Hour of the Moon

Chapter 3: New Beginnings

As I stepped off the plane and into Charlotte Douglas International Airport, my false optimism about beginning a new chapter and leaving the past behind vanished.

"I could use some tequila," I yawned, still sleepy from the flight.

Amy said someone would meet me at the airport and drive me to my new apartment.

What would I find in Hicksville, USA? I grew up in the city, more specifically in the suburbs. In North Carolina, I couldn't last a single day. The town where I'd be living and working is called Cherokee, North Carolina, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that it had Native American roots.

Although that semi-intrigued me, the fact that my boss thought this was the best for me gave me mixed feelings.

Was it a little racist? Maybe. But what could I possibly do? It's difficult enough to get a job at a major newspaper if you don't have connections or are white adjacent, so I'll just put up with it for now.

But that didn't make it any less painful.

When things didn't go my way in the past, my mother would chastise me.

"It's only three months," she said when I told her about my sudden relocation.

Three months, my ass!

Is the North Carolina branch even up to date on publications?

Cherokee, North Carolina was a town on the reservation of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Nation, according to a quick Google search.

The population appeared to be small, and the only attractions on offer seemed to be exploring the great outdoors and a casino resort on the outskirts.

I arrived at baggage claim and received a text message from Savannah, the head of the North Carolina branch. She was roughly equivalent to Amy's position.

Amy called Savannah to let her know about my arrival and flight time. Mrs. Savannah Michael was a blonde-haired beauty at least a decade my senior.

Because the journalist in me thirsted for information, apparently she is 1/4 Native. She grew up in NC her whole life and graduated from Duke University, was married with three kids, and was formerly Miss Tennessee. Furthermore, she ran a blog called The Southern Belle, where she shared life tips as a suburban southern white woman.

I suppose there was always a target audience of Southern white women.

She was standing near the exit near the taxis and buses, holding a large white poster that read Welcome Keiran.

It was a thoughtful gesture, to be sure.

She wore a simple green and blue flannel with blue pants. Her red-painted lips were painted with a bright grin as she greeted me with a hug that caught me off guard.

"Kieran! It's a pleasure to finally meet you! Amy told me everything I needed to know about you!" Her voice had a slight southern twang to it, not as strong as an accent from Louisiana or Georgia, but still distinct.

"Nice to meet you as well," I said, her contagious energy dispelling my gloom.

Despite her simple outfit, she was at least five inches taller than my average height and carried herself with grace.

"You've brought quite a few suitcases, I see! No worries, there's plenty of room in my truck."

"Do you want me to assist you?" As she shook her head, I offered.

"You simply rest and relax! I'll look after it."

Although she was slender, she was quite strong as she placed my thirty-pound suitcases in the back of her cherry red Chevy truck like they were feathers.