After walking for nearly two hours, we stumble across a small home surrounded by endless corn fields. Three massive silos sit several yards from the home, and a small barn that looks as if it's been shown decades of tough love. The paint is peeling and holes reveal places where the wood has rotted away. Besides that, it seems to be in decent condition. As Mom and I trudge past the old structure, I breathe in proof of the barns purpose. It seems to be where the animals are kept. And to be honest, by the smell of it, I'm not sure if they're alive or dead.

"Wow," I mumble, clamping my fingers over my nose. "That's some powerful stuff."

"Sorry," my mom says. "That might have been me."

"Mom!" I belt in horror, laughter bubbling out with the word. "You couldn't have waited until the wind shifted a bit. That literally hit me right in the face."

She chuckles softly as we hurry through the poop-tainted air and make our way up the steps to the small wooden house. I knock several times, and then we both step back to wait. We're pretty patient people, but when two minutes pass and no sounds of life thump around inside the little home, we search for another option. Not willing to give up so easily, I round the house to take a look at the backyard. At first I don't see anyone, but when my eyes flicker out into the fields, I see a man making his way towards us. His tractor sits idly behind him, and I'm wondering if he's done for the day or if he actually saw us snooping through his windows and is coming to threaten us off his land.

I continue watching him until he glances up and meets my gaze. I offer a friendly wave, hoping I haven't startled the old man enough to cause any heart damage. But as he nears, I realize he ain't no old man. He's actually quite young really. My age even. His dirt-covered shirt hugs his body tightly, his tanned forearms on full display for any eager eyes. He obviously does a lot of heavy lifting, no doubt. I'd probably appreciate his appearance more if my heart didn't belong to another man already.

He saunters up to me, a curious look on his face, and offers a 'hello'. It sounds more like a question though. It's as if he's somehow woven a 'who are you?', 'what are you doing here?', and 'should I know you?' all inside that one simple word.

"Hi," I say back, reaching out for a warm handshake. His grip is strong, and I'm wondering if he either doesn't realize his own strength or if he's using it as a threat. "My name is Mercy," I tell him brightly, hoping he doesn't catch on that I'm trying to hide my wincing. I almost sigh in relief when he releases his grip from, my now, crippled fingers. "I'm here with my mom, and I was wondering if you could help us."

"Okay?"

His teeth clench together as he works his jaw with his hand, and I can't help but take in the scruff shadowing his well-crafted face. He's got muscles and definition in all the right places. But then again, so does Seth. And Seth is who I should be thinking about right now. I mentally slap myself in the brain, and smile at the intimidating man in front of me.

"Our car ran out of fuel and we were hoping for a ride into town to get some more. Or, if you happen to have some on hand we'd gladly purchase it."

He motions me to follow him using his head, and I trail behind him as he stalks towards the front of the house.

"I wouldn't mind selling you some," he says, walking at such a brisk pace that I'm forced to jog to keep up. With his back to me, I can't properly hear him without being right behind him. "You got a truck?"

"Huh?"

"A truck," he says, stopping to face me with a belittling look on his face. "You know, typically large vehicle, sits higher than a car, mean engine—"

"Dude," I say, appalled and humored all at the same time. Sarcasm is my speciality and I'll gladly dish it back. "I know what a flipping truck is. What I don't understand is why you're asking. You some kinda truck hoarder? You want us to trade a truck for some gas? Seems a bit counterproductive to me, considering we'd need the gas for the truck—"

"Dude," he says, mimicking my same response with a smile peeking out through crinkled eyes. "I was asking for the simple fact that I only have diesel. If you have a truck, or some other kind of diesel-eating vehicle, then I can help. If not, then you're outta luck."

"Well then," I say, my lips twitching upward, "why didn't you just say so?"

Mom comes around the corner then to find me chatting with the beautiful stranger. She begins laughing with relief as she trots her way over. I actually mean trot. My mom doesn't run. She's too dainty for running. So she does her version of running, which is more like hopping with careful placement of her feet. It looks absolutely ridiculous.

