I manage to find a flight from New York to Sioux Falls for barely over three hundred bucks. I pack lightly, taking a suitcase of folded clothes and my tote bag, which has my laptop and two ARCs, one for each of my parents. I spend around twenty minutes trying to think of something heartfelt to write for my dad. At least an hour of the flight is spent trying to figure out a similarly sentimental message for my mom.

I popped two Advil before the plane took off, and while they've helped a little bit to relieve my headache, there's still a painful tinging in my ears throughout most of the flight that has my expression frozen in this awkward little half-wince. That's what crying for a day will do to you, I guess.

I think I'm done crying now, at least. At this point, I think I'm more so numb than anything.

The plane lands, and I make my way through the once-familiar airport. My parents and I rarely flew when I was a kid, but when we did, we only ever flew out of here, back before Mom developed her intense fear of flying. There's an airport in Sioux City, but as far as I'm aware, it still only goes to Denver and Chicago—and those tickets? Stupidly expensive.

A lot of kids growing up went to either Sioux Falls or Omaha—they each had more gates, more options, and Omaha flies internationally—but Sioux Falls was just as far (almost half an hour closer, actually), and often had slightly cheaper ticket offerings. If I had flown into Omaha on such short notice, it would have been nearly three times the price I paid for these tickets. Which is crazy, because all the flights I could find had layovers. It took me seven hours to get here.

The Sioux Falls airport is just as small as I remember it being. It's crazy to come here after flying out from JFK and having a layover in Minneapolis—there are only seven gates here. It's pretty empty, too. I mean, the two restaurants ("restaurants," including Subway) I pass on my way out are closed, which makes sense. It's nearly eleven at night here. My poor dad is going to hate driving me back this late, especially since he works tomorrow, but he refused to let me get a rental car, just like he refused to let me book a hotel room for the night.

The convenient thing about leaving this airport is that you basically can't miss the car you're looking for. My dad is conveniently parked almost directly in front of the door I exit from. My breath catches.

I haven't seen him in close to three years. Haven't hugged him. Haven't felt him squeeze me with his massive, firm dad arms; haven't had him whisper my Marchie girl in my ear; haven't laughed as he adjusted his ball cap immediately afterward, because he always hugged me so tight that he'd knock his cap loose and we'd all catch a glimpse of his horrendous hat hair.

He's already made it out of the driver's seat and is lowering the truck bed by the time I've regained my senses and have actually walked over. It's completely dark outside, although the airport lights are bright, and he's still wearing his cap. It's a new one, not one of the beat up ones I remember him always wearing when I was a kid. My grandpa threw an egg (hardboiled, freshly dyed) at him on Easter one year because he wouldn't take one of them off inside the house. His caps were always scuffed up and fraying along the bill, which never sat evenly.

This new, crisp cap feels wrong. But, when I finally get to my dad, he reaches out with arms hardened from years of fishing and golf and wraps me up, squeezing me against his barrel chest. He smells like the aftershave I picked out for him when I was twelve, all cedarwood and bergamot, and he's wearing an old, loose cotton T-shirt and cargo shorts, the same ensemble I grew up with.

"Well, would you look at that," he says, and I can barely squeak in response, he's holding me so tight. I can't even hug him back—I can only awkwardly, limply place my hands against his sides. "My Marchie girl is home."

He releases me, grinning, and takes a step back towards the curb where he adjusts his cap.

"Almost home," I correct, smiling just as wide. Mom always said that I looked more like him than her, at least above the collarbone. With our wide, deep-set eyes and thin, wry mouths, I can see it, although Dad carries more weight around his jawline, and his nose is crooked from college wrestling. "We're over an hour off."

"Oh, under an hour for sure," he says, then sighs. "I'm pretty beat. I'm gonna be speedin' the whole way back. Unless you wanna drive?"

"The truck?" I laugh. My dad has had the same Chevy Silverado since I was in elementary school. He bought it new somewhere around 2004 and has insisted upon running it into the ground—and it hasn't quit on him yet, somehow. (And it's a Chevy.) He loves this thing. I kind of learned to drive stick shift in it, but that lasted two lessons before we mutually decided that I was going to destroy it, and that we should get something else for me to learn on.

In other news, I do not know how to drive a stick shift.

"What?" my dad asks, reaching forward to ruffle my hair. "You scared?"

I flick the lip of his cap in response. "Of a fiery death in a ditch? Maybe."

