Wanting to know the ending of the story but not wanting to go through the process of checking it out—because that would require providing my library card, which could lead Joel to me—I discreetly slip the book into my backpack before standing.
It feels wrong to steal from a library, but I do it despite the guilt gnawing at my stomach. Maybe I’ll mail the book back when I finish it.
With that justification in my mind, I double check that my paper with directions is in the same place I had put it in my backpack. Then, I head back out into the sticky, suffocating August heat and walk to the bus station.
The outside of the bus station smells faintly of gasoline, and I walk past a couple smoking cigarettes before finding a seat in the small, air-conditioned building. Outside, a train rattles over the tracks as it speeds past, and the Charlotte skyline towers ahead.
I purchase a ticket for the four o’ clock bus with cash, sliding the bills through the slot to a bored attendant who barely looks up. Once I have the ticket in hand, I settle onto one of the hard metal benches and wait.
Soon, I’ll be headed northwest, away from the city and into the mountains somewhere deep in rural Appalachia.
As I wait for the bus to arrive, I pull out the book I’d taken from the library, but the echo of noise in this small building drowns out the words on the page. I can’t focus. So instead, I watch the other occupants. A mother rocks a fussing infant. An elderly man snores softly with his chintucked to his chest. A teenager with headphones taps her foot to whatever music she’s listening to. All normal people with normal lives. I wonder if I'll ever be one of them.
When the bus finally pulls in, I hand my suitcase to the worker loading them and choose a window seat near the back. The engine rumbles beneath us, vibrations traveling up through the floor, and as we pull away from the station, I press my forehead against the cool glass and watch the city pass me.
After a while, the buildings grow sparse and traffic thins. The landscape transforms as we lumber down the highway, with low, rolling hills gradually coming into view. Kudzu crawls over the dense vegetation on the side of the highway, smothering the trees until they loom like phantoms. Every few miles, garish, dirty yellow billboards pronounce “Jesus Saves” and “REPENT” other vaguely ominous religious messages. I wonder offhandedly what their purpose is besides self-important proclamations of faith.
I manage to read another hundred pages of my book to distract myself from my growing anxiety before giving up again. I’d guess there’s only an hour left of this drive, and I have no clue what awaits me. In one hour, I’ll be getting off the bus in a town I’ve never been to meet a man I’ve never truly met, with no alternative plan and enough money to maybe cover a couple nights in a cheap motel if things go terribly wrong.
Fuck.
My forearms throb with a dull ache, as if reminding me of my alternative if everything goes to shit. I try not to think about it.
The sun is sinking lower in the sky as I stare out the window. We’re in the mountains now, but the highway cuts right through them. Even with the modern roadways andcities, though, the Appalachian mountains have a presence that’s impossible to ignore. They’re ancient, foreboding, and in the fading light of day, it seems as if anything could be hiding in the thickets of kudzu that climb across the trees and undergrowth.
We pull off the highway, and I know we’re getting close to our destination as the driver navigates the winding roads toward the town. The yellow signs—why are there so many yellow signs in the rural south?—for Waffle House and Dollar General shine like beacons for the nearest town in the fading daylight.
It’s close to 8 p.m. Joel will be looking for me by now, wondering where the hell I’ve run off to. I’m sure he’s in a fit of rage, probably punching holes in the drywall or breaking things. The thought makes my chest seize with fear until I realize, I never have to go back. I don’t know what my life will look like in the coming weeks, days, or even hours, but I do know that he’ll never lay a hand on me again.
I wonder if he’ll report me as missing, or if his ego will be too massive to admit that his wife ran from him.
Thirty minutes later, I’m exiting the bus behind a short line of people. My entire body thrums with anxiety, fear of the unknown coupled with exhilaration for the potential of what could happen.
He didn’t give me any information about when to come, but I bet he’s waiting for me all the same. He probably knew I’d come as soon as possible after witnessing the situation I was in. Or maybe this is simply an empty house, a refuge he knew I needed. I can’t deny that I’d be a little disappointed if he wasn’t there, though.
He has saved me from my circumstances when I wasn’t strong enough to leave on my own. The least I can do is thank him.
My hands shake as I take my suitcase, and my knees are on the verge of buckling with every step I take.
The bus pulls away in a cloud of exhaust, leaving me standing on a crumbling concrete slab as the cool evening air settles around my shoulders. The town's few buildings cluster nearby—a post office, a general store with its closed sign already displayed, a diner with windows still lit.
It’s eight o' clock, and I'm twenty miles from my destination with night closing in, in a place where I know no one. The enormity of what I've done hits me all at once. I’ve left behind my entire life with nothing but a suitcase and an address that might lead nowhere.
I take a deep breath of the thin mountain air and glance around.
A young couple, probably in their early twenties, stands near the parking lot. The woman hangs up her phone after a low conversation, and they chat as they stand there, like they're waiting for someone to come pick them up. This might be my only chance.
I make my way over to them, though I leave a fair amount of space between us. “Excuse me,” I call out in a soft voice as I put on the hopeful yet pained expression of a woman down on her luck.
Their eyes snap to me.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I say with feigned dejection, “but I left my phone on the bus. I don't suppose there's any sort of taxi service or Ubers out here that you could call for me? I'd be happy to give you cash.”
The lie comes easily, my years of practice coming in handy. It helps that I look younger than I am, and the outfit I'm wearing is classy but casual. I wanted to look nice for my mystery man when I met him, even though he’s already seen me at my worst.
“No Ubers or taxis out here, I'm afraid,” the man says with the southern lilt indicative of someone who's spent their life in rural Appalachia. “But her dad's comin' to pick us up real soon, and I'm sure we can give ya a lift if it's not too far.”
“Thank you so much.” The relief in my voice isn't feigned this time. Thank goodness for southern hospitality.