"Mom, stop," I say, trying not to laugh, but she just waves my request away.

She stops in front of us and we basically just repeat the entire conversation I just had with the farmer. When we explain that he can't help us, her shoulders deflate. That's a bad sign when it comes to my mom. She's usually up for any twist or turn that life presents. She takes unexpected events as a sign for an adventure. But, right now, she looks tired. I mean, we have been gone for nearly seven hours. Dinner will be approaching soon and there's no way we'll make it back for that.

The farmer—Jackson, as we soon come to discover—eventually invites us in for a late lunch, and while he and my mom cook up something simple, I excuse myself to make a phone call. Jackson already gave me permission to use his satellite phone since there's no cell phone service this far out and he doesn't have a landline.

I'm all prepared to feel hardcore with some massive, military-looking device held up to my ear, but when Jackson presents the phone to me, I'm a bit disappointed. It's not large at all. In fact, it looks simply like a walkie-talkie. Sighing, I push in Seth's number and wait for him to pick up. It takes nearly seven rings, but I finally hear his voice.

"You're stuck somewhere, aren't you?" is the first thing he says when he answers.

"Uh... yeah," I respond sheepishly. Funny that he just knew this random number calling him would be me. Seems I'm losing my 'unpredictable' title. "Ran out of gas."

"Where do I need to pick you up?

"You don't, actually," I hurry to say. "Mom and I found a guy willing to let us crash at his place, and then we'll head out tomorrow."

It's quiet on the other end of the line for several seconds, and I'm dying to be able to read his thoughts right now. He's accessing all the information and strategizing a solution. Typical Seth. He's always been a problem solver. I guess it comes with being a movie director—always prepared with a back up plan.

"I'm coming to get you," he finally says. Apparently, his inner solution machine is broken today because I'm pretty sure that's a really stupid idea.

"Wait," I say, smiling to hide my surprise—even though he can't see it anyway. "Did you say you're coming to get us?"

"Yeah." He doesn't even hesitate to respond. "What's the address?"

Knowing that there's no changing his mind, I recite Jackson's address to him, and wait as he punches the information into his computer. I hear an exasperated sigh leave his lips, and I know that he's staring at the bottom of the directions on Googlemaps where the 'time to destination' is located.

"Are you guys safe?" he asks, not bothering to chastise me for wandering so far from home. I guess that's one thing I've always loved about Seth. He's never tried to snuff out my freedom and independence. Actually, he used to join me for my adventures, but now he's just glad to let me do them solo. At least he hasn't put an end to them all together.

"Yeah," I assure him, smiling at his obvious concern. "We'll be eating some lunch soon. We're fine. Jackson is a nice guy. No need to worry. I'll just kickbox him into submission if he gets out of hand." I laugh at my own attempt to lighten the mood. Sometimes I think that because I took kick boxing for two weeks when I was ten, I'm some kind of kung fu master. I didn't realize until like three years ago that those were actually two entirely different styles of fighting. Shows how much I know.

"Okay," he says, a tenderness slipping into the word that I don't think he intended to reveal. I almost wonder if he's smiling on the other end of the phone. "I'll be there in about five hours."

Gosh, when he says it like that, I realize just how huge of a deal this is. He's just volunteered himself to leave work a bit early just so he can fill his evening with taxi duty. I feel guilty. Sickeningly guilty. If our relationship was good, I'd promise to make up for his kindness later, but as of now, I have no idea what I could do to pay him back for this. If a kiss is out of the question, then anything beyond that will surely get me thrown out of the house. I'm just empty of ideas. Wooing someone has never been so hard... and while the challenge seemed fun at first, it's slowly losing its appeal.

