Fuck.
Worried was the only way to describe how I felt. Worried I did something wrong. Worried I pushed too hard. Worried I was reading this entire thing incorrectly.
Stuffing one hand in my pocket, I stepped back so she could grab her things. Without a single look behind her, she took off straight to the elevator. When she pressed the button, the elevator took a moment to open. I walked inside to join her, and while we waited, I took her empty hand in mine, respecting her decision to leave.
Just like the last time I let her go, I laid a kiss on her forehead.
“Bye, Bella,” slipped from my lips laced in regret as the elevator doors opened, whisking her away with no way of knowing when I’d be able to see her again.
“You can drop me here, thanks.”Handing the cab driver a twenty, I shut the door behind me, staring up at the sign to the RV park. The pink and blue neon sign glitched, the power on the fritz, and “The Oasis RV Park” looked everything but like an Oasis.
Cold. Uninviting. Run-down.
Tucked away in a dark corner off the Strip, The Oasis, felt nothing like home and everything like a steppingstone in my life that I prayed could only lead to something greater. Ithadto go up from here.
The gravel crunched beneath my feet, and with every step I took closer to my van, my stomach sank. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old VW had a run-down engine by now, unable to drive. After my breakup, I took the beat-up metal box and parked her here without thinking twice, refusing to let my spot go. If I just up and left, anyone could take my place, and this damn parking spot was the closest thing I had to a permanent home.
When I was sixteen, I inherited this van. Ol’ Red, I called her. When everything else was taken from me, I refused to let her go.
Dad died of an overdose when I was ten years old and Mom never recovered from him leaving us. Mom wanted so badly to join him that she took up his addiction. I may have only been a kid, but it only took one time of getting kicked out of the garage to realize it wasn’t dinner Mom was cooking.
When Mom had parties and told me to go to my room, I’d sneak out of my bedroom window and slip into the van for some peace and quiet. Ol’ Red was the only place where I knew what happiness felt like.
Before Dad died, we’d take her on road trips, drive the coast, find a place to park, and watch the sunset as the waves crashed against the shore. We’d grab some fast food, play cards, and camp out overnight before heading back home. It was always just the three of us.
Thinking of such a far-off memory, when life was completely different, it felt like a fabrication or a dream.
For countless nights, Ol’ Red was a safety blanket for me. Old crusty seats that smelled of fried food became my bed, and the exposed foam from the rips played as my entertainment. The red van acted as a sound barrier between Mom’s poor excuse of a life and my cries for a better one.
As a kid, every night, I’d gaze through the sunroof toward the moonlight, and wait for a shooting star, hoping that falling star would be my way out. Even when I didn’t see one, I’d squeeze my eyes shut and wish for Ol’ Red to whisk me away.
Unfortunately, a wish upon a star wouldn’t save me, Narnia wasn’t real, and everything you saw in movies and read in books as a child were only there to protect you from what life really was.
Six long years later, Mom finally got her wish and joined Dad, leaving me to fend for myself. Scared out of my mind to enter the foster care system, my ex-boyfriend’s mom was kind enough to take me in at just sixteen.
All that was left from my past was the place I now called home. And just like the van was when I was a kid—a safe space surrounded by darkness—it served the same purpose here in this neglected RV park.
Fiddling with my keys, the sharp edges ran along my finger. I glanced up at my tiny home—Ol’ Red had come a long way.We’d been through it all together.
With a stove that was once used to make hot chocolate for cold nights on the beach, it now provided me with hot soup or mac and cheese at the end of a long day. The old fabric seats that reeked of fried chicken and burgers, were changed out with faux leather—giving off a cozier look. The warm lighting, greenery, and inviting décor that made my homemine, was nothing it used to be for a quick road trip or the run-down version of Ol’ Red as she collected dust parked in the driveway.
Ol’ Red had been repurposed for the better. She was built to keep me safe long term—for however long I’d call her my home.
After unlocking the door, I was immediately greeted by my bed. There was very little space that wasn’t utilized by the tiny kitchen, small bed, or storage areas, but I made it work. Luckily, there were bathrooms on-site. Another reason I couldn’t afford to give up my parking spot. Most RV parks were usually filled with trailers that had bathrooms of their own.
On the occasion that I had an overnight with a client, or I worked my shifts at the pool, I mostly used showers that weren’t the ones at the RV park. The idea of showering at night in a cold building separate from my van didn’t feel right. At first, it was a difficult adjustment, but I’d been able to build a routine and come around to how life had to go for just a while longer.
Slipping out of my dress and heels, I threw on an oversized shirt and boy shorts to sleep in.
A sigh escaped my mouth as I leaned back, and my head hit the pillow. Warm white Christmas lights ran along the interiorof the van, illuminating the small dark space. Only seconds had passed when my stomach growled, echoing throughout the cabin.
Space to store groceries was almost nonexistent. I often shopped while I was out, only keeping a handful of items to eat on hand at a time. After getting up, I searched the cabinets to find half a loaf of bread and some expired peanut butter.
It would have to do.
Sandwich in one hand, my phone in the other, I pulled up the group text with my girls and typed out a quick message.
Me: SOS
