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Nope. Not going to think about that. In my cheap Kia rental, I know I’m a mess. Tears have been falling for the entire drive so far. I'm speeding down the mountain, destination unknown. After I pretended to fall asleep, Tommy went to talk with the others. I overheard snippets of their conversation and realized I can't wait, can't retrieve my things from the apartment in San Diego. I have to leave before I lose my nerve.
My phone remains on the nightstand in the guest room. No turning back now. The car is silent as I drive. No music, no snacks, no road trip games—though that’s mostly because I’m alone. Maybe later on, I can try to get truckers to blow their horns by pumping my fist, but for now, I’m content to wallow in my misery.
Trucker games. Yes, that will fix my mood. I roll my eyes, even though I only have myself to impress with the attitude. If Tommy had seen it…Nope. Not going there. Tommy now belongs to my past. That beautiful, sexy, thoughtful man that I love, he’s gone. Forever. Thinking of him any other way will have me turning my car around.
“No, Tilly. Focus forward. Keep going,” I say aloud, trying to hype myself up.
Hours later, I stop for gas. After setting up the pump, I walk inside, half expecting a tumbleweed to roll by in the middle-of-nowhere pit stop. Once I am through the doors, I nearly walk back out again. God, this place is a dump. First, I need the bathroom, and fear works through me.
“Uh, ‘scuse me?” I ask the man behind the counter.
He barely glances up from his phone, an arched eyebrow—that’s pierced, by the way—my only clue to continue. “Can I get the bathroom key?”
He smirks like he has a secret but grabs the obnoxiously large keychain from below the counter and tosses it toward me. It clatters on the glass top with a resounding bang. The man chuckles as I pick it up. “Good luck,” he says eerily. Oof. Not a good sign. As soon as I unlock the door, I hesitantly step into the dungeon that they deem respectable for weary travelers. I immediately know my worry wasn’t wasted. If I thought the restroom would be better than the rest of the place, I would be sorely disappointed. Thankfully, I was at least mentally prepared for the absolute horror that awaits me.
Look, I know gas stations are necessary and people on the road can’t be picky, but would it kill the owners to at least pick up the stray diapers overflowing the bathroom trashcans? Or wash the brown stains along the wall? And what is that smell? Dead possums covered in burnt hair and urine? Without a doubt, it’s the most rundown place I’ve ever been. But this is my life now. Running isn’t glamorous. Half-decayed motels and sleeping at herpes-covered truck stops are my new future.
I use my debit card to withdraw the maximum amount of cash possible and shove it into my pocket. Then, grabbing a few snacks for the road, I head back to my car feeling as though I’m covered in every stray pubic hair the road has to offer. Shower. I need a damn shower, preferably in bleach and antibiotics. But I have to remind myself, not yet. Travel for as long as possible before stopping overnight. It’s the way of the runner.
As I replace the pump and glance at the road signs, the freeway is close by. East to Colorado or north up to Washington.
I get into my car and pull out of the gas station. Reaching the junction, I steer onto the freeway headed east. Colorado is beautiful, cold, but then, almost anywhere I could go now would be cold—it’s the dead of winter. Maybe, once I’m settled, I can have Sam send my passport, and I might flee back to Central America. But for now, this is the best I can do. I settle back into the driver’s seat and prepare for the long road ahead.
***
I spend the next two days driving. The road constantly stretches out in front of me like my list of ever-expanding bad life decisions. Every few hours, I pull over for a cat nap. Something everyone should know about me is that I can sleep almost anywhere. Sitting upright at a bus station, under a towel on the hot beach, rocking on a boat on the open ocean, leaning against a wall, movie theaters, seriously; name it and I’ve probably napped there. So sneaking these recharging sessions isn’t torture. Sure, my back is starting to feel like one of those bendy straws. But hey, can’t really be picky while fleeing my aunt.
Whenever I do stop, to grab some chicken nuggets, or pee, I use only cash, maybe out of paranoia, but my family is resourceful, and I don't want to make it easy for them. By the time I run out of money, I'm almost in Kansas.
I find myself in a small, frozen-solid town called Burlington. There's no snow, but ice covers everything. I park the rental and step out at the most decent rundown motel I can find.
It's $30 a night, a bargain if you don’t mind sharing the room with a few freeloading cockroaches or mice. Yes, it’s gross. But see above—can’t be picky. After checking in, I go straight to my room and collapse on the bed. Every inch of the room should probably be inspected with a black light. Comforters are not supposed to be stiff like this. Lord, I really should buy some bleach. The color in the blanket is nearly nondescript anyway. Adding bleach spots might give it more character. Right now, I can’t be bothered with doing anything. This isn't my first time running away, and the fatigue washes over me in a familiar wave.
The second part of my plan has to wait until tomorrow anyway. I'm too stiff from the long hours in the car to do anything else.
Before I know it, I fall asleep on top of the covers.
***
The next morning, I get out of bed and head to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I notice the bags under my eyes and poke at them. I wish I had grabbed my makeup from the hotel in Tahoe, but there had been no time.
I go downstairs for the complimentary coffee. I need it desperately. Something warm and familiar to wash down the bitter taste of the last week. The woman at the desk is absorbed in something on her phone but looks up when I head towards the coffee pot.
"Morning," I say.
"Hello, everything good?" she asks. She seems about forty and looks almost as tired as I feel. But there’s a soft smile on her lips. I’ve heard from dozens of people that I have a bad case of resting bitch face probably because I am a bitch to strangers. Sue me. Strangers are strange. If anything, this woman is the opposite. Everything about her screams friendly.
"Yep, as good as a cheap motel gets. Clean at least." That draws a short chuckle from the woman, and I smile despite everything. The coffee is scalding hot, but it is fresh. I wander around the lobby. It's drab, mundane, rundown, but well-kept. Whoever this lady is, she obviously takes pride in keeping her work area clean. Matter of fact, it’s so spotless, that it almost takes away from the yellowing walls, threadbare red carpet, and mystery stain on the table. Almost. I take my time looking at brochures, touching some as I go. I don’t really have any ideas for the next leg of my trip but probably should turn in my rental car and grab a bus.
"Looking for something to do?" she asks. I glance up at her. She’s wearing faded jeans and an emerald green blouse that perfectly matches her eyes. Long blonde tendrils of hair are falling out of the messy bun on top of her head. But the warm smile on her face is what doesn’t have me making an excuse to run back to my room.
"Kind of. I'm just passing through, I think."
"Passing through? But you reserved the room for a month," she points out. I barely remember checking in, but it must have been with this same woman if she knows what I did.
"It's a long story," I admit. I had used my debit card to book the room for a month, planning to stay only a few days. I hoped it might mislead anyone trying to find me. Miss Friendly studies me, her arms crossing in front of her chest. Her eyes are narrowed but not in a way that makes me uncomfortable. If anything, she just looks like she’s trying to figure me out.
After a few moments, she eases her staring. "You know, I work a few different jobs. One's at a women’s shelter."
