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One path threatens suffocation, the other exhaustion. Which offers a chance of salvation?
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CHAPTER 1 – CALIFORNIA
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“Shit! I think that was our exit.”
Matt hits the steering wheel with his fist and then calms down to wait for the GPS to recalculate our route. Watching him move makes my stomach twist. I feel as I’ve been on a rollercoaster for days. How can anyone be so full of passion and reassurance, all at once?
“Should I drive?”
Matt looks at me and gives me an amused grin. Then his eyes fly back to the towing mirrors, placed on both sides of his old Ford F150. He nods approvingly after triple-checking that the U-Haul trailer is still attached to the truck. The fully loaded trailer wobbles and shakes every time Matt steps on the gas paddle and tries to go a tad faster than fifty miles an hour.
“Sure thing, Dingalee. Why the hell not?”
Our massive moving load slides slowly by an enormous road sign. The green sign presents junk food chain logos, conveniently at our service, only two miles away. I remain fascinated by the endless options of different brands of burgers and other wrapped goods in this country. No matter where you go, you’ll have the option of delicious, greasy food, in all its varieties.
It’s too dark to see which restaurants wait for us at the rest stop, now only one mile ahead. My eyes hurt when two trucks pass us, their bright lights blasting. Matt taps the turn signal and slows down to take the upcoming exit.
“We ate today, right?” I ask Matt.
“Did we?” He looks back at me, frowning. I shrug my shoulders and smile at my husband. It takes all my willpower to rip my eyes off him. Staring at my own spouse feels oddly inappropriate.
We park at an enormous highway rest stop, taking two parking spots with the Ford and the rickety trailer attached to it. Matt’s eyes calmly wander around the parking lot. He stays quiet, still figuring out what our diet had been earlier in the day. The cab is soon filled with his low and rumbling laughter. Hearing him laugh makes my forehead tickle with pleasure.
“Damn. How many days you think ’til Cheetos and Redvines would go bankrupt without us?"
“Don’t forget Wendy’s. I’m sure they’re stacking up on burger buns and chocolate Frostys in total panic as we speak.”
Matt’s eyes lock with mine. The laughter shakes his whole body. His punch lands on the back of my shoulder slightly too hard. It reminds me of my best friend back home, who used to leave my arms covered in blue and gray spots, play-punching my tender and easily bruised skin almost daily.
Is punching and cracking jokes normal behavior for newlyweds? Maybe not. But it could be considered normal behavior for people who have run away from a manhunt, arson, personal bankruptcy, and losing their house and fortune overnight.
I reach to open the glove compartment and pull out an envelope full of dollar bills. As soon as my fingers rattle the paper, a sniffing, wet nose appears to investigate my treasure, making sure said greedy nose wouldn’t miss any Cheetos or other snack food hidden in the truck.
“Back off, Cullin. You’ve already eaten half of our money,” I say and gently push the dog back toward the backseat.
“Ah shit. That reminds me. We’re out of kibble,” Matt says.
I peek in the rearview mirror and see three pit bulls sitting next to one another in the backseat. All three have stern looks on their faces. Kiwi’s upper lip is stuck on her gums, which makes her look like a hillbilly about to ask a dumb question.
Kiwi’s best friend, Riley, notices me watching them in the mirror. He wags his tail, spanking his friends sitting next to him. He’s excited that we’ve finally stopped driving. Cullin abandons his seat and places his hind paws on the cab floor, his front paws resting between the driver seat and my seat. He re-investigates the money in my hand, huffing and sniffing in disbelief when he realizes I have zero treats to offer.
“We can get kibble. But I’m not sure we’ll make it to California,” I say to Matt.
“What do you mean, D-money?”
Matt has spent the past two weeks coming up with nicknames for me. I don’t think he has called me Dee since his notary friend came by the city hall, marrying us a few hours before we took off to the west coast.
“Petrol. We've spent twice as much as we planned.”
Matt’s eyes fill with warmth when I accidently use the word “petrol” instead of “gas.” He never corrects my English to make it more correct or more American. Matt silently finding me adorable makes me vaguely embarrassed, but I don’t want him to know that.
“Yeah, the trailer’s heavy. Takes shit tons of ga—um, petrol to pull that rock,” Matt says, trying to keep a straight face.
