Now? He’s after humiliation. Making sure I can’t escape the past I’ve spent so long running from, distancing myself from.
Not only that, he refuses to believe the money is gone. It’s what keeps him motivated to go on, the thought of some windfall that means he’d never have to work again in order to get his next fix. I shudder to think about what he might do if he realized there’s nothing left.
Without a doubt, he’d try to ruin me for it.
I was lucky enough to get a full scholarship to college, but that only lasted a semester. A few glorious months away from home, a new name, a new identity, a new life untainted by the past. Until I made the mistake of trusting my first and only boyfriend. Revealing my history to him, for it to become all he saw in me.
Within days, I was a pariah. The place that had become my escape became my place of torment. Impossible to ignore the judgmental looks. Not to hear the whispers loud enough Icouldn’t miss ’em everywhere I went. It became no different than the town I fled as soon as I’d graduated.
Mom was right. She said anywhere we went, it would be the same. Even if we could’ve afforded to up and move somewhere else, the truth would’ve followed us there. The stigma.
So, I did what I had to do to survive. I used the money to build out Van Gogh while I studied code online. It took a few months to start earning my own living from that, and then I donated the rest, and I hit the road. I’ve never looked back since. Not as Angel. Not as Avery. Not as Amelia. Or any of the half a dozen names that came in between.
I haven’t stopped running for eight years. In all that time, he’s only gotten close two times.
Early on, I didn’t mix up which postcards I sent to Mom when. He rifled through her mail, pilfering my correspondence with her, and he retraced my steps. Back then I didn’t zigzag my route either. I’ve gotten unpredictable with my stops now. When I was nineteen, I didn’t think to do anything other than keep driving down the interstate. Now, I’ll surprise even myself with where my stops take me. Random keeps me safe.
The first and only time he almost caught me in person was the night my modus operandi changed. I was heading up the PCH, crashing in parking lots on beaches and living the best part of van dweller life, stopping every hundred miles or so, a few days at a time, sending a postcard from each stop. Until Randall was waiting at the dive bar in a little town north of Monterey.
We locked eyes from across the room and I ran. Screamed fire, pushed open the emergency exit, triggered the alarm, and the restaurant emptied out in a mass exodus of mostly drunken patrons that made for a hell of an obstacle course for my brother.
I took off east, changing course often, and didn’t sleep for 48 hours, until I was in South Dakota. At least I got to see Mount Rushmore.
The second time he got closer than I’d like was three years later, when he started going through Mom’s email. That’s when he started sending me threatening emails, but I knew he had nothing to go off of after I had implemented the safety protocol. There’s no way he can track me down the way my life is set up now.
Unless he’s alotsmarter than he’s ever let on, he won’t find me if I stick to the plan. It’s kept me safe all these years since.
That second time was when I swapped to a more secure email platform. One that hackers choose for a reason. And I started changing my email address regularly, for extra good measure, and I haven’t heard from him since.
Even Mom has no clue what email address I’ll write from next. She usually deletes my emails after responding to me, and I keep a stack of postcards, shuffled like a deck of cards, and send her one every now and again.
It’s worked all this time, up until now.
I got sloppy. Comfortable, for the first time since I’ve been on the road, staying as far away from my brother and our past as possible.
A sigh of relief flows through my nostrils and into the air around me when it sinks in that he truly has nothing. He got my email from Mom, he tried to push me around again, and that’s it. I’ll change my email, and we’re back to the same old that’s kept me safe from him, and the memory of our father, for all this time.
It doesn’t stop the pall of gloom from rolling in and taking root over me.
I’m two days from being back on the road, just two damn days. Can’t I enjoy the rest of my time here in Smoky Heights?
It’s surprisingly high on my list of favorite places I’ve visited, considering how extensive my travel history really is. I’d hate to have the tail end of this stay ruined by the taint of my brother.
After taking a screenshot of his email, all necessary sender information and tracking data I could obtain, I purge the email account and set up a new one, immediately alerting my supervisor to the new form of contact. He probably thinks it’s a little weird, but he’s never asked questions, and for that, I’m thankful.
Fresh starts are what I do best.
This is just the beginning of my next one. I need to look on the bright side and treat it as such. Not let my pessimistic half win.
Hell, if I was in the habit of listening to that voice, I’d have yeeted myself over a cliff years ago.
A knock on my van door breaks me out of my focused state and I secure my laptop.
“Come in,” I say in as normal of a voice as I can. I might have an edge in that area—so many years of practice—but I feel like I do a pretty good job of even fooling myself with that one.
My van rocks as one heavy foot comes in, then another.
“Hey, darlin’. We’re ready for Van Gogh now, if I can steal her from you.”