—

It's seven pm before Seth arrives. He looks tired and grumpy. He's still wearing his half casual, half dressy attire from work, but he's managed to unbutton a few more buttons to give his neck a bit more breathing room. And dang it! Why does just a peek of smooth chest have to be so devastating to my poor little heart? He shouldn't be allowed to look so beautiful when he's obviously miserable. When I'm miserable, I look flipping miserable. I like to believe that most people do.

I only have one memory where Seth's misery showed through, and it was when he was sick and upchucking into the toilet bowl. He'll never live that moment down because it's the only time I can call him ugly and actually mean it. We used to laugh about that memory—me dabbing vomit from his stench-covered lips while trying to force water down his dragon-breathe throat.

I doubt he'd be laughing about that now.

I watch him walk the small distance from his truck to the front door and quickly hurry to open it before he has to knock. He stops, his fist raised to tap the wood, and eyes me. I can see dark shadows beneath both eyes and I wonder if it's due only to the long drive, or the result of many sleepless nights.

"Hey," I say, sympathy soaking into the single word. "Thanks for coming."

He runs a hand through his hair before gripping the back of his neck and squeezing. In our earlier days, I would have taken the action as a sign of nerves, but now I think it's just due to the awkward waves bouncing between us. We just don't flow right anymore.

"Did you happen to pick up any gas on your way?" I ask Seth, ushering him into the house.

"Yeah," he says distractedly as his gaze swings around the small cottage.

It's nothing special. Just the basics. No pictures or decorations. But there's something kind of nice about its simplicity. When I first entered I was slightly disappointed by the plain wood walls. But as I explored further, I realized that Jackson had everything he needed here. He didn't need fancy decor or expensive furnishings to be happy. Makes me wonder if living in simplicity helps him to focus on his dreams and passions. There's nothing to distract him from what he wants. No tv to steal away a conversation. No cell phones to seclude him from real life. No internet to absorb his mind with. He's free to do whatever he pleases, and there's nothing standing in his way.

The saddest part about Jackson's lifestyle is the fact that he's got no one to share it with, and maybe he prefers that. But, I'm slightly curious to see what a lifestyle like this would look like for Seth and me.

"Did you want to eat something before we go fill the tank?" I ask, not exactly sure what his plans were going to be once he arrived. "Jackson gave us free rein of his kitchen."

"You guys planning on driving back tonight?" He asks, ignoring my question.

"No," I tell him, running my fingers over the coarse material of Jackson's sofa. "Mom and I planned to just spend the night before heading back, but I figured you'd need to get back for work tomorrow."

"I took the morning off."

My gaze lifts to meet his, and for a moment he loses the hard edge around him that most people find intimidating. Instead, I see a man suffering from exhaustion and sorrow. Why would he look so sad?

"I'm staying," he says firmly. There's no room for argument, which is fine because I don't want to argue anyway.

I nod once, trying not to appear too thrilled by his desire to keep an eye on me. He's always been the protective type. Not in a 'he never lets me do anything without the supervision of his watchful eyes.' But more of the 'I cherish you too much to watch you get hurt' kind of way. It's sweet, and though I'm not exactly sure if that's the purpose of him staying here tonight, I'm still grateful.

After introductions, Seth helps set the table and the four of us eat in comfortable conversation. I get the feeling that Seth isn't all that fond of Jackson, but he hides it well. He's good at not giving himself away when it comes to his feelings; which, for me, has been both a blessing and a curse.

Once dinner is cleaned up, Jackson shows us to the guest room. With much bickering between Seth and my mom, she finally concedes to share the bed with me. Seth gladly takes the couch, appearing the gentleman to Jackson and my mom, but a coward to me. As if he's going to contract a disease by sharing my bed. He probably doesn't even realize how hurtful such an action is. We've been trying to hide our problems from the world, and yet, he can't even pretend for one night. As if I'm going to maul him in his sleep or something... though it's tempting.

Our connection just keeps weakening with each day that passes. Neither of us seems capable of doing anything to prevent further damage to our relationship. If those divorce papers didn't signal that something was wrong, then his actions tonight certainly have.

We're just one step closer to the end.