“How many miles to Chula Vista?” I ask, ignoring the amused look on my partner’s face.
“Until we’re there? Just a sec.”
Matt turns the GPS screen toward him and taps the screen. A concentrated frown appears on his tanned, flawless face.
“Two thousand two hundred sixty-eight miles.”
“And how many miles have we driven?”
We stare at the receipts stacked between us on the dashboard. The budget plan we came up with late at night at Matt’s house in Boston turned out to be way too optimistic. He peeks in my direction giving me a wild grin before he turns back to face the GPS, resetting the route back to Boston.
“Seven hundred fifty—no, seven hundred eighty-three miles. Damn, that’s it?”
Matt runs his hand along his shaved head. The gesture makes me wonder if he used to have hair and just recently started to shave his head bald. His frown returns as he works the calculator on his smart phone. I rip my eyes off my broad-shouldered husband and force my tired brain to count the money in the envelope.
Cullin barks, just once, when a man wearing a brimmed hat walks by the truck. Cullin’s low but impressive bark makes the guy step back before he continues to search for his car in the now pitch-black parking lot.
“Well, if I count correctly, we’ll make it to Chula Vista. But that’s about it,” Matt says, looking at me carefully, his forehead furrowed.
The envelope has both of our savings in it. We estimated that we would have some money left once we arrived in our new home in California. I found us a working-couple job at a horse farm, where we’d also have an apartment to live in. The supposed left-over money was our back-up plan in case we didn’t like the place or our jobs and wanted to move elsewhere and start over.
“It’s official then. You’ll have to start stripping,” I say to Matt and it’s almost impossible to keep a serious expression on my face.
Matt’s frown disappears, and his eyes shine again when he looks at me, pretending to be just as serious as I am.
“Well, great news then! Stripping is part of the “Stockbroking for Dummies” course I took five years ago!”
My giggle fills the cab. Matt reaches over and pulls me to sit on his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck and pretend that I’m not uncomfortable, lying on top of the GPS, piles of snack food bags and Riley’s front paws. The nosy dog decides to join our cuddle and fiercely licks Matt’s face.
“Man, Riley. What have you been licking lately? Actually, don’t tell me.”
My giggle turns into full laughter, which makes Riley choose me as his newest victim of fishy-breath kisses.
We crack the truck windows open and leave the dogs to guard our Earthly fortune on wheels. We walk hand in hand and almost get stuck in the revolving door. Matt laughs loudly as he finally pulls us out of the spinning carousel. I feel drunk, but I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since we left Boston. Nights slept in the truck are starting to take their toll.
It's late at night and the rest stop is almost empty of customers. A handful of people are in line to get pizza slices or a steaming cup of Frappuchino from Starbucks. Smelling the freshly brewed beans makes me crave black coffee.
We stop in the middle of the food court and look around, contemplating what we would enjoy for supper.
“Let me guess, D-man. Wendy’s?”
After he gets a smile and nod from me, Matt leads us to the empty Wendy’s counter. We look around for a cashier but there’s no one to be seen. At the back of the restaurant, a girl laughs and talks on the phone. She hasn’t seen us arrive and isn’t aware she has customers waiting by the counter.
“You know, let’s just get some pizza,” I tell Matt after we’ve waited half a minute for the girl to end her phone call.
“Miss! You have a second?”
Matt’s clear and carrying voice makes me jump and I look at him in shock. Is he always this rude to waiters?
“Shit! Hold on, Bels. Customers,” the cashier says to her friend on the phone. She appears behind the corner and gives Matt a wide smile.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. What can I get you?”
I stare at the girl in disbelief. She doesn’t seem the slightest bit offended by Matt raising his voice to her. Back in my home country, anyone would be offended by such behavior and they may refuse to serve a rude customer. But I’m not in my home country anymore. Probably never will be again. I wonder if I’ll ever fit in with all these outspoken, confident people.
Matt smiles back at the cashier and orders our usual: cheeseburger meals and two chocolate Frostys. As soon as we sit down to eat, the girl fast-walks back to her phone and continues her conversation with Bels.
Finishing a big meal this late at night makes me drowsy. I cover my face with my hands so no one witnesses how a jaw breaking yawn makes the chocolate drip from both sides of my mouth. I regret asking Matt if I could drive.
