With Love From, Tennessee (SLOW UPDATES)

Chapter 1: Home Sweet Home

J A M I E

Dear Jamie,

I know that's your name because I heard your Momma shouting at you to come inside this morning and clean up your toys. My Momma tells me to clean up my toys too, so there's already something we have in common. From my house, I could see the dirt covering your britches and feet as you ran inside. Where did you run off to, anyway? Maybe it's a place we can both go play someday? You don't know me yet, but I'm sure we'll meet soon. I'm even more positive that we can be the best of friends. If you're not scared of cooties n' all that? The boys at school never let me play with them, but quite frankly I think they're just scared to death that I can kick the ball farther than they can at recess. Besides, Momma tells me that cooties aren't real anyway.

How old are you? I guess about eight and three quarters. I just turned eight but all the grown-ups say I'm mature for my age, so just consider me nine. I still have a lot of imagination and energy in me for a metaphorical nine-year-old, though, so don't let that scare ya' off. Well, I reckon this is where my letter ends. It's nice to have a new neighbor who's my age for once. There are too many darn old people in this town. If you ever want to play, you know where to find me. Little, green house on Huckleberry Drive. Welcome to Tennessee, Jamie.

With Love From,

The Kid Next Door. Presley.

I rip my eyes away from the yellow-lined paper, folding it together in the perfectly folded square it once was and tucking its tattered corners back inside my pocket. I slump over against the steering wheel of my blue Chevy pickup truck, trying to conjure up enough bravery to drive it past the town line of a place I used to call home. Ten years have passed since I've broken free of the confines of this southern settlement, and the memories- good and bad- that it's kept trapped inside of it.

A huge part of me hates that I'm being dragged back here, but deep inside, I know that my heart has always cried to come back to Tennessee; to come back to the place where I left someone so important behind. Once upon a time, I found myself fighting to stay. I struggled to yank my roots away from the comfort of my childhood, but now the thought of replanting myself in a hole I've already dug myself out of has me wishing that I would have buried myself deeper beneath the ground in Chicago.

When I first moved there, I hated the city. I hated the smells, the crowds, and the cramped, overpriced apartments. Most of all I hated the rush, and the way that time never seemed to slow down, even when the night smog came out and the lights of the skyscrapers lining the streets replaced the stars. Now, living in this very moment, I find myself missing it, longing for the constant distraction that it brought with it and the decade of freedom it granted me. Unfortunately, life happens, escape is only temporary, and Dad is sick, so here I am, a grown-ass twenty-eight-year-old man, stuck at this literal fork in the road because I can't grow the balls and step on the goddamn gas pedal.

Presley might still be waiting for you inside, ready to greet you with those hazel eyes and warm smile of hers.

I push the thought away quickly, feeling foolish and shoving it as far back in my mind as I can mentally manage as I bring my eyes up to the wooden town sign standing in front of me. My gaze skims across the vintage, carved letters and the blue, yellow, red, and gold paint that covers the worn wood. I linger on the emblem chiseled out in the middle of the sign's words, a horsehead and foxglove flower centering the entire thing. I read it aloud to myself, hoping that if I can manage to speak its name, I can grow enough backbone to keep driving.

Welcome to Hartsboro.

Established in 1876