Introducing the Clan, Part I: The Story of Carlie and Rylie

It's late fall 2010, and Rylie and I are speeding down the interstate.  The back seat of my Saturn is full of brightly colored bags as we head home from a spontaneous shopping trip.  We've been laughing so long that we can't remember what was funny, and as we near our exit I say, "What if we didn't stop?  What if we just kept driving?"

"Do it!  Can we?  We should do it!"  Rylie is always up for an adventure.

So I floor it.  We pass our exit, and the next one, and dozens more after that.  An hour later my cheeks ache from smiling, and my sides are sore from so much laughter.  We don't stop driving until we cross the Tennessee state line.



"Now what?" Rylie says, "We can't just turn around and go home."

"Fudge sounds good."  We pull up to the next gas station and purchase a half pound of Snickers fudge from a bored looking attendant.  She scowls as I swipe my debit card, and I feel a little guilty that I can't stop giggling for more than ten seconds at a time.

Outside, Rylie and I snap a few photos while posing in front of the store, and then hop back in the car to devour our fudge.  After a few mouthfuls, we drive home, more than a little shocked that we actually took a mini road trip with no notice, plan, or destination.

I can't think about that night without smiling.

Rylie is the sort of friend most people only wish they had.  We met in the fourth grade when she unwittingly swapped lunch boxes with another friend of mine.  They sorted out the mix up quickly enough, and Rylie sat down to eat with us.  Half a peanut butter sandwich later, she misheard a comment I made and exclaimed, "You're grandma is a cow?!  What?!"  We immediately burst out laughing, and we haven't stopped since.

In all honesty, Rylie probably knows me better than anyone else in the world.  She could tell you anything you ever wanted to know about my past.  She could tell you that for two years in grade school, I was a cheerleader.  That in the eighth grade I had a collection of hideous t-shirts with cheesy phrases like "100% Angel" emblazoned on the fronts.  (For the record, I could tell you that she had an equally hideous pair of capri pants covered in stars and stripes, and a whole slew of toe socks.)  And that in high school, my worst fear was that I'd never find someone to love.  She is the keeper of my secrets, and she has always been in my corner, cheering me on.  I wouldn't know what to do without her.

My husband and I fell in love while sitting on Rylie's couch, and when he left me four years later in a dingy Walmart parking lot, she came to meet me.  She climbed into my car as I sobbed out, "I can't.  I can't do this," a thousand times, sat with me until the tears stopped, and then said, "Yes. You can."  There are no words to convey how very much I needed to hear that.  But then, that's Rylie.  She's always there to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.  To drive to Tennessee for no better reason than fudge.  To remind me of who I am.  Because, sometimes, I think she knows me better than I do.