The Eternal Engagement

Thank God, Mama V had taken her home.

The wisdom of that woman should never be underestimated. Mama V had told her, “Divorce him immediately. If you need me, all you’ve gotta do is call me. Mona, you go and you stay gone. Don’t come back to this town for nothing. Don’t contact Steven and tells your people not to give him any information on your whereabouts. Any man that’ll tie you up like that will sho ’nuff kill ya. And don’t worry about me. He don’t want none of this.”

Mona wasted no time getting in and out of her house. While she was home, she stuffed her backpack with her last book of blank checks, her laptop, charger, and a few pair of underwear. She secured both her guns inside the vented hood over her stove. Where she was headed, she’d only need protection of her heart.

Her 4Runner was a catalyst to permanently get her away from Steven and to the airport. Not BFL in Bakersfield. Mona was almost at LAX. Her decision to depart from Los Angeles to Seattle was based on the greater availability of flights.

Without a functioning phone, Mona felt naked and disconnected from the world. She wasn’t able to contact Lincoln nor had she memorized his number. But he’d invited her to visit him, and she was determined to get her man back.

She parked the car in long-term parking at LAX. Mona shoved the black plastic bag with Steven’s gun in it underneath the passenger seat, then locked the door.

Chasing the airport shuttle, she yelled, “Wait for me!”

Eventually someone would report Steven’s car abandoned, but neither his gun nor his 4Runner was registered in her name. She didn’t care what happened to Steven. If she could’ve blown up his SUV with him in it and had no witnesses, she would have.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said, settling in a seat closest to the driver. “Do you know of a wireless store close to the airport where I can purchase a cell phone?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t do you any good. It’s Thanksgiving Day, lady.”

Damn. How soon could she get a phone? How was she going to get Lincoln’s number?

Handing the driver a ten-dollar tip, Mona slung her backpack on her shoulder, hung her purse on the other, then exited at departures. Holiday travelers formed long curbside check-in lines that blocked the automatic sliding glass door entrance. Kids were in strollers, luggage was mounted on carts. Everybody was in the way.

You don’t own the airport! Move, people. Move!

All I need is to buy a ticket, she thought, eyeing longer lines inside at check-in and ticket purchase. So much for getting to Seattle by eleven. It was already noon.

Thirty minutes later she stood in front of a ticket agent. “I’d like to purchase a one-way ticket to Seattle.”

“What date would you like to leave?”

“The next available,” Mona said.

“The next flight is tomorrow at three p.m.”

“Tomorrow! I need to leave today! I know you have something. Please, lady, check again! It’s a family emergency.”

No way was Mona staying in Los Angeles overnight when she could spend the night in Lincoln’s arms. She’d . . . “Never mind.”

She walked away, then hurried back to the agent. “On second thought, I’d better get the ticket for backup. One-way, please.”

Stuffing her ticket in her backpack, Mona headed downstairs and got on the first rental car shuttle. She picked out an SUV, handed her ID and contract to the clerk at the gate. “How far is it to Seattle?” she asked.

The guy slid his window wider, stared at her, then asked, “As in Washington?”

Mona rolled her eyes, nodded. Her lips tightened. “No, as in California.”

“Oh, you got jokes? I’m not the one who needs directions. Just know that according to your contract you cannot take that car,” he said, pointing at her SUV, “out of this state,” then pointed toward the ground. “If you’re going to Seattle for real, for real you need to change your contract.” He tapped on a few keys, then enunciated, “Seattle, Washington, is one thousand one hundred and forty miles, airport door-to-door.”

Mona sat for a moment. She’d thought it was closer. Based on the distance, she wouldn’t get to Seattle until Sunday. Getting out of the car, she handed him the keys. “This doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

“Neither do you,” he said. “They don’t pay me enough, lady. Don’t make me stoop to scoop your poop. It ain’t happening.”

Mona walked ten feet toward the rental car shuttle, then froze. She went back to the clerk. “Get out of the car. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” he said, turning off the engine.

If she was going to be in Los Angeles overnight, she had to be mobile.