Page 57
Outside, the world is streaks of trees and gas stations, endless road signs that promise destinations we’ll never stop to see. Inside the car, my thoughts flicker like a faulty light, flashing between animalistic fear and an eerie sense of calm I don’t trust. One second, I’m trembling over my potential future of prison cells and commissary food, and the next, I’m convincing myself that it’ll never happen.
A life on the run doesn’t sound so bad, especially when we have Preston’s wealth to fall back on.
I find myself studying the world around me differently than I did before. Every police car on the highway makes my heart skip a beat, while every entrance to another town or city is a small victory.
By the time the sun is finally disappearing behind the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purples and dark blues, the quiet grows heavier. Neither of us has spoken in quite some time. Preston’s grip is still strong on the wheel; his eyes continue to flick between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.
When he finally pulls off the highway at a rest stop to refuel, I watch him move with careful alertness. His cap is pulled down, and he keeps his head low. I watch through the window as he goes inside to prepay with cash.
Across the parking lot, there’s a police officer parked, eating his meal and looking at something on his computer. A flash of me walking over to him and turning us in ravages my mind. I have the ability to end everything. There’d be no need to run.
My fingers wrap around the handle…
When the car door snaps open, a little gasp escapes, pulling me from the fog of temptation and back to reality.
Back on the road, everything becomes more desolate: fewer lights, fewer signs of civilization. It takes a while, but we finally find an exit that promises shelter.
The tires bounce us through a parking lot littered with potholes and gravel. It looks like a motel you’d see in a crime drama: a buzzing neon light that barely clings to the building, spelling out ‘VACANCY’, while the ‘O’ in ‘OPEN’ flashes intermittently. Beer cans and cigarette butts scatter the sidewalk.
The building itself is a study of decay, faded paint, and rust stains bleeding down from the metal rails. Windows look as if they haven’t been cleaned in years. It’s perfect for our purpose; it’s obvious this is a place where nobody asks questions and everyone minds their own business.
Preston looks at the building for a long moment, his hands still plastered in place. He glances at me with an expression that reads of exhaustion, possibly, but disdain was certain.
“I’m doing this because I love you,” He mumbles, as if he’s preparing himself for war.
I scoff, the sound a half-laugh, half-cry.
I open my door, stepping out, the scent of motor oil and beer thick. I keep watch of my surroundings as I get into the trunk and grab a bag. Secretly, I hope I grabbed the one with all the money, just for fun.
Preston emerges from the motel’s office; he looks as if he’s been assaulted by the experience. He tosses me a room key attached to a cracked plastic key chain stamped with the number 12. His face twists in such obvious disgust that I can’t help but laugh. Watching Preston Grant be forced into budget accommodations is the only comedic relief I’ve had all day.
“The desk clerk asked if I wanted an hourly rate. Do I look that sleazy?” he mutters, personally offended.
“Of course you do. Welcome to the real world, population: everyone who isn’t you.”
We walk up the uneven stairs, and Preston tests each one, expecting it to collapse under his weight, while the handrail is sticky with things I refuse to identify or think about. He takes the key from me to unlock the door and immediately recoils.
“Jesus Christ. It smells like an ashtray and a litter box set on fire.”
“You smoke,” I remind him, stepping around his frame that nearly takes up the entire doorway.
“Not indoors. I have some standards; I’m not a complete savage.”
I survey our kingdom for the night, taking in every detail with nostalgic eyes. The pink and green floral comforter has definitely seen better days, while a TV from the early 2000s perches atop a dusty dresser. There’s a small desk that sits beneath the only window, looking out into the parking lot.
“Welcome to your first motel,” I say, setting down the bags before playing out a mocking curtsy, gesturing dramatically at our surroundings. “Isn’t it magical? Can’t you feel the romance in the air?”
He runs his finger across the dresser and wipes the grey film of dust onto his pants with a grimace.
“It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Truly, I’m living the American dream right now.”
“I kind of like it. Places like these remind me of my childhood.” A breathy laugh follows as I take a spot on the edge of the bed.
“Do you think those sheets have been washed?”
“Honestly… I’d put money down on no.”
He plops down beside me with a sigh that comes from his core, bouncing slightly to see if the mattress will come alive and bite him.
