By a Guy Who Accidentally Found Happiness Between Virginia and Texas
Ever since my divorce, more than a decade ago, I’ve been living by myself. Well—me and the occasional tumbleweed of pizza boxes that rolls through after my kids visit. Those were the best weekends. It was like hosting a miniature family festival—no tickets, no headliners, just laughter, greasy hands, and a mountain of pizza boxes threatening to breach the ceiling. We’d order the biggest pizza possible, overloaded with every topping under the sun. Yes, even pineapple. I know some people think putting pineapple on pizza is a crime against nature, but when you’ve survived divorce, mortgage payments, and a 1099 tax form, pineapple is the least of your worries.
My kids always preferred staying at my apartment. Sure, I’d sometimes drag them to the park or up a mountain, just so they remembered the sun was a thing and not a special effect in movies, but most of the time we just stayed home. We’d binge-watch Anime until Netflix itself grew concerned. “Are you still watching?” it asked. Yes, Netflix. We’re having a moment. We’d fall asleep well past midnight, buried under blankets, laughing and reminiscing about our life in England and our brief but bewildering stint in North Carolina.
Ah yes, rural North Carolina—the land of unintelligible vowels and linguistic bravery. Coming from England, we had absolutely no idea what anyone was saying. Asking for directions was like participating in a live-action improv class. Once, at a barbecue joint, the lady behind the counter asked us about “sauce.” Or at least, I think that’s what she said. What we actually heard was: “Y’all heavin’ Saaas?” followed by something that sounded like “Reeanch.” So, naturally, we did the only reasonable thing—nodded and said “yes” to everything.
Then she asked about the “saads.” My daughter and I confidently said, “Medium!” Thinking she was asking about size of our drinks. The guy behind the counter just stared, probably wondering if we’d hit our heads on the way in. He repeated, “I say y’all want saads!” “Medium!” we said again, smiling like idiots. Civilization nearly collapsed right there, until an elderly couple from Connecticut intervened and translated: “He’s asking about your sides, dear.” Turns out “Reeanch” was Ranch. I felt like I’d just unlocked a secret level of Southern hospitality—complete with subtitles.
My kids have grown now. My daughter’s got her own home, a wonderful husband, and a kid who’s basically a smaller, louder version of her. My son’s living on his own too, trying to “find himself,” as the young people say. I told him the Navy, the Air Force, or the Marines can help him find himself and make him iron his socks, but he wasn’t keen. He’s got dual citizenship, so I told him to use it—explore the world! Scotland, for instance—majestic, peaceful, and full of sheep with better haircuts than most people in Hollywood. Or Sweden, for something different, where the people are quiet, efficient, and every home looks like it was decorated by IKEA itself. Maybe even Germany—great beer, punctual trains, and laws for everything including how long you can stare at sausages.
He asked, “What about France?” I said, “France is beautiful, historical, romantic… but it’s full of French people.” He laughed. I laughed. Somewhere, a baguette trembled.
As for my daughter—she’s brilliant, but academically she’s a traveler without a map. Nursing school, vet school, med school, zoology, science, computer studies… at this point, I think she’s collecting degrees the way some people collect coffee mugs. I’m immensely proud, of course, but I do hope she eventually stops “finding herself” in student debt and finds herself in a career that actually pays.
My son’s the same. Genius-level IQ, always on the Dean’s List, but with the attention span of a squirrel in a nut factory. He’s switched majors more times than I’ve changed cell plans. Accounting, bookkeeping, welding—he even liked welding until he realized it meant working upside down in blazing heat or freezing rain. So now he’s in computer science, or programming, or maybe network security. Honestly, it changes so often that I’ve stopped asking.
He graduated high school just before turning 16—accelerated twice because he was “exceptional.” Which sounded great at the time, but in hindsight, putting a 15-year-old in a class full of 18-year-olds was like putting a hamster in a lion’s den. Nobody got eaten, but it wasn’t exactly the ideal social experiment.
These days, it’s just me and my little dog. We’ve got a routine that could bore a Buddhist monk: morning walk at 7:00 AM, work from home until I forget what daylight looks like, lunch if I remember it exists, then more work until the day decides to end on its own terms. The kids still visit sometimes, but more often I visit them.
And, of course, there’s my girlfriend. She visits every few months, and I do the same. When she comes here, she gets to experience heavenly Virginia—lush trees, actual weather, and people who smile without looking like they’re plotting something. And when I go there… well, I go to Texas.
Now, don’t get me wrong—the food in Texas is glorious. Barbecue that makes you question your loyalty to salad. Tacos that could end wars. But everything else? Goodness me. The heat alone could cook a Thanksgiving turkey in midair. The driving is like a live-action video game, except the other players are armed with pickup trucks the size of tugboats. The distances are insane—you drive for an hour and you’re still in the same parking lot. There are a million bridges, each one leading to another highway, another city, another identical-looking bridge. And trees? Forget it. They’ve all been replaced by a literal concrete jungle. Miles of sun-scorched gray stretching in every direction, interrupted only by the occasional billboard promising salvation or brisket.
Still, I love visiting her. She’s the most charming, caring, and beautiful woman I’ve ever met—and trust me, I’ve met some who could turn into werewolves without warning. With her, though, it’s different. She’s the reason I still believe in romance, the reason I don’t growl at Valentine’s Day commercials. She saved me from living in obscurity—or worse, dating women who thought “emotional stability” was a brand of vodka.
After years of wrong turns, heartbreaks, and questionable takeout dinners, I somehow ended up here—between Virginia’s charm, Texas’s inferno, one little dog, two brilliant kids, and one woman who makes it all worthwhile.
And honestly? That’s better than any map, any plan, or any GPS. Because sometimes, the best places you end up are the ones you never meant to find—especially when they come with good barbecue and someone worth melting for.
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A Kings 
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