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Thoughts don’t start materializing until about an hour into my trip. This is when I realize I’d left in such a rush, I forgot to pack my flat iron. This is also when I realize I’m still wearing my work clothes: navy pencil skirt, white button-up blouse, and white espadrilles. Not exactly road trip attire.
When I started college last year, I’d gotten a job as an administrative assistant at the campus registrar’s office. Secretarial work is pretty mundane, but Dad was happy to pull some strings with his friend, Mr. Andrews. It was one of the few campus jobs that went through the summer and worked perfectly around my class schedule.
And I’d just quit like an impulsive idiot.
Acid churns in my stomach as I think about how I didn’t think at all. Before today, I was a planner. A thinker. I didn’t make any decisions without thinking through a pros and cons list first. Walking out of my job, I hadn’t thought about it for more than a millisecond. So, why did I do it? I’d walked out of my life as if I’d never return to it.
Maybe I don’t want to.
I turn the radio on to help calm my nerves. Lisa Loeb sings, “Stay,” and I crank it up as high as I can. Though I’m only half sure what the song is about, I belt it out with as much feeling as if I’d lived the lyrics myself. Lisa blends into Alanis, who turns into Stevie, and before I know it, I’m rocking out to Joan Jett.
Hours pass as I cruise up the East Coast. I stop for gas, load up on snacks, and get back on the road.
The farther I get from home, the better I feel. Calmer. Somewhere in North Carolina, I even smile. Dad said I should’ve flown because “it’s a brutal ride.” The flight from Florida to New York would’ve been a short couple of hours, but the idea of a solo road trip was too enticing to pass up. I’d wanted the time to myself to process and think. It felt like a rite of passage. There’s nothing like freedom on the open road.
I guess my smile was a little too smug because the AC in my car picks this exact moment to crap out on me. This is the downside of driving a classic car. I wind down both windows, hoping the cross breeze will suffice in the August heat. The air is thick and sweat seeps into every possible crevice of my body, bringing doubt along with it.
Maybe Dad was right. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe I should turn around.
My knuckles are white on the steering wheel again, so I take another deep breath. “What worries you, masters you.”
As much as I love that quote from John Locke, I doubt he knew what it felt like to leave a flat iron behind in ninety percent humidity.
As if things aren’t bad enough, my phone buzzes in the passenger seat. I groan before answering.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Carla! Are you alright? Where are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m on the way to see Charlotte.”
“I just spoke to Joe. He said you quit your job. What happened?”
“Why are you talking to Joe?”
“He wants to get back with you. Isn’t that a good thing? I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“Why would I want to get back with him after he left me when I was pregnant with his child?”
She sighs as if I’m the exasperating one. “Carla, he made a mistake. He’s young. You both are. He wants to make up for it. Maybe you should think about giving him another chance.”
I bite my tongue so hard I’m surprised I don’t taste blood. “You know what? I’m driving. I shouldn’t be talking on the phone. I’ll text you when I get to Charlotte’s place.”
I end the call and toss my phone onto the seat beside me. My eyes sting and the lines in the road before me blur together. Something must’ve gotten in my eyes. It’s probably dust or pollen. A pebble probably ricocheted inside my car. I signal and pull onto the shoulder as my eyes continue to water.
I’m not a crier. Tears never fix anything, so I don’t see the point. I didn’t even cry when I had the miscarriage. Mom said I was in shock.
Maybe it’s wearing off now, because the girl who just impulsively quit her job is now pulled over somewhere on I-95 crying her eyes out.
Chapter Two
The Past
TJ
Did you know a child is placed into foster care every two minutes? There are 1,440 minutes in a day, so you can figure out how many kids per day that equals. It’s a lot.
Of those kids, about half will drop out of high school. A fifth of them will even end up homeless. The statistics are grim. It’s no wonder Cheryl, my case manager, hasn’t told me any of this. I can’t even be mad at her. I wouldn’t know how to tell me if I were her. Could you look into a kid’s eyes and tell him he’ll never amount to anything in life? That the journey he’s about to embark on will be difficult, and full of sorrow. That he’ll never know what it feels like to be loved again.
