Tumble (Dogwood Lane #1)(2)

The line muffles again, and my mind wanders to the last piece I wrote for the sports magazine I work—worked—for. It followed a collegiate soccer player who came from nothing and won the starting goalie position at an elite school. A tale of hard work and overcoming obstacles, it was the type of story my soul craves.

It’s the kind of article I became a sports journalist to write.

It would’ve been the perfect story to kick off the new division at the magazine.

Forcing a swallow in an attempt to quell the bitter taste in my mouth, I flip my attention back to my friend.

“You still here?” Grace asks.

“Yup.”

“Okay. Had to do a little ‘my balls are bigger than yours’ show to the boys. You know how it goes.” She sighs. “I love when they think they can make decisions and not include me. Imbeciles.”

That hits home a little too hard. I force another swallow. “Totally.”

Grace must hear the slight wobble in my voice, because her tone lowers. “You know what? I’m gonna steer this conversation in another direction.”

“It’s fine,” I promise. “You’re allowed to talk about your job.”

She ignores me. “I’m stuck at work dreaming about a vacation and dealing with office politics. You, my friend, are free. You should totally live it up for a few days.”

“Livin’ it up in good ole Dogwood Lane,” I say with a laugh. A little yellow-painted building with a patched roof passes on my right. “Maybe I’ll pull into the Bait Shop over there and count the worms.”

“Worms? Gross. But on the bright side, I bet there are cute country boys in there, probably even in flannel.”

“Flannel?” I laugh. “That’s random.”

“Yes, flannel. Your job is to find a hot country boy in flannel and roll around in some hay. Drink some lemonade in mason jars. Ride around in old pickup trucks. Do whatever it is you do down there and forget life for a couple of days. I’ll be working some angles around here.”

My spirits slip, just like the sun slips behind the clouds. My life in New York City was anchored by my position at the magazine. My entire routine was centered around my job. The stories. The people.

The magnitude of the situation, of starting over from scratch, combats the feel-good energy from the pine-scented air. I cringe. “Remind me again I didn’t just screw up my life.”

“Stop that,” Grace warns. “You didn’t screw up anything, and this will all work out for the best. I know it.”

“I hope so, but, man, now that the adrenaline has worn off . . .” I try to laugh, to play it off as a joke, but no sound comes out.

“Look, I have friends in high places. Getting you a job will be as hard as the musician I slept with last night. And trust me, that’s a good thing for you.”

“I gather he wasn’t amazing since you’re calling him by his job instead of by his name.”

“He told me it was Gabriel. But since I told him mine was Lydia, who knows if that’s true. But now you’re distracting me.” She shouts at someone before coming back to the phone. “I have a list of people I’m going to call this week to see if anyone is looking for a brilliant sports journalist.”

My fingers grip the steering wheel. Grace is a bloodhound: once she sets her sights on something, there’s no turning back. We met a few years ago at a conference and realized we lived the New York equivalent of “right around the corner” from one another. We bonded over cereal from the box, afternoon movies, and ballpark hot dogs. Grace decided we were friends, and that was that. I love her for it.

“I know you want to help,” I tell her. “But I’ll find something. I already sent my résumé out this morning to a couple of places. I got this.”

“Okay, but I can’t be blamed if something just falls in my lap while you’re on vacation.”

“I wouldn’t call this a vacation,” I note. “More like a chance to see my mama.”

“Well, I still think you should make the best of it. Just don’t fall back in love with your hometown too much, because you aren’t leaving me.”

I drive through the center of town and take in the quaint buildings and the kids riding bicycles on the sidewalks. There are no drive-through coffee shops, no chain restaurants. The closest dry cleaner is two towns over, and if you want more than the cheap toilet paper, you’re out of luck. Nothing has changed in the decade I’ve been gone. Not physically, anyway. My stomach bottoms out as I think about the people and the things I’ve avoided all my adult life. My spirits sink as I consider the topics I’ve forbidden my mom from even mentioning over the years.

Shoving them out of my mind, I sigh. “Trust me. I won’t fall in love with this place. I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Dogwood Lane, Tennessee?” she asks in her best southern voice.

“Your New Yorker attempt at a southern drawl is pathetic.”

“I’ll work on it. Now, tell me what you see. Paint me a picture of whatever you’re looking at. Bonus if it includes flannel.”

I take in the first building on my right. “The post office was built a hundred years ago and has needed a new coat of paint for at least the last twenty years.” I flip my turn signal on. “Across the street is a church with musket balls from the Civil War lodged in the steeple.”