One
The repercussionsof a drunken hook-up last way longer than the hangover. As I shuttle down a North Carolina highway, images of my bad behavior two nights ago flash through my mind. My chest pressed up against Dan's in the poorly lit hallway of a downtown bar. His stale beer breath, rapid breathing and muttered words of lust. He kept pulling me closer with his married-man hands, his tongue exploring my mouth like he was counting my fillings. How could someone so good at flirting be that bad at kissing? It was like going through a carwash with those flapping pieces of rubber and jets spraying water. Wet, flappy kisses.
I'm an asshole for thinking about his kissing technique when I should be contemplating how I became someone who would hook up with a married co-worker. Something I thought I would never do, even after four gin and tonics and a shot called a Purple Hooter Shooter. With a name like that, I should have known the evening would end with trouble and regret.
I also should have eaten more for dinner than a few handfuls of tortilla chips and M&Ms. Several drinks into the evening, I was regaling my co-workers with a hilarious story about my ex-boyfriend who answered his phone during sex. That alone was inappropriate, and then I took it one step further and let Dan grope me in a dark hallway. I might have been drunk, but my thinking sharpened right up when one of our co-workers rounded the corner and spotted us.
The memories of that night combined with the stench of the vanilla air fresher in my rental car threatens to make me vomit. I open my window to let the midday air rush in, and I can almost hear my hair gasp in response to the change in humidity levels. By the time I arrive at the farm, my platinum blond bob will resemble a dandelion gone to seed, but that can't be helped. I am resolved to arrive at the goat farm looking as wild as I feel.
This is what I get for drinking enough to forget that my father has abandoned his life in New York and, in effect, me, as well. He was only supposed to be gone for the summer to visit his new girlfriend on her goat farm. Two days ago, he called to inform me that his plans had changed, and he was now a permanent resident of Joyful Goat Farm in Foster's Creek, North Carolina. He had already called the human resources department of the New York City Public School System to tell them that after thirty-three years as a math teacher, he was retiring. When he delivered this news to me, the only words I could get out of my mouth were, "You told the school system before you told me?"
As I draw closer to my destination, the watery coffee I purchased at a gas station in Virginia isn't the only thing getting cold. The anger raging inside me when I rented this car in Brooklyn is starting to dim now that I have 350 miles of road behind me. Somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike I began questioning my decision, but it seemed too late to turn around. I would have ended up lost somewhere in Jersey, and there's no worse fate for a New Yorker than that.
My father will be shocked to see me, if he's even there when I arrive. He might be off herding goats or whatever it is you do on a goat farm. What if Renata is the only one there? Arriving on their doorstep at sixteen years old might be acceptable, but at twenty-eight it’s borderline hot mess behavior.
My phone rings for the second time since crossing the border from Virginia into North Carolina, and I glance down to check the caller, even though I know who it is. My best friend Hugh. Again. It must be killing him that I'm not answering when there is so much for him to harass me about. He lectured me yesterday when I told him about hooking up with Dan. I ignore his call and turn on the radio, hoping to find some inspirational music that will cement my resolve, but the only two stations I can tune in are playing Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name" and Dolly Parton's "Jolene." Even the DJs are throwing shade. I snap it off and grip the wheel tighter. Only twenty minutes before my arrival at Joyful Goat Farm, and yes, the irony of that name is not lost on me.
Of course, I want Dad to be happy. Married-man-make-out session aside, I'm not a monster. But there's a solid amount of evidence suggesting Dad's recent behavior has not been well considered.
1. He only reconnected with his old flame Renata six months ago, and for most of that time, they were dating long distance.
2. He loved his job, and when I say "love," I mean that he actually treasured the mugs that students gave him for Christmas, yet he walked away without even a goodbye party at the school where he'd taught for the last thirty-three years.
3. Dad is white and Renata is black, and I just passed a pick-up truck flying a Confederate flag the size of a twin bedsheet. Why the hell wouldn't they choose New York City as a place to unite as an interracial couple?
I swing onto an undulating country road flanked by green pastures. There's no going back now. At the very least, I'm in for an awkward evening, and I can always hit the road in the morning. Maybe Dad will be glad I came. I am his only offspring, after all, and he usually thinks everything I do is pretty freaking awesome. If I'm lucky, he already realizes the insanity of his decision to move here and will be grateful for the rescue. I stop short of hoping that Renata has already grown tired of farm life and would be up for living in New York. It would be much easier to get him back to the city if she agreed to come with him.
