Page 96 of Where the Blacktop Ends

By Thursday, the pressure became too much. I finally reached out to Eleanor, voicing my anxiety and asking for her help. Ever gracious, she suggested I fly to Texas ahead of the election to prepare my parents for what might be coming, while she took Liam with her to North Carolina.

And that’s how I end up here, stepping off a Friday morning flight in San Angelo with my best friend James at my side.

As I make my way through the terminal, I spot them waiting at baggage claim—my mom, her wild blonde curls bouncing as she pulls me into a tight hug, and my dad, his warm green eyes and weathered face filled with relief, wrapping all three of us in his arms.

“Georgia, we’ve missed you so much!” my mom says, squeezing me like she hasn’t seen me in years when my last visit was just a few months ago.

“How long do we have you two for?” Dad asks as we finally pull apart. He grabs my luggage, tossing it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. His strength physically and mentally has always amazed me. I let out a steady breath, instantly feeling safer in their presence.

“Until Sunday.”

“Oh, that’s not nearly enough time,” Mom says, her face creasing with worry.

“I know, but I need to get back to Liam. His previous nanny took him to North Carolina early as a favor and the election is happening...” I can tell she has a million questions, but she holds off, probably saving them for when we’re home and away from the bustle of airport foot traffic.

“Will you be going with Georgia to North Carolina?” she asks, turning to James.

He nods, giving my side a reassuring squeeze. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving her.”

“Let’s get out of here and catch up at home,” Dad says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “I’ve never liked this airport—bad memories of the time your mom tried to ditch me for Houston.” His tone is teasing, but the warmth in his eyes tells another story.

Mom laughs, swatting his arm. “I wasn’t ditching you—I was just youngand naïve.”

“Same thing,” Dad mutters with a smirk, leading us toward the parking lot.

The Texas heat slams into me the second we step outside—thick, humid, suffocating. My long sleeves cling to my skin, a poor choice against the relentless sun. I push my hair off my forehead, already longing for New York’s crisp November air. The drive to Lonestar Junction should take thirty minutes, but thanks to traffic, it drags closer to an hour. Construction crews line the highway, expanding the lanes, their machinery kicking up dust as we pass.

“They’re finally widening these roads?” I ask, watching the rows of orange cones blur past the window.

Dad catches my eye in the rearview mirror and winks. “Yeah, looks like they finally listened to that sixteen-year-old who knew what the hell she was talking about.”

I chuckle, but the sound dies quickly. The roadwork has nothing to do with me, and the reminder of that letter I wrote is like a weight settling on my chest—I need to tell them. The real reason I’m here. To prepare them for the possibility of another, painful public display of embarrassment.

Dad notices the shift in my mood—he always does—but he doesn’t push. Instead, he lets Mom fill the space with chatter about the co-op she and my Aunt Jovie run, updating me on local gossip while James asks questions, genuinely curious about the town I grew up in. His easygoing enthusiasm keeps the conversation light, and I’m grateful for the distraction.

When we finally pull into my home at Cameron Ranch, my breath catches. It looks the same as it always has—unshaken by time, steady and familiar. A place that has always been a safe haven, no matter how old I get or how far I fall.

“Come on in,” Dad says, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Your mom made your favorite—sweet tea and a cobb salad. Dallas dropped off the lettuce, so who knows if it’ll have holes in it.”

I laugh, shaking my head. He’s been making that same joke for over thirty years about my honorary uncle and neighbor Dallas Golden, and it still throws him into roaring laughter every time.

We settle around the kitchen table, and I listen as my mom continues to chatter about my cousins Wilder and Cody. Sounds like Wilder has finally proposed to his girlfriend Teagan, a woman I lived with at one point and adored, and Cody is wrapped up in some sort of scandal with another country music artist that he’s touring with.

It feels normal, comforting, but I know what’s coming. The conversation takes a shift when Dad finally asks, “So, do you think your new boss is going to win this election?”

It’s a simple question, but the weight of it, of everything I haven’t said yet, hangs heavy in the air.

James snorts. “It’s Troy Marshall, he certainly won’t go down without a fight.”

I take another bite of the lettuce. It’s fresh, crisp, and exactly what I need to calm my nerves.

“I do. He’s the best candidate, hands down. He has a vision that’s miles ahead of his competitors, his policies are fresh, and he’s honest—hardworking and focused on rebuilding a state where everyone is safe and can thrive. It’s exactly what the state needs.”

Dad shoots Mom a knowing look, and I realize they’ve picked up on the way that I talk about Troy. Anyone would. My voice softens, my cheeks warm, and I probably look like I’m daydreaming whenever I think about him.

I love him, without question. Marrying him seems like an easy decision, even though we haven’t known each other for that long. But that doesn’t change the fact that I could be the reason that he loses the election, despite my faith in him. If he loses, it won’t be because of anything he’s done. That, I’m sure of.

“I’m in love with him,” I blurt out, because my parents have always been direct, preferring to rip the band-aid off rather than tiptoe around an issue.

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