I sit on a red, plastic chair and sip my chocolate Frostys while Matt browses a tiny grocery store next to Starbucks. He’s trying to locate the right brand of dog food from the store’s lower shelves.
The speakers play a familiar pop song from the nineties. I can’t remember who sings it or what the name of the song is. I do remember listening to the same song with my dad, driving home from elementary school. Dad joked how the singer sounds more like a girl than a teenage boy. Thinking of Dad makes everything around me seem surreal, like this isn’t a real world, and the people around me are cartoon characters, products of my imagination.
My tired, sloppy eyes examine the half empty food court. Two truck drivers are having a lively conversation over a slice of pepperoni pizza. They argue about someone named Bobby who has taken more sick days over the last two months than the two of them have in years. They take turns making wild gestures with their hands and repeat the phrase “Fuck that” so loud I’m amazed how the family with three teenage kids eating next to them does not give them dirty looks for cursing.
The Wendy’s cashier has ended her phone call with Bels. She leans on a wall behind the counter, and vividly flirts with a security guy who stands in front of her, arms crossed on his chest, his chin set slightly too high. His posture makes him look down his nose at the girl. The girl stretches out her neck, gently rubs her collarbone and slowly curls her hair around her index finger. She lets out a high pitch squeal and punches the security guard on the shoulder. He smiles and puffs out his chest. He reminds me of a cocky rooster on a dairy farm, guarding his premises.
The open rest stop is filled with red, orange and yellow. The space is full of commercial signs and plastic furniture, all oversized and bulky. Hectic colors, one- to three-word sentences, and extra-large signs make me feel like I’m sitting in a dollhouse designed by a five-year-old with crayons.
People come and go. They smile and carelessly ask, ”How’s it going?” without waiting for a reply. They speak over one another, smile showing a row of white teeth, pat each other’s backs, and walk back to their trucks, carrying fast-food bags and boxes, filled with curly fries and jalapeño poppers.
A thought of Dad doesn’t fit, not here. To think of him feels strange, like he doesn’t belong in this new reality I’m now exploring. I shake my head to get rid of the memory of him and pop off the chocolate Frosty’s plastic lid. I lick off the remaining chocolate inside the cup. For a minute I contemplate if I should rush and buy another shake before Matt comes back. He would never know. The shameful thought of him catching me double-fisting dessert stops me from getting up and interrupting the flirting rooster and his hair-curling prey.
We head back to the parking lot, Matt carrying a huge bag of dog food on his shoulder as I wipe off the chocolate stains around my lips. Matt reaches for the truck’s back door and nods toward a small fenced area between the parking lot and the highway. The gate has a sign with a silhouette of a dog on it.
“You want to feed the beasts? I’ll fill up the tank.”
After I nod, Matt opens the truck door. Three pit bulls jump out of the truck, stretching and wagging their tails. I unlock the trailer’s side door with a key I keep in the chest pocket of my sweater coat. I find three metal bowls right beside the doorway, stacked next to four flashlights, duct tape and a collection of different size batteries.
For the first time in my life, I don’t own a key chain for a house, car, garage, storage or any other kind of property. It feels surreal, making me feel rootless and free. The rental trailer is the closest thing I can call home now. There’s no door sign or a mailbox anywhere in the world with my name on it. I don’t have a mailing address. Having nothing but a suitcase full of dirty barn clothes and a change of shoes is what my life has become. And I couldn’t be more thrilled about it.
I open the gate and let the dogs run around. Kiwi squats in the corner of the tiny dog park while the boys stick around me, patiently licking their lips, watching me closely as I pour the kibble into three feed bowls.
“Go ahead,” I say, and the dogs dig in, munching enthusiastically. Kiwi gets up and trots over, sniffing and picking a bowl to eat from. All three dogs have their own dishes but sometimes it’s a challenge to not steal from their neighbor’s dinner plate.
The dogs finish their supper and I pick up the dishes and open the gate for us to head back. The sound of soft padding and clicking of nails on the asphalt surrounds me as we walk through the dark parking lot, making our way back to Matt who sits in the truck, this time on the passenger seat.
