Kansas Corncob(s) – Part 5 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

JFK was loud and chaotic as always. I stood near the security line with my small suitcase and the beat-up backpack they’d let me bring. My parents stood on either side of me, looking more tired and hopeful than angry now. Three days of yelling had apparently run its course.

I shifted my weight and looked at the departure board. Flight to Kansas City. From there, someone from the program would drive me the rest of the way to Manhattan.

“Guess you got your wish,” I muttered, staring at the floor. “Sending your only son away to the Midwest like some bad reality show.”

Mom’s eyes flashed. “Jett! This is your fault. You had every chance to fix things and you chose not to.”

I sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” The words felt heavy in my mouth. “I… Sorry. I’ll go to Kansas and pray the gay away or whatever.”

Mom looked genuinely hurt. “You know this is not about you being gay. You can’t use that card every single time. This is because you’re spiraling here in NY, okay? Your father and I want you to have a good life. We don’t want you ending up in more trouble, doing drugs, getting arrested again…”

Dad put a hand on her shoulder and spoke quieter. “You’re a good kid deep down, Jett. Maybe the country air will do you some good. I hear the host family even has a son about your age. Maybe you two will get along.”

I let out a short laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll become besties in no time. Going to country fairs, reading John Deere catalogs together, and driving tractors on the weekends.”

Dad’s face tightened. “You don’t need to get snarky.”

I looked away, biting the inside of my cheek. The silence stretched for a moment, awkward and heavy.

Mom stepped forward first and pulled me into a tight hug. She smelled like the same floral perfume she’d worn since I was little. “Please try, sweetheart. Just… try.”

Dad hugged me next, clapping me once on the back, firm but not angry. “Behave yourself out there. We love you.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Love you too.”

They stepped back. I picked up my backpack, gave them one last look, and turned toward the security line. The line moved slowly. I was almost at the TSA agent when I heard someone call out behind me.

“Mr. Russo?”

I turned. A courier in a plain uniform stood there holding a fat manila envelope.

“Um, yes?” I said.

“I have this for you.” He handed it over. “Have a safe flight.”

I took the envelope. On the front, in black marker, it said: To Russo, from D.

My stomach did a little flip. I stepped out of the line for a second and tore it open. Inside was a thick wad of cash — hundreds, twenties, fifties — easily a couple thousand dollars. No note, nothing else.

I stared at the money for a long moment. Canada was only a bus ride away. Or Mexico. I could disappear for a while, figure shit out on my own. No farm, no counseling, no three months of pretending to be someone else.

My thumb brushed over the edge of the bills.

Then I closed the envelope, walked over to the nearest trash can, and dropped the whole thing inside. I flipped my middle finger at the bin for good measure.

I’m going to regret this so much, I thought.

I turned back toward security, handed my ID and boarding pass to the agent, and stepped through the line without looking back.

◆◆◆

The plane touched down in Kansas City with a heavy thud that jolted me awake. I blinked against the bright afternoon light streaming through the small window. Flat. Everything outside looked painfully flat.

I grabbed my backpack and the small suitcase the airline had let me check, then shuffled off the plane with the other passengers. The terminal was small and quiet compared to JFK. No chaos, no crowds rushing like they had somewhere better to be. It felt… weirdly calm.

Near the baggage claim area, I spotted a middle-aged couple holding a handwritten sign that said “JETT RUSSO - HORIZON PROGRAM.” The man was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a faded flannel shirt and jeans, with a John Deere cap on his head. The woman beside him had kind eyes and a soft smile, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Hopefully they’re not like the fire-and-brimstone Jesus freaks I’d been expecting.

I walked over, trying to keep my face neutral.

“Hi. I’m Jett.”

The woman’s smile widened. “Hi Jett! I’m Lori Whitaker, and this is my husband Kent. We’re so glad you’re here safely.”

Kent gave me a firm but gentle handshake. “Welcome to Kansas, son. Flight go alright?”

“It was fine,” I said, shrugging. “Lots of corn down there.”

Lori laughed softly. “You’ll see plenty more of that soon enough. Our place is just outside Manhattan. About two hours drive from here.”

They helped me with my suitcase and led me out to the parking lot. Their truck was big, practical, and smelled faintly of hay and diesel when I climbed into the back seat. No fancy cybertruck bs. Just a normal, slightly dusty pickup.

As we pulled out of the airport and onto the highway, the landscape opened up even more. Flat fields rolled by on both sides, broken only by the occasional silo or farmhouse. It felt like someone had hit the mute button on the world.

Kent glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “We know this program is meant to give you some structure. We’re happy to have you stay with us for the next few months. You’ll have chores, you’ll go to summer school at the local high school to get those grades up, and you’ll attend your counseling and meetings like the program requires.”

Lori turned in her seat to look at me. “We’re not here to judge you, honey. We just want to help you get back on your feet. Our home is simple, but it’s stable. You’ll have your own room upstairs.”

I nodded, waiting for the sermon to start. It never came.

After a few minutes of quiet driving, Lori added, “We do have a son about your age. His name is Kansas. He’s nineteen and just finished his freshman year at Kansas State. He’s out doing some summer work on the farm right now, but you’ll meet him when we get back to the house.”

I couldn’t help myself. A smirk tugged at my lips. “Kansas? Your son’s name is literally Kansas? As in the state of Kansas?”

Kent chuckled, low and easy. “Yep.”

Lori smiled and shook her head. “We thought it was patriotic at the time. His full name is Kansas Whitaker.”

I let out a short laugh. “That’s… bold. Do people call him ‘Corncob’ at school or something?”

Both parents laughed, not offended at all. Kent just shrugged and said, “True. He’s heard every joke there is about it. He’s a good kid. Quiet, but solid. I think you two might get along once he warms up.”

I leaned back against the seat, watching the endless rows of corn fly past the window.

Quiet farm boy named Kansas. In the middle of nowhere. With parents who didn’t immediately start quoting Bible verses at my eyeliner and chipped nails.

This was going to be interesting.

The truck kept rolling down the highway, taking me deeper into flat, golden-green territory I never thought I’d see in my life. Somewhere out there, this mysterious Kansas Whitaker was doing farm shit instead of coming to the airport.

I wondered what the hell he was going to think when he finally met me.