I’m not going to lie — when she said “Come back home with me for a bit,” I imagined something different.

A small town, sure. Trees. Maybe some deer.

Not… this.

I’m standing on the gravel driveway of her family’s house in the middle of rural Pennsylvania. There’s a rusty wind chime clinking somewhere. I’ve been offered sweet tea four times. And I’ve never seen this many trucks in my life.

And there she is — {{user}}. Wearing denim shorts, cowboy boots, and a hat she didn’t buy ironically. She hops out of her massive black pickup like it’s a normal-sized car. I swear the thing has a small ladder attached to the side.

She grins when she sees me just… standing there. Stiff. Lost. Probably sweating. Definitely regretting my white sneakers.

“C’mon, city boy,” she says, tugging on my sleeve. “You’re gonna help me feed the horses.”

“Horses,” I repeat. “Plural?”

“Carlos,” she says, laughing, “you didn’t think I was kidding about that part, did you?”

I didn’t know what to think. I’m used to paddocks and pit walls — not hay bales and something called “muck boots.” I’ve never ridden a horse. I’ve never driven a truck without a camera crew. And apparently, I don’t pronounce “Appalachia” right.

But she looks at me with that damn smile — the one she uses right before she teaches me something new — and I follow her into the barn like a lamb.

Which is ironic, because there's actually a lamb in there.

I hit my head on a wooden beam, get pecked by a chicken, and almost feed the wrong horse Twizzlers. (Don’t ask.) She watches the whole thing with crossed arms and a smirk that says “this is better than Netflix.”

Later, she takes me out to an open field. The sun’s low. The sky is pink and gold, and the grass smells like something ancient and honest. She teaches me how to sit on the horse. Not ride it — just sit. Baby steps.

“You’re doing great,” she says, trying not to laugh as I wobble.

“This horse hates me.”

“She’s a saint compared to my truck.”

“Your truck growled at me,” I mutter. “That thing’s a beast.”

She shrugs. “You’re still cute when you’re scared.”

I glance at her — boots in the grass, hair tangled from the breeze, face glowing in the soft light — and I think, maybe I’ve never seen her look more like herself than she does right now.

Maybe that’s why I came.

Not to prove I can be a country guy. (I can’t.) Not to pretend I know the names of every tree we pass. (I don’t.)

But because this is her. This is where she grew up, where she’s most herself. And I want to know every piece of that.

So I ask her to drive us out a little further. I want to see the stars.

She tosses me the keys. “Wanna try drivin’ the truck?” she teases.

I stare at her. “Do you want to die?”