Page 10 of You Met Me There

“She paid half as a down payment, but I’ll be sending it back. And please tell Cynthia I’ll be emailing her a list of photographers in the area that I think would be more than happy to schedule your shoot.”

“Yeah … You know, don’t worry about that. I’m sure she can find someone else. If I’m being honest, I’m not a fan of having photos of me posted on her insta-whatever. Sooo, this is kind of okay with me.” He chuckles, and I roll my eyes. In my experience, the men never like to be photographed unless it’s for their own social media page.

“Well,” I say, “either way, please tell Cynthia I’m sorry about the change of plans.”

“Sure, yeah,” he mumbles. “I’ll tell her. Thanks for calling.”

“Of course. Have a nice day.” He hangs up before I do.

I’m definitely sending Cynthia that list of social media photographers. I don’t think I can trust Craig to pass along my message. If it’s left entirely up to him, Cynthia probably won’t hear about my cancellation until the day the shoot is supposed to take place, leaving her shocked and freaking out that she didn’t have time to find someone else. I’ve seen that kind of thing happen before. It’s not fun to get angry calls from clients.

I eye the passenger seat, looking for my water bottle. My mouth is dry; no doubt an annoying side effect of the alcohol last night. I woke up feeling fine—no headache at all—but my mouth has felt dry ever since, no matter how much water I drink.

It turns out I didn’t dream of the sun, but I also didn’t have a nightmare. I slept great, like I knew I would. I’ll take that win any day.

Now I have endless miles ahead of me and hours upon hours to think of what I’ll say to my family. I’ve talked to four clients already, left two voicemails, and I only wish I could send emails while I drive too.

But I’m alone—as I keep reminding myself—and getting in an accident so far from home—so far from Luke or Emma or anyone I’d call for help—isn’t on my agenda. I mean, it wouldn’t be on any given day, but I’m not taking any chances by looking at my phone.

My plan is to stop in Richmond, Virginia, for the night and drive the last leg of the journey tomorrow. Before leaving the hotel, I took time to plan out the drive—where I’ll stop for gas, the hotel I’ll stay at, as well as a few cute coffee shops along the way. If anything, I can at least make the crazy-long road trip pass a little quicker by exploring.

In the early afternoon, I pull into a small lot and enter an old fire station that’s been transformed into a coffee shop, complete with huge garage doors out front and a fireman’s pole near the entrance. The bells on the door chime as it swings shut behind me, and I’m met by the scent of coffee beans as they’re ground by a loud machine behind the counter.

I approach the moving line and scan the menu on the wall. It isn’t long before the two young girls ahead of me place their orders, and I step forward.

A blonde girl with two pigtails smiles at me from behind the register. She can’t be more than sixteen years old. Her braces catch the overhead light as she speaks.

“Hi,” she says. “Welcome to The Burnt Bean. What can I get started for you today?”

I chuckle. The name of the coffee shop is humorous, but it also works since we’re literally in a fire house.

“What do you recommend?” I ask, looking at the display of pastries and a list of coffee flavors marked in chalk. “I’ve never been here before.”

She clicks a pen in her hands. “The Soot Saver is really good.” She leans toward me, whispering behind her hand. “Don’t ask me why the names are so weird. Everyone asks if it’s really made with soot, and no, it’s not.” She rolls her eyes, obviously annoyed by the question I wasn’t going to ask.

My brows lift. “Oh. Okay, then. Thanks for clearing that up.” I give her a tight-lipped smile.

The girl shrugs, then says in her high-pitched voice, “No problem. Do you want to try it?”

I shake my head but keep a smile plastered to my face. “No, thank you. Can I just get a”—I scan the menu once more, squinting—“iced cookie butter latte with an extra shot of espresso?”

It’s not my usual, but I feel like mixing it up a bit. With everything else upside down right now, why not also switch up my drink order?

“What size?”

“Better make it a large. I have a lot of driving left to do today,” I explain, somehow thinking this teenager will care. And just for good measure I add, “I’m driving to Pennsylvania.”

She looks up at me as she grabs a clear plastic cup, writing my order on the side. “Oh yeah? That’s cool. I’ve been to Pennsylvania once—last year. My parents took me camping in a town named after a tree. I think there was a lake too? I can’t remember.”

I rest my hand against my chest, lost in a memory of home. The girl’s voice fades into the background.

In my teen years, I was jealous of the kids who took vacations with their families. My family rarely traveled, and when we did, it wasn’t far—a few hours north to bigger mountains or to the east for a rocky beach. Maybe that’s why I felt so stuck living in Maple Lake. So bored. Being surrounded by the same trees and dirt roads your whole life makes you question if there’s any way to escape. To find something exciting.

“Can you believe they don’t have one?” The girl’s voice comes back, breaking into my thoughts. I must have missed something, because I don’t think she’s talking about camping anymore.

“Sorry,” I say, blinking. “Don’t have what?”

“They don’t even have a working movie theater there. Everything was so outdoorsy—which I’m okay with—but I really just wanted to spend a night chilling, doing something inside, you know what I mean?” She scoffs and shakes her head, her pigtails shaking.