I open the back door and let Riley, Cullin and Kiwi jump into the back seat. They all move around with ease, choosing a place to lie down, behaving like they have lived on the road all their short doggy lives. Since we’ve started traveling, the only time I see them tense up or bark is in the middle of the night, if someone approaches our truck while Matt and I are asleep in the front seat, gathering our strength so we can drive another day toward the California sun.
Cool drizzle reaches my face just as the beasts settle on the backseat. I close the truck’s back door and walk around the truck. I won’t be sitting on the passenger seat this time. Before I open the driver’s door, I look behind me and read a road sign right across from the diesel pumps and two enormous eighteen-wheelers. South Vienna, Ohio.
I envision the map of North America in my head, but I have no idea where to pin us on that map. The drizzle turns into rain. I open the truck door and climb in next to Matt, who is examining a receipt he got after filling the gas tank. A worried frown has taken over his face. I sit next to him and he instantly snaps out of his murky mood, and an affectionate smile makes the frown disappear.
“All right, Schumacher. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Driving the truck and trailer is surprisingly easy. Turning on a smaller road makes me slightly nervous. Tight turns make me hold my breath, but as soon as I understand to make my turns wide enough, so the trailer has enough space to turn, I relax and enjoy the ride.
The farther we drive, the less green our surroundings get. Little by little the view turns completely flat, and all I see is a straight, empty road ahead of me, accompanied by endless corn fields, resting dead still in the humid air. The heavy humidity has the dogs panting. I crank up the air conditioning. It doesn’t seem to get any cooler in the cab.
“Gibbon, Nebraska,” I read out loud. The road sign has a picture of a horse and a carriage on it. Riley perks up in the backseat. He makes a whining sound that seems like a question. He thinks I said “kibble,” which makes his greedy doggy brain think it may be lunchtime.
Matt snoozes next to me, unaware of the corn fields or the lunch-craving dog drooling behind him. He drove the entire night last night while I slept, so I would get enough rest to drive during the day. We hope to arrive on the east coast in three days, without stopping for motels or B&Bs. All our money is spent on gasoline and junk food. Sleeping on an air mattress in the trailer is not an option because it’s filled, floor to ceiling, with Matt’s belongings.
With us taking turns driving, our estimated time of arrival doesn’t seem impossible to achieve. But we can’t be awake at the same time. One must sleep while the other drives. It’s an odd feeling to miss someone who is right beside you, close enough to touch.
“No, Riley. I said Gibbon, not kibble, you greedy butt-licker.”
The black and white pit bull’s hopeful eyes stare at me, and I realize I got his hopes up by falsely mentioning food and his name. His ears look like bat wings, erect on the side of his heart-shaped head. The sight of him makes me chuckle.
I reach over to lift the receipts piled up on the dashboard. At the bottom of the pile are toll tickets we had to purchase when driving through New England. Nearly every toll booth attendant handed us dog cookies when they saw our four-legged travel companions curiously looking through the truck window. Underneath the toll tickets, I find a small leftover bone-shaped dog cookie. Making sure Kiwi and Cullin are sound asleep I sneak the cookie over to Riley.
“Now, back to sleep, you greedy old man.”
Matt snores louder. With Matt sleeping, wrapped in an old fleece blanket, the cab feels snug and homely. Every few minutes I peek at him but make sure not to keep my eyes off the road for too long.
Being with him is easy. It feels like I have traveled all my life and now have finally come home. But, at the same time, it’s odd how I’ve only known my husband for three of four months, most of it spent talking on the phone. Getting bored with him is not an option, I know that already by the way he makes me feel. It has nothing do with the physical connection between us. It’s his mind that I have fallen for, and I’ve fallen hard.
Our phone conversations while we lived apart were always light and fun, but also filled with meaning and matters of life and death. He knew my struggles, sins and mistakes way before we ever met, constantly making me churn out more and more unspoken truths, like I needed to vomit it all out, to let him know what a terrible human being I am. I’ve pushed people away for years. Why should he be any different?
I was positive Matt would back off at some point. I kept waiting for him to doom me as a lost cause. But he never did. Instead, he told me about his own past, miseries and failed relationships. Our lives, upbringings and pasts could not be more different, but we seemed to understand one another, taking comfort in each other’s sad stories. Whenever the tone of our phone conversations got too gloomy, I would ask Matt questions about his crazy, goofy dogs, and the atmosphere would rise again, making both of us giggle and finally howl with laughter.
