It’s not a crime for me to withdraw money from a joint account with my name on it. Even if I do plan to nearly drain it dry. It’s all money I earned anyways—and a drop in the ocean at that. I had to fight tooth and nail for the smidge of control I haveover it. If my dad had his way, I wouldn’t have a joint account with them in the first place.
The salon phone rings, and the sharp sound jerks me out of my thoughts. Carly sets the broom down and runs to grab it. As she talks, I stare at the locks of golden blonde hair on the floor.
It reminds me of gilded chains, tangling and twisting together.
Looking at it makes me feel sick.
Jesus Christ, Winnie, get it together. It’s not like you to be so maudlin.
Well, it’s also not like me to quit my entire life and run, but that’s exactly what’s about to happen.
I glance at my watch. It’s nearly 9:00 a.m. And past time for me to leave. My parents like to wake up around this time on Saturdays—they have that luxury because neither of them has to work. I, on the other hand, have not slept in past 8:00 a.m. once in the last five years.
“I need to head out,” I say to Carly, tugging at the ends of my hair anxiously, and drawing the ball cap even lower on my face. As soon as I’m on the road I’ll feel better. As soon as I’mfreeI’ll feel okay.
“I’ll miss you,” Carly says.
She pulls out a small pink makeup bag from behind the counter and passes it to me. Inside is five grand in cash. I’ve been siphoning money from my joint account to her for the last year and a half. I disguised it as color touch ups and extensions. It’s a believable amount because Carly is the priciest hair dresser in all of Birmingham, and I’m a pageant queen. I don’t mind paying to look good. So when I sent Carly $800 for just getting my roots and toner done last month, neither of my parents thought anything of it.
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the bag and stuffing it into my purse.
“The debit card is in there too.”
I nod, and take my phone out. With a few taps, I’ve transferred nearly all of what’s in my joint account, which is only a grand, into my new account. Carly has been keeping the debit card here for me so that my mom didn’t find it.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, mostly to myself.
Carly pulls me in for another hug and I nearly break down crying in her hair.
“I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you,” I say. “Please tell me if my parents cause any problems for you. And I’m sorry in advance if they hire a P.I. to track you.” I laugh weakly at that last bit, but I’m not really kidding.
“If they cause any problems, Alex has my back, and we’ll just take a long and much needed vacation until it blows over. Italy is calling my name.”
We say our final goodbyes and then I’m out the door and climbing into my overstuffed rental car. I probably could have left some of my clothing at my parents’ house, but I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving my treasures behind. Not when they’re the one part of my life that I actually get enjoyment out of.
So I took it all. My endless workout sets. My collection of designer heels. My pageant dresses and costumes, including the ones I sewed myself while in high school. The vintage frocks I spend hours hunting down online and never get to wear.
And the jeans. Armfuls and armfuls of denim that I’ve been sent by brands over the years. Most of it is unworn because my mother doesn’t think that a pageant queen should wear anything as casual as jeans. But they’re going to come in handy when I get to Star Mountain. As are the two thousand dollar gifted pair of cowboy boots I’m also taking.
I can’t wait to wear them to the barn. I can’t wait tofinallywear something other than dresses and heels. I love dressing up but I also enjoy dressing down.
I know, it probably seems silly and shallow that I care so much about clothing. That I’m already planning outfits for the barn. But my parents have controlled every aspect of my life for myentire life, and I can’t wait for a little bit of freedom.
And to me, clothing equals freedom. Freedom to express myself however I want—to be whoever I want.
With that thought in mind, I set the rental car GPS to Star Mountain, Montana, pull out of the salon parking lot, and am on my way.
Freedom is fucking here.
Sadly,that feeling of freedom doesn’t last. For some reason, the more miles I put between me and my parents, the more I start to worry. By the end of the day, Birmingham is far behind me, but I feel like any minute they’re going to pull up beside me on the highway and drag me back.
I don’t even turn on the burner phone that I have, because I’m too worried that my parents will somehow figure out the phone number, or the P.I. they hire will, and they’ll find me before I reach Star Mountain. I pay for an iced coffee and doughnuts with a hundred dollar bill, too worried that they’ll figure out the password to my new bank account to use my debit card.
And when I pull into the rest stop an hour later, needing to pee because of the coffee I just chugged, I give the parking lot a good scan before getting out of the car. As I’m hovering above the seat in the public toilet, I realize that I never let my friendCandice know I was on the road. She’s one of the owners of Star Mountain Horse Rescue, which is where I’m headed.
I consider using my phone, but decide against it. It’s too risky. Hopefully she’ll see my social media post and assume I made it out okay. She said the room was ready for me whenever, and she knew I was leaving soon. That will have to be good enough.
I quickly wash my hands, and leave the bathroom with my hat pulled down low.
