Swiping the tears from my cheeks, I look at the digital clock on the bedside table. It’s been an hour since I left; he isn’t expecting me there for another hour-ish. Maybe he won’t even notice the pastry. Not wanting to take the chance of his coming home if hedoes seeit, I pick up the pace.
On my second trip down to the parking garage, I curse myself for leaving that damn box on her desk. I could have taken my time over the next few weeks and put things in order before I leave. But would I have talked myself out of leaving?
My Grams’ voice floats across my mind.“At the end of the day, they love you as much as you love yourself, Nora, when they show you how they feel about you, believe them.”
Over the past few years, I’ve let him manipulate me into not loving myself enough.
He never really cared about me, or I wouldn’t constantly live in a state of shame every time I think about eating, or every time I try on clothes. And overhearing what he said on the phone tells me I’m right.
Leaving my engagement ring on my bedside table, and everything he’s ever given to me where it is, I leave the condo.
It doesn’t take long after I leave for my phone to start blowing up. The messages started sweet, telling me it wasn’t what it looked like – apparently, I shouldn’t believe my eyes or ears. But throughout the evening at the hotel, he becomes his usual threatening self. But each mean word, each threat, chips away at the delusion I’ve let myself build regarding his feelings for me, reminding me of who I was just three years ago.
Just for one night, I let myself cry for my loss: him, the relationship I let myself believe was genuine, the future I planned, and the life I’ve been living. I ordered a bottle of wine from room service and cried as I read and re-read the increasingly hateful messages he sent.
Some were threatening, telling me he would sue me because of the joint accounts we have, and that I wouldn’t get any of his money. Not that I wanted any of it – I have a degree and a job. Some said he would find me wherever I go and force me to come back, but then he would follow up with something nice and apologize. His anger was all over the place, but he only has himself to blame.
Eventually, I cried myself to sleep.
My eyes are wide open now.
I matter to myself again.
3
CURRENT DAY
NORA
The light, depressing drizzle has been following me for the past two hours, making everything wet and the sky gray. It’s the kind of drizzle that makes it impossible to find the right setting for the windshield wipers. Not the most ideal driving conditions, especially after driving for hours and hours.
Almost as soon as I exit the turnpike, I’m enveloped by trees along winding roads, making the gray day seem just a little darker under the thick tree canopy. My grip on the steering wheel tightens a little more around every curve as I worry the gas station advertised on the sign on the side of the highway doesn’t really exist.
I’ve got nothing against small country towns, I rather enjoy the quaint atmosphere and the friendliness, but why does everything have to be so far apart? It’s like social distancing on steroids. The breath lodged in my chest rushes out when the little gas station appears around another corner, and my fingers loosen on the steering wheel.
Like an oasis plopped into the middle of a forest, the brightly lit gas station advertises food, gas, and restrooms on the sign. Thank God! I’ve needed to pee for the past fifty miles.
Pulling up to a pump, looking around the large parking lot, I’m surprised at the number of cars parked near the store. I don’t think I passed a single car after I left the turnpike. With my fingers on the key, ready to turn my SUV off, an orange glow in my periphery on the dash pulls my eyes to the little temperature icon.
No! That’s the last thing I need.
Pausing to listen to the engine, I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Maybe it will hold out until I get to the next city and I can stop at one of the quick-check places. For now, I just need gas and to pee. And with a glance at the nearly empty package in the seat next to me, maybe some more of my sour gummies.
As soon as I step into the building, the warm smell of pizza fills my nose and makes my mouth water. Cheers erupt on one side of the store; men are standing and high-fiving around a couple of booths covered in half-eaten pizza and beers. On the TV mounted on the wall next to the little kitchen is a football game.
“Evenin’. Can I help you find anything?” A young boy is standing behind the cash register. Cluttered on the counter around him are racks of candy bars, chips, and various bags of snacks, including gummies. He looks high-school age, and his cheeks are covered in acne. Poor kid.
Smiling at him, I say, “Restrooms?”
“Oh, that way.” He points to the other side of the checkout area, to a brightly lit hallway.
“Thank you.”
At least the restrooms are clean. There’s a laminated sign on the wall with a checklist of things to be done, and next to each task is a time written in dry-erase marker.
Glancing in the mirror as I wash my hands, I cringe. I didn’t bother with makeup this morning. Anytime I feel a little tingleslink up the back of my neck, or I get anxious, I put everything in my car and hit the road. That was nearly twelve hours ago, I need to find a hotel soon before it gets dark. I hate driving in the dark.
Without makeup, my skin is so pale that my red eyebrows and freckles across my nose stand out like rusty beacons. Once in high school, I tried to bleach my hair and my eyebrows to look like the strawberry blond pictured on the box, but I ended up with bright, brassy orange and yellow hair. It was a nightmare.
