I turned. It was the woman who lived there—Cheryl or Sharon or maybe Charlotte—slim, fully dressed in linen capris and sandals, holding a steaming mug of something hot. I couldn’t tell if it was coffee or tea at this point, as my olfactory senses were already overwhelmed.
“Just helping out Mr. Calloway,” I said, attempting a smile and hoping my cleanup efforts sufficed.
“Right.”
“Yeah, this isn’t the first time.”
“Nice of you,” She said, eyeing Winston suspiciously. “He’s…lively.”
But then she was looking at me again. “I noticed they replaced you.” She didn’t add, “on the show.”
I gave a tight nod.
“The new hostess is very…striking. Great hair. Not sure she knows much about cooking, but maybe that’s not the point anymore.”
I stood there, manure on my hand, Winston tugging to get away.
“I should get him back,” I said quickly, not trusting myself to speak any further.
“Oh, of course. You’re busy,” she said, already turning back toward her door. “You know, I always thought you were the one who made that show interesting.”
I couldn’t tell if that was meant to be kind or just another little dig, but either way, it barely registered.
Back across the lawn, I handed Winston over to Mr. Calloway, who didn’t say thank you. And also, who, although he’d noticed my stench, didn’t seem to notice the manure.
I did, though. God, I did.
By the time I got back inside, I wasn’t even embarrassed—I was just…blank. Hollowed out. Like there was a giant hole in the place where I used to have dignity.
Ashley’s words from the day before echoed in my head. “You’re miserable. Getting out of town…it could actually help.”
Cheese on a biscuit. I hated when she was right!
If I sucked it up and took this trip, it would make things easier on my sister. One less thing for Mom to complain about. And for a few days, at least, I wouldn’t feel like such a burden.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and after a long breath, tapped on Ashley’s name.
She answered on the first ring. “Looney?”
“When do I have to leave?”
SANDWICHED AND SIMMERING
“American Airlines, Flight 1775 to Denver is now boarding at Gate B20.”
The announcement crackled over the speakers, spurring me into a faster walk—almost a jog—as I shifted my bag higher onto my shoulder and rushed past Gate B14.
Had I waited until this morning to pack? Had I had second thoughts? Was I half-hoping I’d “accidentally” miss my flight?
Yes. Yes, to all of that, but here I was anyway.
Ashley had sent me the itinerary the second I—very reluctantly—agreed to go. Just as I’d suspected, it was twelve days of tightly scheduled group travel. Every meal, every hotel, every bathroom break practically timestamped.
We’d be looping from Denver to Las Vegas, stopping at every tourist trap the Southwest had to offer—sometimes two or three in a single day. Think kitschy Western eateries, cowboy cosplay for retirees, overpriced souvenirs, long bathroom lines, and scenic stops so crowded you'd be lucky to snap a pic without getting photobombed.
This literally was, in fact, the beaten path. Stomped flat and paved over.
Yee-haw and kill me now.
