She's always been the one to make this place beautiful while Dad focused on making it profitable. The combination has worked throughout their marriage.
I park beside Dad's pickup truck, its bed loaded with feed bags and farming supplies. My heart is hammering hard and fast. This is it. The moment where my lie either works or explodes in my face, taking my family relationships with it.
Before I can even turn off the engine, the front door flies open and both my parents appear on the porch. Mom is wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face bright with excitement. She's wearing her favorite blue sundress, the one she saves for special occasions, and her graying hair is styled in a way that tells me she spent extra time getting ready. Dad follows more slowly, but I can see the curiosity in his expression as he gets his first look at ‘Sailor’.
"Well," I say, glancing at my pretend girlfriend. "Here we go. Be good, Sailor."
She catches my eyes and holds my gaze for a moment. "Hey," she says softly. "It's going to be okay."
I climb out of the car and barely have time to smooth my hair before Mom is hurrying down the porch steps, her arms already outstretched. She's practically vibrating.
"Livvy!" She pulls me into a fierce hug. "Oh, sweetheart, you look so beautiful. But so thin—are you eating enough?"
"I'm fine, Mom," I laugh, accepting the familiar criticism that comes with every homecoming. "I eat plenty."
"Take-out doesn't count," she says. "All that sushi nonsense. You need home cooking. Real food."
Dad appears beside her. His hair has gone completely gray since my last visit, but his smile is the same.
"There's my city girl," he says, wrapping me in a hug that lifts me off my feet. "Good to have you home, kiddo."
By the time I extract myself from their embraces, Blair has come around the car and is standing a respectful distance away, letting us have our family moment.
"Mom, Dad," I say, reaching for Blair's hand. It's warm and solid as she intertwines our fingers. "I'd like you to meet Sailor."
10
BLAIR
Itold Liv the truth about my mother and brother in North Carolina. Well, most of it, anyway. What I didn't tell her is that my family is very wealthy.
Yes, my brother works, but he works for fun; he does it because he loves bagging groceries and talking to people. He certainly doesn't need the money. Danny's weekly paycheck amounts to what most people spend on coffee, but he deposits it religiously into his savings account and he's so proud of it.
The family fortune came long before my tech success, and I got my entrepreneurial spirit from them. Dad built his construction empire from a single pickup truck and a willingness to work eighteen-hour days. Mom turned her hobby of refurbishing antiques into a chain of boutique shops across three states. I guess taking risks is easier when you have something to fall back on—though I didn't realize that luxury until I was old enough to understand that most families don't casually own vacation homes in the Outer Banks.
It's interesting being in a real "charming and modest" country home, as Mom would call it. The Barnes farmhouse is genuinely beautiful in a way that money can't buy. There’sthis authentic comfort that comes from generations of the same family living in the same space, wearing the floorboards smooth and filling every corner with memories.
We're settled on the wraparound porch now, the four of us arranged in wicker chairs. Liv's mother, Moira, has supplied us with iced tea and homemade quiche.
The introductions went smoothly enough—hugs, genuine smiles, and what felt like immediate acceptance. They’re happy to see their daughter in love. Or what they think is love. Moira fussed over my height ("Oh my goodness, you're even taller than Livvy said!"), while Bill assessed me curiously.
"So, Sailor," he says, leaning back in his chair and fixing me with a direct look. "I have to ask. Are your parents marines? I've never heard that name before."
I see Liv tense slightly beside me, but I'm prepared for this question. Who wouldn't inquire about such a silly name? It's still something of a struggle to keep a straight face, though.
"Actually," I say, "my parents never even owned a boat. They named me Sailor because I was born in North Carolina during a bad storm the locals referred to as Hurricane Sailor, back in '89. They figured if I could survive being born in that chaos, I could handle anything life threw at me." I shrug with a self-deprecating smile. "Jury's still out on whether they were right."
Bill chuckles and takes a sip of his iced tea. "Hurricane Sailor, huh? I don't remember that one, but it's certainly a good story."