Don't get me wrong—I'm a good driver. Or, I was, before I sold my car and didn't drive for three years. In Iowa, you start driving at fourteen; I can handle sleet-covered, loose gravel roads like no man's business. But I don't feel like testing my driving prowess in my dad's elderly car baby—especially with my god-awful, late-night-sob-session-induced headache—so passenger princess time it is.

He laughs and reaches forward, tossing my suitcase in the back of the Silverado with an "Uffda." He pats the tailgate once he shuts the door. The truck's dark grey paint shines, reflecting the airport's exterior lights. I swat a mosquito off my arm. It's so muggy and humid out that I'm surprised there aren't more.

"God, not those fuckers," my dad says, nodding as I try to wipe the dead mosquito smear from off my arm. "Bet you didn't miss those. Let's boogie on outta here."

The drive across Sioux Falls always sucks. Sioux Falls drivers are just kind of the worst. "It supposed to storm tonight?" I ask once we've finally made it across the city (it feels so weird calling this a city) and have been spat out onto the highway.

"Not too sure," he says. "Saw a bit of lightning on the way up—ope, there ya go." Right as he speaks, there's another flash of purple-tinted lightning somewhere in the expanse of night sky. I glance up out the window, waiting to see more. Usually, summer lightning storms flash close together, a non-stop barrage of sky-splitting cracks of light.

"Roll down the window," my dad says, right as he turns up the volume dial for a Glen Campbell song I haven't heard since ... forever. "I bet it's been years since you saw actual stars in the sky. Too bright where you are."

My stomach sinks. He's right, there's too much light pollution in New York to see much of anything. I didn't even think to stop and appreciate it when Roz and I went up to Keuka Lake. "Huh. You're right."

When I roll down the window, we're flying along the interstate at over 80 miles an hour, and I tilt my head as far as I can out towards the edge of the road. My hair whips around my face, getting caught around the edge of my mouth. I try to contain it, tucking it behind my ear and keeping my hand there as I look up at the night sky.

Stars. I haven't seen stars in so long.

We're driving towards a wall of lightish clouds, ones that light up with every purple bolt of lightning, but behind us, there are no clouds. It's nothing but a clear expanse of dark sky and stars. We're close enough to Sioux Falls that it's not as vivid as it could be, sure, but even still, it's better than it is in Manhattan.

I need to go stargazing while I'm here.

I'm still staring out the window when Glen Campbell gets to the chorus and my dad shouts over the fierce wind, "God, this song is so gay!"

I roll up the window (and roll my eyes), turning back to him. "Dad."

"Well, it is," he says, shrugging as Glen sings, If you're still within the sound of my voice. "Don't make it wrong, don't make it bad. Just makes it gay."

"Sure, Dad."

"I love gays. I love Glen Campbell. I love this song." He looks over, grinning as he drums his fingers non-rhythmically against the steering wheel. "And I looooove my gay daughter."

I laugh despite myself. Midwestern humor—and what's acceptable here—is so different from the people I know in New York. I'd still be offended if most people here said it to me, only because I know they would consider it to be an insult. But my dad, however misguided with his humor by some (maybe more than some) considerations, is a fierce ally. And, I know he really does love this song—this CD has lived in this car since middle school. It's really not meant to be an insult.

"I know you love the gays, Dad," I say, "but you should probably work on saying that a little less."

"Sorry, Marchie. Will do. Anywho, speaking of my gay daughter," my dad says, glancing over, "how are things with your JK Rowling girlfriend?"

I grimace. "Oh no, Dad. We absolutely hate JK Rowling. She's the worst."

"What?" He sits up straighter, shocked, and turns down the radio. "No. Since when? When you were a kid, you were all about that bippity-boppity-bullshit."

"For, like, two years. But really, she's the worst," I repeat. "She hates trans people, trans women in particular, and she pretty much hates the queer community. She's, like, a wannabe supervillain. Also, not saying it's true, it's probably not"—spoken like the vengeful spirit of JK Rowling is going to appear in the back of this truck and sue me so she can fund more anti-trans legislation—"but there's this theory that she has black mold in her house. Some people thought they saw some in the background of her profile pic? So, now they call her Moldemort. "

My dad snorts.

I smile and shrug. "Mold conspiracy or not, she's seriously the worst. Sincerely. And I would say that to her face. I think most self-respecting queer people would."

"Wow," he says. "Well, thank God. I thought that shit was annoying. You tried to go as that broom girl for three Halloweens in a row. I was getting scared. Anywho, speaking of trans women, how's Bai—"

"Well, it's Kirby now, Dad. And, okay, technically, he's a trans man. Like, it's trans women if they identify as a woman, and then trans man if they identify as a man." The Glen Campbell track ends and switches to the next familiar tune, another ballad, this one with more strings.

