1
SARAH
After three weeksof living in Atlanta full time, I’ve decided the roads were planned by an angry toddler with a fistful of crayons. Roads change names with no warning, highways weave up and around and over themselves, and there are at least fifty different Peachtrees. Peachtree Road, Peachtree Boulevard, Peachtree Lane. Do they celebrate any other kind of fruit in Georgia?
I’ve eaten Georgia peaches, and they’re admittedly delicious. But this level of obsession is ridiculous.
I slow my car and take a right into a restaurant parking lot so I can turn around. To be fair, it’s on me for assuming I already know enough to get around without my GPS. But I only had to go to the art supply store, which is directly in between my new favorite coffee shop and the grocery store I’ve been to at least four times.
It shouldn’t be this hard. And yet, I made the same wrong turn today that I made yesterday. And the day before that.
Across the street, Vortex Arena looms large, its glass walls gleaming in the late afternoon sun. I haven’t been to thearena since I moved in, but the last time I was in the car with Anna and her girls, Poppy pointed out the window and said, “Aunt Sarah, that’s where Daddy plays hockey! Now that you live here, will you come to games with us?”
I looked over and exchanged a glance with Anna.
“Sarah’s pretty busy, Pops,” my sister-in-law said. Then she launched into a list of the different restaurants Poppy and Olive could choose for dinner, and my oldest niece’s question was forgotten.
I appreciated Anna’s redirection, but honestly, I still haven’t shaken the guilt that’s been gnawing at me ever since.
Last year, my brother led the Georgia Jaguars all the way to the final round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. It was the closest he’s ever come in the seventeen years he’s been playing in the NHL, and I didn’t see any of it.
As I ease back out onto the main road—one that is absolutely named after a peach—my phone rings from where it’s sitting in the center console, and Anna’s face pops up on my dashboard.
“Hey,” I say, answering the call through the car’s connection. “What’s up?”
“Are you still out?”
“I am, but I’m almost home. I’m across the street from the Vortex.”
She’s quiet for a beat before she asks, “Did you get lost again?”
“It’s an easy turn to miss,” I argue, and she chuckles.
“Just use your GPS, Sarah. I still use mine, and I’ve lived here my entire life.”
“Using it to avoid traffic is different than usingit because you can’t drive ten minutes to the art supply store without getting lost.”
“You’ll get there eventually,” she says, and I hope she’s right. I’m not sure why it matters so much. I’ll only be here a few more months.
Two months, three weeks, and four days, to be exact.
And yes. I’m counting, but not in a good way. I’m the opposite of a kid crossing off the days until Christmas. Because the giant X on my calendar marking my departure only fills me with a sense of dread.
“In the meantime,” Anna continues, “can you swing by Chick-Fil-A and pick up the platter of nuggets I ordered for the kids? I just called, and they confirmed it’s ready. You can go through the drive-thru to pick it up.”
“Sure,” I say. “The one by Publix?”
“Yes, but I’ll send you a pin for it. Don’t try to get there on your own.”
I breathe out an exaggerated sigh. “I have a reputation now, don’t I? I’m always going to be your directionally challenged sister-in-law.”
She laughs. “You have to have something to keep you humble. I sent the pin. Did it come through?”
“I’ve got it,” I say as I pull up the location on my GPS. “I’ll be home in a few.”
“Thank you. Love you. See you soon!” Anna says, then the call disconnects.
My brother has done a lot of incredible things in his thirty-six years, his hockey career notwithstanding. But I’m not sure anything rivals convincing Anna to marry him.