Riley sits up on the backseat, wide awake, unconvinced that I can’t provide him with more toll booth cookies. I smile at him in the rearview mirror, shake my head and show him both of my hands, one at a time to keep us on the road, trying to assure him that he has cleaned me out of all secret treats. He grunts at me, finally lies down next to his snoring friends and closes his eyes.
What if Matt gets bored with me? What if my depression and anxiety come back and he won’t want anything to do with it? The thought is overwhelming and so sudden, I want to bang my head on the steering wheel to get it out of my brain. How have I never thought of this option before? I look at the man next to me, an uneasy feeling turning my guts. My throat burns and a strangling feeling that I haven’t felt for some time arises.
The panic attack is rising, fast and strong. I know its sneaky and nasty route by heart, the way it first suffocates my limbs one by one, and finally strangles my brain into a blackout. If I don’t stop driving soon, I’m putting all our lives at risk. I look around and scan for a sign by the road, any kind of rest stop I could pull into. Like an answer to my despair, a sign for “Brush Service and Rest Stop” appears on the right side of the road. I tap the turn signal and drive up the exit ramp.
Before I close the truck door, I peek at Matt, and hope the dogs will guard the truck quietly, letting him continue his much-needed sleep. There’s no reason for him to lose any sleep over my sudden, absurd shenanigans.
The parking lot is busy. I dig in my pocket for change and walk inside, deciding to quit smoking some other time. I don’t know what else to do when a panic attack catches me by surprise. Smoking is the only thing that I know to calm me down and stop the attack before I black out.
“Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?” the gas station cashier greets me when I walk in.
“Yes. Hi. Marlboro Lights?”
The somehow familiar looking man smiles at me. He turns to scan the cigarette packs behind the counter. His beautiful, dark skin is flawless, and he moves like a person who never stumbles or trips over anything, in perfect control of every inch of his body. My panic attack numbs down a bit as I watch him move, assured, calm and steady.
I pour a fistful of coins on the counter and quietly pray the change is enough to get the cigarette pack the man is now holding in his hands. He looks at the coin pile and then at me, raising his eyebrows, wordlessly asking me a question.
“I-I don't know what is what. The coins.”
My thick accent does the trick. He quickly gives me an emphatic smile.
“No problem, ma’am. Let me count them for you,” he says and picks random coins off the pile. Once he’s done, he carefully slides the rest of the coins toward me.
“Would that be all, ma’am?”
Without looking at him, I nod and grab the cigarette pack from the counter. I abandon the coins on the counter and fast-walk outside.
The sunlight hurts my rapidly blinking eyes. I pull my hood on and look for a lighter or matches in my pocket. No such luck. Why would I have a lighter on me? I quit smoking weeks ago.
I make a U-turn and head back inside. I need a light and suddenly there’s not a soul around me in the parking lot. If I did spot someone, they most likely wouldn’t have a lighter on them. People in this country don’t smoke as much as people do back home.
A small bell jingles as I push the door open and make my way back into the gas station store.
“Miss? Are you okay? Can I call someone for you?”
The beautiful, dark-skinned man stares at me with a slight frown. Sweat runs down my temples and my face burns. The panic attack now shakes my body.
“Tulta.”
The man looks at me and his frown deepens. The panic gets a stronger hold of me, and all English words abandon my dizzy brain. The man places both hands on the edge of the counter and leans slightly toward me.
“Miss, I do not understand.”
The cigarette pack shakes in my sweaty hands. I pull off the cover plastic and pick one of the cigarettes with my trembling thumb and index finger. Careful to not look at the confused man in front of me, I place the cigarette between my dry, trembling lips.
“Tulta.”
“You need a light? Here.”
He pulls out a green plastic lighter from his pants pocket and hands it over. The lighter has a small, almost faded picture of a gas pump in front of mountain peaks. On the other side, in white letters, is the word Rockies.
“Miss, are you sure you don’t need me to call someone?”
“Rose.”
“Miss? Is that your name? Rose?”
I need to call Rose. My indestructible, witty and wise Rose. It’s only been a few weeks since I left Rose—my roommate and best friend—behind and fled the horse farm where we both worked. They saved my life, Rose and Bill. Bill is my good friend and the son of my previous employer, Dorothy, who had gone mental overnight. Dorothy wanted me dead and burned down parts of her magical horse farm while she was at it.
