Going through something so traumatic together created a special bond that outsiders couldn’t understand. But as he drove, Emory mostly replayed in his head the sweeter memories they’d made together—going to footbal games, swinging out over the swimming hole at Timber Creek, shooting off fireworks in the parking lot of her father’s store—and before he knew it, he was putting on his turn signal to exit the interstate to the climbing state road that would meander and twist and eventual y dead end into Sweetness.
At the change in speed, Porter roused from his nap and stretched his arms high in a yawn. “Are we there yet?”
“It won’t be long.” Emory gestured to the sky, where the clouds had taken on a greenish hue. “What do you make of that?”
Porter squinted. “I don’t know—something in the atmosphere…pol en maybe? Looks like we’re in for a good old-fashioned thunderstorm.”
“It’s eerie. Do you think it’s a bad omen?”
“What do you mean?”
Emory shifted in his seat. “Like, maybe today isn’t such a good day to propose?”
“Man, no day is a good day to propose.”
Emory laughed. “Mark my words, Porter. You’re going to meet a woman someday who wil bring you to your knees.”
“Never,” Porter said, shaking his head emphatical y.
The men parried back and forth with the familiar ease of boys who’d grown up side by side. As the SUV climbed higher and higher, the landscape became more recognizable
—and rugged. Here in the mountains, the trees were tal er and sturdier, and black soil gave way to rocky red clay. But a hardy environment produced a hardy crop of people.
They passed a Christmas tree farm and the picturesque covered bridge over Trimble Creek, then at the top of a rise that leveled into a long road ahead of them, a sign announced “Sweetness, Georgia, population 952.”
“Guess the Haywoods had twins,” Porter said with a laugh.
It was a joke because, in truth, the town’s population had been declining for the last couple of decades as new generations had turned away from farming and left to seek careers in outlying areas, especial y Atlanta. Every time Emory came back to his hometown, it seemed as if another business or plant had closed its doors and more homes and farms were for sale.
Al the more reason to get Shelby out of Sweetness, no matter how much they both loved growing up here. After his overseas stint ended, he planned to start col ege classes part-time. Even if he opted not to make the military a career, he didn’t foresee being able to make a living in Sweetness…unless he wanted to work for Shelby’s father at the grocery.
Emory shuddered.
“You okay, man?”
“It’s just coming back here, you know? Mixed feelings.”
“Yeah, I know. I couldn’t wait to get away from this place, but something always pul s me back.”
Emory nodded. He understood completely.
Watching over the town was a tal white water tower in the shape of a vertical capsule, with the greeting, Welcome to Sweetness. Someone had spray painted “I love Pam” in large red letters. Emory smiled—he’d graffitied his own sentiments about Shelby a time or two, as had many boys in town about the object of their affection if they were reckless enough to make that climb. Once a year, the mayor would send up painters to restore the surface to white and reletter the town’s name. And the process would start al over again.
If they continued driving straight, the road would take them into the center of town, but Emory veered off onto a more narrow road to higher ground, to Clover Ridge where they’d grown up. The ridge was mostly farmland, with an occasional home business here and there—Dottie’s Hair Salon and Mike’s Car Repair. Here the lay of the land was as familiar as his hand…he knew every pothole, every broken fence board, every barking dog.
A few minutes later, he pul ed to a stop in front of the Armstrong home, and Porter jumped out. After grabbing
At the change in speed, Porter roused from his nap and stretched his arms high in a yawn. “Are we there yet?”
“It won’t be long.” Emory gestured to the sky, where the clouds had taken on a greenish hue. “What do you make of that?”
Porter squinted. “I don’t know—something in the atmosphere…pol en maybe? Looks like we’re in for a good old-fashioned thunderstorm.”
“It’s eerie. Do you think it’s a bad omen?”
“What do you mean?”
Emory shifted in his seat. “Like, maybe today isn’t such a good day to propose?”
“Man, no day is a good day to propose.”
Emory laughed. “Mark my words, Porter. You’re going to meet a woman someday who wil bring you to your knees.”
“Never,” Porter said, shaking his head emphatical y.
The men parried back and forth with the familiar ease of boys who’d grown up side by side. As the SUV climbed higher and higher, the landscape became more recognizable
—and rugged. Here in the mountains, the trees were tal er and sturdier, and black soil gave way to rocky red clay. But a hardy environment produced a hardy crop of people.
They passed a Christmas tree farm and the picturesque covered bridge over Trimble Creek, then at the top of a rise that leveled into a long road ahead of them, a sign announced “Sweetness, Georgia, population 952.”
“Guess the Haywoods had twins,” Porter said with a laugh.
It was a joke because, in truth, the town’s population had been declining for the last couple of decades as new generations had turned away from farming and left to seek careers in outlying areas, especial y Atlanta. Every time Emory came back to his hometown, it seemed as if another business or plant had closed its doors and more homes and farms were for sale.
Al the more reason to get Shelby out of Sweetness, no matter how much they both loved growing up here. After his overseas stint ended, he planned to start col ege classes part-time. Even if he opted not to make the military a career, he didn’t foresee being able to make a living in Sweetness…unless he wanted to work for Shelby’s father at the grocery.
Emory shuddered.
“You okay, man?”
“It’s just coming back here, you know? Mixed feelings.”
“Yeah, I know. I couldn’t wait to get away from this place, but something always pul s me back.”
Emory nodded. He understood completely.
Watching over the town was a tal white water tower in the shape of a vertical capsule, with the greeting, Welcome to Sweetness. Someone had spray painted “I love Pam” in large red letters. Emory smiled—he’d graffitied his own sentiments about Shelby a time or two, as had many boys in town about the object of their affection if they were reckless enough to make that climb. Once a year, the mayor would send up painters to restore the surface to white and reletter the town’s name. And the process would start al over again.
If they continued driving straight, the road would take them into the center of town, but Emory veered off onto a more narrow road to higher ground, to Clover Ridge where they’d grown up. The ridge was mostly farmland, with an occasional home business here and there—Dottie’s Hair Salon and Mike’s Car Repair. Here the lay of the land was as familiar as his hand…he knew every pothole, every broken fence board, every barking dog.
A few minutes later, he pul ed to a stop in front of the Armstrong home, and Porter jumped out. After grabbing
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