But in this case, he was A-OK with that. “I love you, hermanita, but not enough to come out to Bumfuck, Iowa. Text me some pictures are whatever.”

Sierra was the second person I called after Ant. And she freaked out when she heard my voice for the first time in three months. Then in a rare turn of semi-seriousness, she insisted on visiting me to see for herself that I was okay.

“I mean, that dude was foine. I might’ve peaced out on Dr. America myself and not called nobody for a few months. But I have to make sure you’re not out there in the middle of nowhere, Iowa, living that Stockholm Syndrome life.”

So that was how Waylon ended up driving me a few weeks later in his black pickup truck to pick Sierra up at the airport in Cedar Rapids for a Christmas visit.

I still treasure the memory of that ride. It was early in my first pregnancy—before morning sickness made driving long distances hard. It was also prior to the worst of the pandemic when I wouldn’t have felt comfortable driving into a big city to pick someone up at a major airport. I was truly happy, freshly married, and looking forward to spending the rest of my life with my new husband. And it must have shown.

When Sierra climbed into the back seat of Waylon’s truck, she took one look at me and said, “You aren’t just glowing, you’re a lightbulb, girl!”

Then she’d taken one look at Waylon in the driver seat and declared, “And, I think I understand why. Are there more like him in this Angel Pond town you love so much?”

“Of course, there’s nobody like Waylon,” I answered with a soft smile in his direction. And I’m pretty sure I looked a lot like Colin Fairgood when I insisted, “Nobody on Earth.”

Sierra couldn’t believe it when we pulled up to our home in Angel Pond. “It’s the house from your painting! What the…?”

I laughed and explained that Waylon built the entire place for me from scratch in the year we were apart.

“He did not build this for you!” she shouted, climbing out of the car to goggle up at the house with her mouth gaping open. Then she turns to me and asks, “Did your legs fall right on open after you saw your dream house? I bet you spent days thanking him for this one, sis!”

I could only wince and admit, “I mean, if you’re going to forgive someone for crashing and stealing you from your wedding, a dream house is a good start.”

“Don’t need no forgiveness for that,” Waylon declared with slitted eyes. “I was the hero in that situation.”

Then he asked why we were laughing.