It has only been a few weeks, and I miss Rose more than I’ve missed anyone from my home country the whole time I’ve been gone.
I stumble out the gas station door. I don’t need to look back to know that the nice cashier is staring at me worriedly.
The lighter fires up without an effort. In addition to my wildly beating heartbeat, I hear the cigarette paper burn and crack before the fire reaches the first tobacco leaf. I inhale the smoke deep, letting it linger inside me, until I’m assured its deadly toxic chemicals have reached every inch of my already ruined lungs.
I dig out my cell phone. The line rings four times before a familiar voice greets me happily.
“Dee! Shit! Are you already sick of fake teeth and high taxes?”
The nicotine swarms around my veins and chases away the panic attack. Hearing Rose’s voice hushes away rest of the suffocation that strangles my tired throat.
“Not quite there yet. We can’t drive faster than fifty miles an hour. It’s taking forever to get there.”
Rose’s jingling laughter reminds me of the bell attached to the gas station’s front door and I wonder if it would be polite or inappropriate to go back in and apologize to the nice gentleman who donated his lighter.
“Bill! They—“
The phone line sounds like a Christmas carol as Rose tries to finish her sentence. Hysteric giggling makes it difficult to speak.
“Bill, they can’t drive faster than fifty!”
I hear a familiar sound when Bill closes the grain room door behind him and walks over to his hysterical girlfriend. Of course they’re at the barn. Of course they’re working. That’s all they ever do. The barn is their life and they fiercely love every inch of it.
“Holy crap! That must take shit tons of gas! What’s in that freaking trailer?”
“Dee? Bill wants to know if you two became assassins and now carry corpses with you in that rental trailer.”
It’s my time to giggle and roll my eyes. Picking my pocket for another smoke is like child’s play now that all the trembling is gone. Rose and Bill are soothing. The sounds of my previous home are mollifying. The familiarity relaxes me, and I again breathe easy.
“Well, yes. It’s sort of a domestic competition. Matt started it by popping off his lawyer. He had it coming, fucking up and losing the house and all that.”
“Definitely had it coming! And your first pick?”
I imagine my bronze-skinned friend grinning and leaning against one of the horse stalls back at my old home and my stomach aches. I miss them. I miss my home.
“Easy. It was Dorothy’s parole officer. For letting her walk loose.”
The line goes mute. Have I gone too far? Our humor has always been a step or two out of line, but Dorothy is a sensitive topic. Her going mental that night and the consequences of it all is still unsettling. As long as it remains so, I can’t even dream of returning to my friends and the place that is the closest thing I consider home.
“See, now I know you’re lying. I finished that douche-canoe myself, with my bare hands. Let’s see if anyone else wants to come between me and my best friend,” Rose finally says.
The backs of my eyes burn. Rose misses me too. I thought she might, but on the other hand, my best friend is not one to reminisce and cry over spilled milk.
“I thought I was your best friend!” Bill says in the background, sounding pretentiously dramatic.
“Oh, bugger off, Bill!"
“Bugger off? Rose, you watched Werewolf of London again, didn’t you?”
“Oh whatever, Dee. You left! You have no say!”
Rose is obsessed with the movie. Or any movie that has werewolves, vampires or other glittering and groaning creatures. Living together sometimes forced me to limit her TV time. The first month we lived together, she watched Werewolf of London at least fifteen times.
“So, you okay then, love? Matt’s still your dream man, dead broke and homeless?”
Rose mentioning Matt makes me remember why I called her in the first place. I swallow loudly and toss my cigarette butt into a puddle next to a trash can. Littering is not nice, but I'm terrified of taking a chance of lighting anything on fire these days.
“He’s still the one. No doubt about that. It’s not him. It’s me. You know I’m not a model, or an Einstein, or special, or that interesting.”
I imagine the frown form on Rose’s tanned forehead. She’s trying to understand where I’m going with this.
“What if he gets bored with me?”
The barn’s backdoor cries for oil when Rose opens it to step out and light a cigarette. I close my eyes and can vividly see the view of mountains and pine trees opening in front of her. Rose’s barn jacket makes a rattling sound when she lifts up the collar to cover the back of her neck. It’s too cold to be this late into spring.
