Page 4 of Total Jane Wreck

“Huh,” I say. “Now that you mention it, great idea. Thanks, Jackson.”

“You’ll never make it on your own,” Melissa says. “I give you two weeks tops before you’re back here, out of money and beaten up by life.”

She’s probably right. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Chapter Two

It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection.

Twenty minutes later, after changing my clothes, packing up all my stuff, and saying a tearful goodbye to Betty, I find Reed standing by my car, arms crossed over his chest. “What are you doing, Janey?”

His words snap me fully into the moment. I see myself as from the outside: Jane Wreck in cutoff shorts and mud-splattered boots, keys in hand, trying to blow out of Kentucky with three boxes of clutter and nowhere to go. I almost expect Reed to block the car like a crossing guard.

“Just heading out for a bit,” I say, flipping my keys in the air.

He takes in the overstuffed trunk and my hasty outfit change. “For a bit, huh? Then why’d you pack up all your stuff? Bet you set the world record for the most art museum T-shirts ordered online, and here they are, all shoved into that dusty old duffel bag.”

His sarcasm is supposed to be affectionate, but it lands prickly, the way all Reed’s jokes do.

“You went through my stuff?”

“I was curious. What’s going on, Janey?”

I hate when he calls me Janey, as if I’m still twelve and he always knows better than me. “I’m not cut out for any of this. You know that.”

Reed leans against the trunk, arms folded. “So you’re running away without even saying goodbye?”

“I’ll call Mom and Dad from the road and explain.”

“What about Jackson?” Reed’s eyes narrow. “Did you two have a lovers’ quarrel?”

There are two routes I could take here: drop a truth bomb and try to escape amidst the rubble, or evade and make a quick exit. While route one is noble, now that I’ve decided to leave, route two is far more attractive.

“Jackson and I aren’t right for each other,” I say. “Deep down, I’ve known this for a while.”

Reed grins. “That right there sounds like the start of one of your sad little stories.” He squints at me, playful and mean all at once. “Hold on to Jackson—you don’t have what it takes to make it on your own.”

Have Reed and Melissa talked about this before, or did they just magically come to the same conclusion? I suck in a labored breath of moist, heavy air. “We’ll see about that, Reed. There’s only one way to find out.”

Stepping around him, I climb into my ancient Honda Accord, which Dad bought used when I was sixteen. The windshield is already splattered with crusted bug guts from my last run to Keeneland, and the A/C doesn’t quite work unless you bang the dash three times.

After cranking the engine, I roll down the window. “Take care of yourself, Reed. And watch out for that wife of yours. She’s a viper!”

His face wears a mixture of shock and confusion. As I pull out of the driveway, I watch him and the house shrink in the rearview mirror.

My car doesn’t have Bluetooth, so I flip on the radio. Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” comes on. That’s gotta be a sign. Don’t know where I’m going, not exactly, but I may as well head west, toward horse ranches and hiking terrain like in Escape from the Springs.

I get onto I-70. My phone, which sits on the passenger seat, rings. I glance at its screen. Mom. I let it go to voicemail.

Mom’s next three calls go ignored, then one from Dad. By mile marker 176, I’m eating glove compartment peanut M&Ms, and the seat’s worn upholstery makes my skin itch. Sometimes I get radio reception, but it’s usually either the Bible station or classic rock—some rotation of Led Zeppelin, Queen, The Eagles, and AC/DC. What I wouldn’t give to hear some Taylor Swift or The Chicks. Instead, I settle for the sound of my own brain, gnawing at today’s events and fighting against acid reflux.

By sunset, I cross the Mississippi and pull over in Belleville, Missouri, the outskirts of which are a flat patch of chain motels and truck stops. After checking into a Holiday Inn, I call Brontë.

She answers within seconds. “Hi! How was the engagement party?”

It makes something swell in my chest, hearing her voice. “I skipped out.”

There’s a pause. “Skipped out . . . how?”