He had to pull in sharply ahead of me to avoid a head-on with an SUV coming the other way, fighting his car as it fishtailed. I tromped on my brakes and didn’t laugh. Much.
The truck shuddered as I returned to the gas pedal slowly, coaxing her back to climbing speed. “You can make it,” I told her, and thought about naming her. She could be Tilly, just like that damned mare. Never thought I’d miss that horse trying to bite my ass when I was mounting, trying to slam me into the stall door with her butt when I was grooming her, but after two and a half days on the road alone with my thoughts, with all my money draining into the pickup’s tank, parts of my old life looked better than they used to.
Not good enough to turn around, of course. Not with my dad waiting on the other end of that road.
We reached the peak of this particular highway and began the descent into the next valley. I shifted into second gear so I could keep my foot off the brakes, and caught up to the traffic ahead of me.
The countryside wasn’t too different from the mountains of my Colorado home. Ex-home. November snow already blanketed the upper slopes, and below that stood rocks and scrubby pines, steep inclines covered with dry grass and bushes, and the occasional stand of taller evergreens. A few fall colors of gold and russet on a bush or scraggly tree still tinged thelandscape here and there, but things were fading to winter gray. Still pretty, if I’d been taking a scenic drive.
I’d moved off the main roads onto a less used route as I watched the needle on the gas gauge slowly dropping. I wasn’t going to make it to San Francisco. I had five bucks left in my wallet, and too many miles to go. When I had to stop, I didn’t want to be on the side of the freeway.
I hummed to myself as I drove. I’d had to leave my phone behind, with the plan my dad paid for and the tracking software I was sure he’d installed, and the truck’s stereo was busted. Not that I was looking a gift truck in the mouth. Or motor, whatever. No, sir. She kept chugging along and I tried not to let my mind linger on the man who gave her to me.
Joe, with his lean cowboy build and his storm-gray eyes and his courage. His kindness. His unashamed queerness. And, I reminded myself, his total lack of interest in eighteen-year-old me.Ireallyhad to stop pining for what was never going to happen.
Driving downhill was better than up for gas, but the gas needle kept sliding lower. After about two hours, I was out of the steepest part of the pass, but also almost out of options. Up ahead, I saw an exit, the pavement cracked and narrow suggesting this wasn’t some tourist destination. The roadside sign called out “Selbyville, pop 147” and advertised no-name gas and “Mama’s Homestyle Diner.” Old peeling paint made it a tossup if the diner still existed or not. Probably a tossup whether the town still existed or not.
I’d known a kid in school with the last name Selby once. He hadn’t been too much of an asshole. I’d take it as a good sign.
Hitting my turn signal, I pulled into the exit lane, slowed, and took the ramp. The cracks chattered under my tires. After thirty seconds driving, I lost sight of the highway among the rocks and trees, and I was all alone on this little two-lane roadwith no shoulders and a drop to the south that the dented metal barrier might not save me from if I steered wrong. The view was awesome, though— a valley that opened out onto a fall-brown grassy plain, with the wide blue sky above. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of hawks circling up high.
The next bend closed out the view, taking me back between rock-strewn slopes and trees, but something about that sight had lifted my spirits, and I went back to humming as I drove, and drove.
Selbyville’s first house caught me by surprise when I’d about resigned myself to running out of gas in the middle of nowhere. A little rambler with a tattered American flag on a pole sat at the end of a huge, well-mowed lawn. A hundred yards farther on, I passed an old single-wide trailer in a yard littered with metal junk, including the rusted hulks of at least three cars. Then came a log place with huge picture windows that looked like someone’s Pinterest “Homes I want to own.”
“Looks like Selbyville embraces at least one kind of diversity,” I told Tilly as I slowed to thirty at the “Selbyville, unincorporated” sign. A hundred yards on, I hit more of what I was expecting for a small town— a gas station I sadly had to drive past, an appliance repair store, a few small weatherbeaten houses, their yards in variable condition, and then a big sign for “Mama’s.”
Apparently still open, and, given four cars in the lot in the middle of the afternoon, a hub of local activity. I pulled into the lot and parked near the back. Tilly coughed as I shut off the ignition, and I guessed it was a toss-up if she’d start again or not. Well, that’s why I’d parked her out of the way, where she could sit if need be.
I had a big bag of my stuff I’d kept at work in the passenger seat, and my saddle under a tarp in the load bed. Everything I now owned. Without Joe giving me the truck, I’d have had toleave most of it behind. No way I could’ve ridden the bus lugging around my saddle, so one more win for Tilly. I got out, locking the doors carefully behind me.
Setting my Stetson on my head, because I had a baby face and figured I looked older in a hat, I crossed the parking lot and went into the diner. Two steps through the doors, I paused to get my bearings.
A counter ran along the left side of the room with old-time padded stools, and cracked vinyl booths made up the rest of the seating. Two of the booths held elderly couples seated across from each other, and a gray-haired, weatherbeaten man sat on one of the stools. Flying-saucer-shaped lamps hung on chains from the ceiling. The tile floor was worn but clean, and under the counter, a glass case showed off several pies that had my mouth watering.
A young woman with a drawn face and red curls pulled back in a ponytail looked up from behind the counter. “Hi, welcome. Sit anywhere.” She waved at the room.
Even with lots of empty space, taking a booth to myself felt awkward. I made my way to a stool two down from the old man and tugged off my Stetson as I perched on the round top, setting the hat on the seat beside me. The old man flicked me a look from intent blue eyes, but said nothing.
The woman came over with a laminated menu in her hand. “Here. Best cherry pie in three states, if I do say so myself. Take your time.”
“You don’t look much like a Mama,” I said before I could stop myself.
Her frown said she wasn’t impressed with me. “My grandma named the place, and I have two kids, thank you very much.”
I raised my hands. “Sorry, ma’am. You just look too young and pretty.”
The old guy next to me snorted into his cup of coffee.
The woman shoved the menu at me. “Let me know what you want.”
I ran a hand over my face as she strode off to speak to one of the couples in the booths. Crap. Way to make friends.
“You traveling through?” the old guy asked. “We’re not on the way to anywhere much.”
“Checking out the area,” I said. “Might stay for a bit.”
“Ain’t no hotel. The Williamses take in guests now and then. Like a B&B. We get a few hikers coming through.”