“Oi. I can’t tell you that won’t happen, can I, love? People get tired of each other all the time.”
Her thick, southern accent is mixed with a fake British accent and I’m sure she can’t hear it herself. This is what happens when no one limits her TV time. Rose’s funny way of talking makes me miss my best friend even more.
“I also won’t tell you how smart, intelligent and fun you are. I’ve told you that before and I don’t like repeating myself,” Rose continues. She inhales the cigarette smoke and stays silent for a long time.
“What’s the worst thing that could happen? Matt gets bored with you. Meets someone else. You two realize maybe this was a mistake. Will it kill you? Will it kill him? No. If shit like that happens, you phone me, and I’ll come get you. You’ll come home, and we’ll talk about the adventure you’ve just had. Because that’s what you’re doing. Having an adventure. And you’re only adventuring for as long as it makes you feel good. That’s all there is to it.”
Tears run down my face. It’s useless trying to stop them. My voice fails me and I can’t say anything to Rose, to thank her for making me feel better. I stay quiet and nod.
“You’re nodding, aren’t you?” Rose asks, amusement in her voice.
I burst into laughter and kick a small rock toward the bushes, using my right hand to wipe off the tears. I nod again.
“Good, good. Now off you go. Have your adventure. If shit hits the fan, leave it to me. Okay? Okay.”
Rose hangs up. I stay standing still, the phone pressed to my ear, Rose’s voice echoing in my head. I breathe normal, my body relaxed. Take that, stupid panic attack. You may be strong and fierce, but not as strong and fierce as my best friend.
I walk back to the gas station’s front door. The small bell jingles wildly as I open the door and walk back in. The man who sold me the cigarettes looks at me and smiles. He can tell I feel better. I place the cigarette pack and his lighter on the counter in front of him.
“Thank you for your help, sir. I’m trying to quit but sometimes it just seems impossible.”
He nods and smiles. He picks up the lighter on top of the pack and hands it back over to me.
“I’ll impound the cigarettes but go ahead and keep the lighter. Call it a souvenir.”
I smile back at him and take the lighter off his hands, shoving it back into my pocket. Something about him makes me feel at ease, and I linger at the counter, unsure how to thank my new friend for not making me feel like a total town crazy.
“I feel like I should tip you or something.”
His laughter is loud but pleasant. His eyes sparkle as he tosses my cigarette pack a few inches into the air, catches it, and tosses it up again.
“Never tip a business owner. Why don’t you buy something instead?”
I slam the truck door slightly too hard, waking up Matt. He looks at me curiously as I desperately try to balance twenty packages of Trident gum beneath my chin. He grins and careful not to break the wobbly gum tower, pulls one of the packages out. He pops two pieces of gum out of the foil and tosses them into his mouth.
“Hint well received. Your morning breath doesn’t smell like roses either, you know.”
I laugh at him and push Riley away, who investigates the gum packages ready to eat it all, plastic and foil included. The wobbly tower breaks when an overly eager dog nose pokes the middle of it. I stack the packages into the glove department, leaning over my gum chewing husband.
“You’re not sneaky, you know,” Matt says and smiles at me. I wonder if he magically heard my conversation with Rose or with the guy inside the store.
I instantly feel guilty, but I don’t know why. I peek at him carefully and slam the glove department shut.
“Listen. You know I hate smoking and cigarettes, but I would never tell you what to do, or not to do. If you smoke, you smoke. No need to hide it from me.”
I open my mouth to tell him about my panic attack, my worry of him getting tired of me, and the conversations I had with Rose and the empathic gas station owner. I want to tell him how excited I am for our adventure and how I’m not afraid anymore because all we have is today and who gives a shit of what happens tomorrow. But when I try to speak and find the words, nothing comes out.
He chuckles and watches me open and close my mouth.
“Come on, mouth breather. Spit it out,” Matt says.
A long sigh escapes my open mouth. I reach for a piece of gum, toss it into my mouth and pull my seatbelt on. The engine roars into life and the windshield wipers rock from one side to another.
“Let’s get going. I can quit smoking in California.”
—-END OF SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW—-
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Please keep reading for additional content, including our second Special Sneak Preview:
ALL THE TOMORROWS by Nillu Nasser.
