Page 13 of The Roads We Follow

I recite every Scripture verse I know about patience before I can muster up a reply. “I’ll take them down for you, but there are still some loose ends to take care of before we can load up.”

“Thank you, Sunny Bear. I’ll help with whatever you have left as soon as I’m done in here.”

As I walk into the room across the hall from mine to play volunteer bellhop, my eyes drop to the giant, dusty hardcase bag on the floor that looks as if it could double as a bomb shelter for children in WWII.

“Where did this brown suitcase come from?” I call back down the hallway.

Hattie is usually a designer-bag kind of gal. I can’t quite see how this monstrosity would fit into her personal luggage collection.

“Found it in the garage. There’s a duffel bag near the closet, too.”

“Where’s the Dolce and Gabbana set Mama bought you for Christmas two years ago?”

“Don’t have it anymore.”

“What? Why not? You loved that set.”

“Raegan, I’m trying to put mascara on—do you want me to talk, or do you want me to finish getting ready so I can help?”

“Fine.”

It takes two tries on the count of three to heave the mammoth eyesore to a standing position before I stack the duffle on top of it. Thankfully, therearewheels at the bottom. A relief, considering nothing else about this suitcase is modern or convenient. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen leather straps belting the girth of a suitcase.

It’s a precarious task dragging the bags down the stairs, but finally, I arrive at the front door and slip on my shoes. I prepare for the heat wave I’d only just escaped a few minutes ago when I was out back. Sadly, the blacktop of the driveway will be even hotter.

The low hum of the air conditioner from the goldenrod motor coach sounds like a jet engine even from across the drive. I’m only a few steps out when I feel the remaining anti-humidity gel in my curls surrender. There is no lotion or potion that will keep these curls intact during a Tennessee summer. Halfway across, I break for breath, readjust my grip on Hattie’s bags, and wonder how I got suckered into doing this again.

The wide luggage compartment at the side of the vintage bus is hinged open and resembles a mini garage door of sorts. The middle shelves are filled with supplies and totes, leaving the top and bottom shelves open. Bottom shelf it is. There’s no way on earth I’d be able to lift the Brown Behemoth any higher than my knee. If I push the bag all the way to the back, it won’t be visible for Adele’s judgment. Although, if I’m honest, I’m feeling pretty judgy myself at the moment.

As soon as I heave the bag onto the shelf, it jams on the leather belt buckle. It takes three pushes and a hip check to make it budge an inch. Only, when it does, I hear a disturbingly loud pop followedby the clang of something solid hitting metal.No, I think.Please no. Cautiously, I bend and confirm that Hattie’s luggage straps have indeed popped open. Worse, some of her clothing has been catapulted to the opposite side of the shelf.

After a choice word or two, I squat low enough to shimmy my upper body into the opening and retrieve a handful of my sister’s random belongings, noting a pair of animal-print panties in the corner. I work to shove everything back where it belongs, which proves to be a difficult task, seeing as the belt loop of my shorts is caught on something along the wall. I try to reach around to unhook myself, but the space is too tight for such ninja maneuvering.

The fear of confined spaces has never been at the top of my list, but I’m beginning to reconsider that now. I scissor my leg from left to right, worried I might lose my shorts altogether as the entire bus sways with the motion. When I hear the whoosh of the bus door opening close by, followed by the distinct sound of footsteps on the stairs and then onto the pavement, relief comes swiftly.

“Hello? Jana? Is that you?” I call out. “I think my shorts are caught on something—a screw, maybe? Can you unhook me,please? This is far from the most flattering way to die.”

There’s a notable silence before a throat clears. A male throat. “That is a rather curious predicament you’re in.”

Mortified, I flail to the left side of this hot box and catch sight of the man who has an unobstructed view of my derriere. The stranger dips his head low enough for me to catch a brief peek at his shaggy brown hair and dark eyes. “Hey there.”

“Um, hello,” I say as sweat prickles the base of my neck. “Are you ... the driver?”

“That would be me, yes. I was just inside getting acquainted with the rig.” Before I can respond to this, he ducks out of view and adds, “I was also doing my best to become one with the air conditioner. Humidity doesn’t mess around in these parts, does it?” His northern accent comes from the other side of me now—the stuck side. “Ah. I think I located the culprit. May I?”

“Um ... sure?” On second thought, maybe I do want to die like this. It would be less embarrassing than facing the stranger who’s had an up-close and personal view of my backside.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’m a card-carrying Red Cross member who’s medically trained and can help you?” His honeyed voice dips with restrained humor.

“Strangely, it does,” I admit.

He laughs, and then without further ado, I feel a swift yank near my right hip followed by an immediate release that causes my bent-over body to sway.

“Here, take my hand,” he instructs. “I’ll guide you out so you don’t smack your head.”

In a different life, one where there’s still an ounce of dignity left to my name, I’d politely decline his offer and emerge from this underworld unscathed from humiliation. But not even my pride can will that to be the case.

My already hot-as-fire face flames as I reach for his extended hand.

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