does a quick change, carefully setting the lens back into the bag and coming out with another, smaller one, which she attaches easily.
“Tell me about you,” she orders gently, already snapping away.
I chuckle, self-conscious. “I don’t know what to say. I’m just me—a farmer, a singer. Not much to tell.”
Click. Click.
“That’s a bold-faced lie, and you know it, Bobby. Don’t go getting shy on me. I like when people talk as I’m taking pictures because then I catch every expression. Tell me . . . about when you were a kid. What was little Bobby’s big dream?”
She never goes for the obvious question, that’s for sure.
“That’s easy. To be a famous country musician one day. I thought I was going to get out of this small town, never have to shovel shit a day of my life, and would fill stadiums with people chanting my name.” I smile at the ease with which that dream comes roaring back to life. “Younger me thought this town was basically a prison. I guess all small-town kids think that to some degree, drawn to the excitement of the flashing lights of the big city. Probably the same way city kids think life out in the country is slow and easy.” I throw her a knowing sideways glance.
Click.
“And now?” she says.
I can’t see her face, not really. She’s hidden behind the camera, and I’m trying hard to keep my eyes on the road so I can get us safely to Lookout Point. But there’s a deeper meaning to what should be a light question. Surprisingly, with my attention half on driving and half on her, the words spill out.
“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.