Page 42 of The Roads We Follow

“You’re where?” he asks again as the hospital intercom crackles in the background.

“Two hours past the Arkansas-Oklahoma border in a town that’s three stoplights long.”

“Is this when you tell me you’re gonna go cow-tipping for fun?”

“Not sure the company I’m with would consider that fun.” I smile, imagining Hattie dodging cow patties in her fancy footwear.

“Any discoveries of consequence to report? Or perhaps siblings I should know about?”

I assure him he’s still my one and only and ask how life has been back home when an image of Raegan in her Goo Goo Cluster pj’s flashes through my mind. I’ve seen a lot of women cry—most in a professional setting, and a few back before I had any clue what I wanted in a relationship. But thinking, even for a moment, that I could have been the cause behind the visible anguish in her eyes had been wholly unbearable.

I’d lain awake in my bunk long after she returned Adele’s laptop to the charging station. But it wasn’t her assumption or even her accusation I replayed. It was the empathy she extended to me, the grace. That even though she believed me guilty of hurting her family in such a blatant way, she’d been willing to look past my crime.

She’d actually offered to help me.

As a therapist, I’ve worked with many types of people. I’ve seen hurt, betrayal, trauma, and fear manifest themselves in a dozen different ways, but rarely have I seen it look like that. Like compassion. Like mercy.

Like Raegan.

I clear my throat, willing my thoughts to make a U-turn as I answer my brother’s questions about the motor coach and our living arrangement on the road.

“Sounds like Southern hospitality isn’t a myth, then.”

Raegan’s sweet smile comes to mind again. “I’d say it’s pretty real.”

An alarm sounds over the hospital’s loudspeaker. “I’ve gotta run, bro, but Kacy said to tell you you’re missed around here. She also wants an autographed vinyl from Luella.”

I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do. Give the twins a hug from me.”

“Only if you promise to send pictures of any tipped cows.”

A few minutes after I leave the café and hike back to the air-conditioned bus, the Farrow family climbs aboard. Raegan joins me in the cockpit, and the relief I feel at her presence is odd given how short a time I’ve known her. A part of me had wondered how things might change for us today—with both our secrets out in the open—but if anything, Raegan seems to have lowered her guard even more.

She glances from me to the jump seat. Or rather, to the small deposit of trust I left for her there. “Is this one of Lynn’s journals?”

“I thought you might want to browse through one while we drive,” I say easily, though watching her handle it with such care doubles my pulse.

With reverence, she runs her palm across the cover of the green travel journal. “Are you sure? I know what a treasure these must be to you and your family.”

“I trust you, Raegan. You’re welcome to read them all if you’d like to.” A simple offer that’s anything but simple.

I reverse out of the parking lot, and soon we’re back on the interstate headed west following signs for Tulsa. Traffic is as light as the mood in the back of the bus today. All sister drama has been noticeably low today. Perhaps the shopping excursion was good for them all, most certainly for Luella. Every time I catch sight of her in my mirrors, she’s smiling.

From my periphery, I watch Raegan overcome her earlier hesitation as she opens the journal and begins to read. She doesn’t lift her head again for thirty minutes.

“These entries are incredible. Mama’s talked about Camp Selkirksince I was young—it’s where she met my daddy for the first time—but how your mom described their baptisms was ... beautiful.” She shakes her head. “I love all her doodles and sketches about the places they stopped. I didn’t realize Lynn was so artistic. Also, this food log and daily spending total is awesome—it’s hard to believe a hamburger was ever thirty cents.” She taps the penciled graph she’s referencing. “There’s so much detail on every page.”

I encourage Raegan to turn the page and look closely at the sketch of a bridge surrounded by giant redwood trees. Hidden into the grooves of each tree trunk is a treasure you can’t see without rotating the journal. As soon as she does, she gasps. “No way. Are these the lyrics for ‘Crossing Bridges’?”

I nod, having made that revelation only a few hours ago myself.

“I wish each page came with a key, like on a map,” I say. “Sometimes there’s so much stuff between the entries that I’m not sure I’m comprehending what’s most important. At times, it’s like the art is acting as another language.”

“I suppose that’s exactly what it is.” She holds it up. “A creative’s love language.”

“Well, that particular gene must have skipped me entirely, because my eyes are exhausted after about three or four pages.”

Raegan turns abruptly in her seat and reaches for her messenger bag resting against the back of mine. After a minute, she pulls out a notebook I’ve seen her write in multiple times since the day we left. She opens it up and holds it out so I can see it without having to take my eyes off the road for more than a couple of seconds. She flips to a page and then to another one.

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