Page 27 of Her Sloth

“What happened?” I ask, suddenly horrified. “Anything with Throttel?”

“What happened?” he asks incredulously. “Tommy just got a call from Cass. Who happened to be very worried that you are running on insanity right now.”

My entire body freezes. She called fucking Tommy.

“Yeah, well, maybe I am,” I say coldly.

“It’s the city,” he says. “You need to get back here.”

“And then what? I go back playing Lady Anne and The Bounty Killer? Let myself be pushed around by that pussy hunter who—?” I break off. “Everyone there telling me what to do and those fucking paps following me everywhere?”

“Babe, you’re spiraling.”

“Yeah, because my fucking sister died and my father is fucking rapist and I am fucking mess who is now the one responsible for millions of people!” I shout, tears streaming down my face.

“And what about the Flat Top swing? Throttle? The Palisades race? Annie? The promise you made to Hailey? The mornings on the sign?” he says, listing everything that ever meant something to me.

I can’t even say a thing over the tears flooding my eyes.

“Come home,” he says. “We’ll figure things out.”

Home.

What home?

The ‘home’ built on a version of me I never was?

The ‘home’ I found myself in because I had nowhere else to go?

The ‘home’ with only a cat and friends that know bits and pieces of me because we drank some years together and did some risky stuff?

That’s no home.

It’s a shit show of a life holding together by WD40 and duct tape.

I roll down the window, and without another word, I throw the phone out onto the highway.

Cold air with the scent of exhaust streams into the car and dries the tears on my cheeks.

I take the bottle of cheap whisky from the passenger seat and take a big gulp.

It burns my throat, as it should.

Another.

And another.

Until half the bottle is empty.

My brain feels slightly fuzzy.

Exactly what I need.

I close my eyes.

It’s the perfect moment to just let go. To let go of the steering wheel, life, control, and everything else.

I lean back.