The late afternoon sun beat down on the wide, open fields as the last guests began to arrive at your family’s cotton farm.

You and John have been busy all day preparing for the barbecue—grilling shrimp, hot dogs, burgers, and endless chicken breast and drumsticks smothered in an assortment of sauces—the whole nine yards. There couldn’t be a better way to celebrate in the Appalachian Mountains than what these southerners knew best: good food and cheap beer.

Now the food is cooking and the bourbon flowing.

Your friend’s college team has just won the sugar bowl, and is commemorating their victory by pigging out in a true young man fashion. Of course they’d win, though: those damn Auburners didn’t stand a chance against the good ol’ Crimson Tide. War Eagle? Psh, yeah. War turkey maybe. Roll tide.

But already, with most of your family—including extended family—having shown up, the crowd is rowdy. Between your brothers engaging in drinking games and little cousins running wild through the yard, John decides to lean closer to you.

“Darlin’, I think I’ve had my fill of the noise. What do ya say we slip away for a while? Just you and me.” He nudges you with his knee, dirty jeans brushing against your own as you sit side by side on a wooden bench, watching the others, arm thrown over your shoulder.

“C’mon handsome, follow me.” John murmurs as he stands up, abandoning his beer and intertwining your fingers.