Chapter 1: Welcome to Pine Bluff

The first time my boyfriend took me back to his rural hometown, I tried to play it cool—but even as I gripped the seatbelt, my stomach did a nervous little flip.

The wind whipped through the open truck windows, carrying the sharp scent of fresh-cut hay and distant pine. We bounced down gravel roads, dust curling in our wake, headed for a place that felt like it had been left behind by the rest of the world. I pressed my forehead to the glass, searching the endless fields and wondering if I’d get the cold shoulder or the royal treatment in a town where everybody knew everybody.

I barely had time to drop my bag before his mother laid down the law: she wouldn’t let me sit at the table to eat. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, she told me point-blank that I had to provide a house for his younger brother’s wedding.

The words landed like a slap across the face. My ears rang. I’d heard stories about old-fashioned families, sure, but I never thought I’d end up in the middle of one. The kitchen clock ticked, each second thumping in my chest, making the whole moment feel even more surreal and off-kilter.

I hesitated for half a heartbeat, fury and disbelief warring inside me—then I flipped the table and walked out right then and there.

The plates clattered in a wild cascade, a fork skittered across the linoleum, and for a split second, everyone just gawked, mouths open. My heart pounded, but in that wild, suspended chaos, I felt something crack open inside me—a strange sense of freedom, like I’d finally stopped swallowing my pride and let it spill over in the most American way possible.

I never expected his whole family to cling to me like I was their last lifeline, invading my apartment and pawning off my furniture piece by piece.

It was like living inside a rejected episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, except the laugh track was just my own disbelief. I’d barely processed the breakup before my phone buzzed nonstop with texts from neighbors about unfamiliar faces traipsing in and out of my place, hauling boxes and bags.

And then they tried to sell my Black Friday stash of toilet paper!

It was so ridiculous I wanted to laugh and scream at the same time. Leave it to America for a Black Friday toilet paper deal to turn into a family feud.

"Charmin Ultra Soft, unopened, pack of 8 rolls, $5, pickup only."

I stared at the Craigslist listing, jaw slack. There it was—my kitchen, vintage signs and mason jar lights and all, in the background of their ad. The nerve.

It was our two-year anniversary.

I’d been excited—maybe flowers, maybe a nice dinner out. Instead, I got a road trip to the middle of nowhere and a starring role in a family drama I never asked for.

My boyfriend, Kyle Peterson—tall, broad-shouldered, with a nervous habit of rubbing the back of his neck—had suggested I come meet his parents.

He’d tossed it out there like it was nothing, but I caught the edge in his voice, the way his fingers fidgeted with his keys, and the sideways glances he gave me like he was waiting for me to freak out.

His family lived way out in rural Montana, just outside a speck of a town called Pine Bluff.

We rolled past endless golden fields, battered mailboxes leaning at odd angles, and the occasional slow-moving herd of cattle. My phone dropped to zero bars before we’d even hit the last turnoff. I watched the GPS spin, rerouting endlessly, while Kyle’s playlist shuffled between country hits and a random Taylor Swift song.

After a long, exhausting drive through backroads and gravel stretches, we finally arrived just after ten the next morning, both of us running on gas station coffee and stale granola bars.

The gravel crunched under the tires as we pulled up to a sagging farmhouse with paint peeling off in wide strips. The porch creaked beneath our feet, and a dozen crows perched on the fence, watching me like I was the main event at the county fair. I swallowed hard.

I barely had a chance to take a breath before a sharp-faced, middle-aged woman strode over, lips pressed into a thin line, and gave me a cold, judgmental once-over. “You’re Lauren Bennett?”

Her voice was clipped, her eyes narrowed behind thick glasses. She wore a faded floral apron over a pair of worn jeans, arms folded so tight across her chest I wondered if she ever let them relax.

I nodded. “Hi, Mrs. Peterson.”

I tried to sound cheerful, but my voice came out higher than I meant. I stuck out my hand, but she just left it hanging there, staring at me with a look that said, Nice try.

She immediately started grilling me like I was on trial for murder. “What do your parents do?”

Her tone was flat, but her gaze pinned me like a butterfly to a board. It felt like I was sitting under a bare bulb on Law & Order, waiting for the detective to break me.

Remembering my parents’ advice, I kept it simple: “We run grocery stores.”

No extra details, no bragging—just what Mom always said. No need to give them ammunition.