do a job, which is to protect me. We’re not friends. And we’re definitely not lovers. We can barely stand each other, half the time.
Still, there is that weird energy that arises every now and then.
Like that moment in the gym. Or even our conversation last night.
I don’t want to have to deal with any more of that. So I think it’s better if Raylan believes I’m in a relationship with somebody else. It’s safer that way. For both of us.
We drive the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Mostly in silence. Raylan puts the radio on, and we go in and out of local stations. I hear an endless stream of country songs, punctuated by the occasional rock or pop song, and some oldies.
I can’t deny that Tennessee is surprisingly beautiful. I didn’t realize it was so green. The fields are green, and the smaller mountains, that are really more like hills. Beyond that, I spy the deep blue peaks of the Smokies.
There’s so much open space between towns. Raylan is right—I really don’t get out of the city much. I can’t believe in one day we could drive to a place that looks so different in every way.
As we drive down into a valley between two tall green hills, the radio crackles and a new song comes on, bright and clear. It’s “Please Mr. Postman” by The Marvelettes.
“Please Mr. Postman”—The Marvelettes (Spotify)
“Please Mr. Postman”—The Marvelettes (Apple)
My mom used to play that song. She loves it—I have no idea why. She loves a lot of Motown and early rock and blues.
“Mr. Postman” is so cute and catchy that it was a favorite of Nessa’s, and mine, too. Mom would play it, and we’d jump up on the couches and dance and sing along to it, pretending we were holding microphones. Pretending we had beehives and sparkly dresses, and we were an old-school trio. Nessa, ever concerned with choreography even at a young age, would try to make us coordinate, and shimmy in a period-appropriate manner.
I can’t help tapping my fingers against the car door, nodding along to the song.
Raylan looks over at me, thick black eyebrow cocked. He reaches over and twists the knob to turn up the volume.
That’s another thing nobody does anymore—no one waits for a letter from the Postman. But the cheerful, wistful tone of the song is as relatable as ever. And the upbeat piano riff. It makes me want to shimmy my shoulders like Nessa and I used to do. Especially as Raylan turns the music up even louder and drums along to the beat on the steering wheel.
I can’t help smiling. I sing along for a couple bars, not caring that I’m shit at carrying a tune. Raylan laughs and turns the music up more. He doesn’t know the lyrics, but he does the “Wa-ooo” accompaniment, like he’s my backup singer.
It only lasts for two minutes. Those old Motown songs are short. The song switches over to something else I don’t recognize, and Raylan turns the volume down again.
We’re driving in silence once more.
But we’re both smiling.
We get to Silver Run just before dinner time, having driven almost the whole day long with only a brief stop in Lexington to pee and buy some snacks. Neither one of us needed a real lunch, not after the massive breakfast we ate at the diner.
I can tell when we get close, because there’s a new tension in Raylan’s shoulders. He sits up a little straighter, looking around at fields and forest that he obviously recognizes in a very intimate way. I know without asking that this is where he grew up. This is his home.
“How close are we?” I say anyway, just to be sure.
“This is it,” Raylan says. “228 acres all around us. This road only goes one place.”
We pass through an open gate with an iron arch at the top. Recessed letters spell the name “Birch Haven.” I guess that’s fitting—that’s exactly what Raylan and I are looking for. A safe haven.
We’re driving steadily upward on the winding road. The slope is small and gradual, but soon a view unspools below us. The ranch house was built at the highest point for miles around.
I see several large barns and stables on either side, but the winding road takes us directly up to the ranch house itself. The house is three stories tall, with a high peaked roof and large plate-glass windows across the front to take advantage of its aerie-like positioning.