"Huh. Sorry. Didn't know that." He pauses. "Should I get Twitter? Would I know about this stuff if I had Twitter?"

"God no, Dad. Please. Never. Never, ever. Ever."

He shrugs and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. "All righty, then. How's Kirby?"

"Good," I say, even though I'm not sure that's true. I haven't talked to him since Saturday, if you're even willing to count that as a conversation.

I also didn't have the chance to catch up with Daniel before flying here, so I have no idea what his take is, either. There was no time—I literally called my parents yesterday and asked 'Can I fly in tomorrow?' I was met with shocked silence, then a curt if you need to from my mom. "He's just been working a lot."

"Good for he–him. Him. Good for him." He sighs. "Jeez Louise. Sorry, hon. I'm real' tired."

"It's okay." It's my fault he's up this late. My dad is a notoriously early riser. Even when I was a kid, I knew he had an early bedtime. We'd brush our teeth together at the same time. If there were any flight options that weren't in the late, late evening, I'd have tried to make it easier on him.

"Anywho, you were about to tell me about your girlfriend, who is the exact opposite of that Moldyfart woman."

"Moldyfart," I agree. "That's pretty good. And, Roz is good."

He waits a few seconds, then prompts, "Just ... good?"

"Great," I say. There's more lightning, and for a second, I can make out more than just the vague silhouette of my dad's cap. "She's great. We're both just really busy right now, so I thought it would be nice to take a break from everything and come see you guys."

"Well," he says, and I can tell he doesn't believe me. Not entirely, anyway. "I'm glad you're here. You can stay for however long you want—your mom and I tidied your old room all up. Should be good to go for however long you need it."

"Thanks, Dad." I try to smile. It's technically two weeks (give or take two days) before Roz and I go to Spain, so I hope I'm only here for about a week at most. We'll see—I paid for tickets for next Sunday, but you never know.

She could always call and dump me before then.

Which, fuck—I know it's wrong for me to think that. Wrong to think that my girlfriend of a few months short of a year is secretly looking for the opportunity to dump me. But I can't help myself. And that makes me especially sick.

"I reckon your mom'll be asleep by the time we get back," he says. More lightning flashes overhead, crack after crack after crack, but there's no rain. After a few seconds, there's no thunder, either. Hopefully, if it storms, it'll wait till we get back.

"I'm gonna pass out as soon as we get there, honestly."

"Oh, me too, kiddo. I'm never up this late anymore," Dad says. "Don't know how you manage it."

I lean my head towards the window, staring out at the flat grasslands, only occluded by the occasional shelter belt, dark piles of hay bales, or grouping of farmhouses and barns. Nearly three years. It doesn't feel like much, but at the same time, it's everything.

"I'm excited, too," I tell him, then cover my yawn with the back of my hand. I've got to stay awake—but I'm so exhausted. I was up a lot of last night, stuck in a cycle that consisted largely of crying in my bed, watching interviews of Ottilie, stalking Twitter and TikTok to see what people were saying (no one has figured out who I am, at least) (thank goodness too, because Ottilie's fans are mean), and stress-cleaning the apartment.

That's one thing I don't mind about living with the guys. They're very tidy, but I can tell things have been rough for all four of us the past couple days, because the dishes in the sink hadn't been done, and there were glasses and little pieces of trash all over the living room and kitchen area. So, last night, between my crying fits and social media stalking sessions, I'd wander out into the common area and tidy it up, piece by piece.

I even cleaned the toilet when it wasn't my turn. It was Kirby's, and really, it felt like a bare-minimum sort of nice thing to do. Thank god no one came out to see me sniffling over the sink. That would have been embarrassing.

Dad and I keep our chatter idle the rest of the drive back from Sioux Falls. It's not a long drive, and it's not particularly busy, either. By the time we've passed through Beresford, we're both barely talking. At some point, he switches the CD from Glen Campbell to an old Lynyrd Skynyrd one.

I yawn again, and my dad—quick as lightning, and illuminated for a split second by as much—swats my knee with his cap.

"Nope. Stay awake, Marchie," he says. "Unless you wanna end up in a ditch tonight, that is."

I laugh and sit up straighter in my seat. "Alright, alright."

I tilt my head against the window and focus on the summer lightning flashing above, trying to ignore both my tiredness and my throbbing headache.