“So, what?”

Raylan hesitates, like he’s wondering if he should push for details.

“Everything okay?” he says, at last.

“Yeah,” I say, looking out the window. “Everything’s great.”

I don’t know why I don’t just tell Raylan that Dean and I broke up. I guess it’s because it seems embarrassing in some way. And also maybe because I’d prefer to keep that barrier between us, for now.

I know Raylan is as aware as I am that there’s no relationship between the two of us. He’s been hired to do a job, which is to protect me. We’re not friends. And we’re definitely not lovers. We can barely stand each other, half the time.

Still, there is that weird energy that arises every now and then.

Like that moment in the gym. Or even our conversation last night.

I don’t want to have to deal with any more of that. So I think it’s better if Raylan believes I’m in a relationship with somebody else. It’s safer that way. For both of us.

We drive the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Mostly in silence. Raylan puts the radio on, and we go in and out of local stations. I hear an endless stream of country songs, punctuated by the occasional rock or pop song, and some oldies.

I can’t deny that Tennessee is surprisingly beautiful. I didn’t realize it was so green. The fields are green, and the smaller mountains, that are really more like hills. Beyond that, I spy the deep blue peaks of the Smokies.

There’s so much open space between towns. Raylan is right—I really don’t get out of the city much. I can’t believe in one day we could drive to a place that looks so different in every way.

As we drive down into a valley between two tall green hills, the radio crackles and a new song comes on, bright and clear. It’s “Please Mr. Postman” by The Marvelettes.

“Please Mr. Postman”—The Marvelettes (Spotify)

“Please Mr. Postman”—The Marvelettes (Apple)

My mom used to play that song. She loves it—I have no idea why. She loves a lot of Motown and early rock and blues.

“Mr. Postman” is so cute and catchy that it was a favorite of Nessa’s, and mine, too. Mom would play it, and we’d jump up on the couches and dance and sing along to it, pretending we were holding microphones. Pretending we had beehives and sparkly dresses, and we were an old-school trio. Nessa, ever concerned with choreography even at a young age, would try to make us coordinate, and shimmy in a period-appropriate manner.

I can’t help tapping my fingers against the car door, nodding along to the song.

Raylan looks over at me, thick black eyebrow cocked. He reaches over and twists the knob to turn up the volume.

That’s another thing nobody does anymore—no one waits for a letter from the Postman. But the cheerful, wistful tone of the song is as relatable as ever. And the upbeat piano riff. It makes me want to shimmy my shoulders like Nessa and I used to do. Especially as Raylan turns the music up even louder and drums along to the beat on the steering wheel.