My phone rings yet again, and this time I'm prepared to answer it and yell at Hugh to stop calling me, but the name that flashes up isn't his. It's a New York number, one that doesn't trigger a name in my contact list, so I send the call to voicemail then play it back.
Hey Andie, it's me, Dan. We need to talk...about the other night. About what happened. Call me okay? But don't leave a message if I don't pick up. Just call me. Soon. Like tonight if you can. Okay? We need to talk. Okay. Bye.
I unconsciously lean harder on the gas pedal, accelerating down this highway to hell. Now that would be an appropriate song. Dan's regular number is definitely in my phone so where is he calling me from? He probably bought a burner so his wife won't find out he's been contacting me. One illicit kiss and suddenly he's Omar fromThe Wire.
Dan and I taught the first session of summer school together, and the only thing to be grateful for is that I didn't sign up to teach the next two sessions with him. This weekend was supposed to be the start of my summer break chill-out time. Based on the signs I'm passing, I'm trading the David Bowie film series for a Shriner's fish fry.
As I enter the town limits, I cruise by a dilapidated trailer. Alongside it are several cars on blocks, and a sign that says “Thank you, Jesus” in bright colors and comic sans font. Screw the pastoral vibe and the gentle cows. I need more of this poverty and decay to get me in the mood to destroy a burgeoning relationship.
* * *
At the startof the long dirt driveway, a white sign announces my arrival at Joyful Goat Farm. My rental car, a two-door Hyundai, keeps bottoming out as it bumps along the ruts in the road, rattling both my teeth and my nerves. Finally, I see the farmhouse ahead. It's a two-story Greek Revival style house with a wraparound porch situated next to the grandest oak tree I've ever seen. It's the kind of tree you find on the pages of old-fashioned children's books. The oak's knobbed trunk is impossibly wide, and its branches provide a canopy for days, perfect for sitting with a book or napping on a blanket. With the sun setting behind the house, I have to admit that this place is loaded with charm.
From all the summers I spent working for my friend LaTonya's catering outfit, I can spot the perfect location for special events. Set up some chairs under that oak tree and a tent nearby, host cocktail hour on the porch at sunset, and you've got the ideal wedding venue. I'm already picturing dining tables with mason jars full of wildflowers and a rustic trellis made of saplings for the ceremony. If Renata plans to use this farm for weddings and other events, Dad hasn't said anything about it. All I've heard about is making goat's milk into cheese, which sounds tasty but not very lucrative.
Four cars are parked in the unpaved, dusty lot: a four-door gray Ford pickup truck, a smaller red pickup with Joyful Goat stenciled on the tailgate, a sleek black Lexus SUV, and Dad's tiny white Honda Fit. I pull in next to the looming gray pickup and notice the U.S. Marines decal on the back window. My father, the man who attended anti-war marches in Washington and wouldn't even allow me to own a Nerf gun as a child, is living in a house with military personnel. No wonder I feel like my world is upside down. I leave my bag in the trunk for now to avoid being classified as a long-term freeloader.
The warble of birds is the only sound in the air, and I have to admit, they do sound joyful. This is a lovely place to live, if you enjoy humidity as thick as a sweat sock and the whiff of what is presumably goat excrement in the air. The minute they hit the ground, my sandals kick up a small cloud of dust that will settle onto my toes. Note to self, lace-up sandals might not be farm footwear. My agricultural experience is limited to a fifth grade field trip to a berry farm on Long Island where I discovered I have an allergy to raspberries.
The porch's gray floorboards need a paint job, but the white rocking chairs are admittedly quaint and welcoming. I gently knock on the screen door and wait. When no one responds, I rap on the door again, louder this time. The sound of pounding feet across hardwood floor grows in volume until a little girl appears on the other side of the door.
"She's here!" she hollers over her shoulder, then swings the door toward her. Her dark hair is braided tightly against her head and finished in purple and white beads that clack together when she moves.
"Hey, I'm Andie," I say, wondering why she seems to be expecting me.
I wouldn't put it past Hugh to send my father a warning text that I was on my way. No one has answered her from inside the house, and we both stand there, listening to the silence. Renata has a six-year-old granddaughter, and I'm guessing this is her. She's pretty adorable, but I'm not great with little kids. Fortunately, she's more socially confident with adults than I am with small children.
"I forgot, they're in the barn.” She waves me into the house. "I'll take you there."
"Are you Harmony?"
