I feel tense even with twenty-plus hours on the road between us, and I know I need to give her a heads-up. Deborah hates surprises and isn’t the type to appreciate spontaneity or an unplanned visit.
I keep throwing her curveballs, starting with my conception.
An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as her house phone rings and rings. I assume my mother has more than a house phone now, but I don’t have another number to reach her on.
How do you not have your own mother’s contact info? I think ashamedly. What if something happens to her?
But you’ve tried to reach out, my less critical half argues internally.
On your terms. Always on your terms.
Disgusted, I grip the wheel. I might be a shitty daughter for leaving, but my mother made her own choices, and I suffered the consequences as a result.
Lowering the window for some fresh air, I crank up the music as the landscape changes from cavernous mountains and narrow roadways at high elevations to rolling hills and valleys.
During the long drive, my mind wanders, and I drift aimlessly to a memory from a few weeks ago, the night Nico and I were seated side by side in a booth, our only distractions each other. Did he rest his hand on my thigh?
Absolutely.
Did I let him?
I’m not a saint.
He made me feel sexy, wanted, vulnerable, tempted—all the emotions that wane after multiple years of marriage.
I twist my hair around my finger in contemplation. Nico and Holden are complete opposites. While Holden is tall and willowy, with shaggy blond hair and a matching beard, Nico is shorter than six feet and built solidly, with dark hair and mostly a clean-shaven face, except when he lets it grow out a little, presumably because he’s forgotten to shave.
Holden’s blue eyes are pools of intellectual depth hidden behind spectacles. Nico’s stunning green ones are fringed with dark lashes, and volatile emotions change their colors.
When I compare the two men, I’d have to say if Holden were my professor, I’d flirt with him, enamored with his ability to have intense and lengthy discussions on a variety of topics. His passion for history is a turn-on, his recitation of facts impressive. He’s the kind of guy your parents hope you bring home one day—steady and reliable.
Safe, though somewhat predictable.
Nico, on the other hand, oozes confidence and sex appeal. He’s a fire you’d want to burn your hand on, just once, because of the intensity. His passion sizzles with power and dominance. He’s the epitome of a Tom Ford cologne ad. Spicy and sensual.
And in our small booth that night, Nico’s hand brushed my hair . . .
Involuntarily, I mimic him now, my cheeks blushing at the thought of my reaction when his fingers went from my head to my hands.
Maybe I should’ve, but I didn’t protest when his fingers strangled mine.
A loud honk startles me out of my reverie, and I glance over at a van carrying a carload of teenagers. Laughing and carefree, they’re speeding toward their destination, and I wonder where that is. I’m somewhat envious; it makes me long for my youth and the limited responsibilities of being a teenager.
But as an adult, you have limited freedoms as well.
I drive for about ten hours before I’m forced to pull into a rest stop and crash. When I wake up a few hours later, my neck’s strained from the uncomfortable position in the back seat I was curled up in. Rubbing my tired eyes, I stop for a gas station coffee before continuing on through a rainstorm in New Mexico and a tornado warning in Kansas.
After taking a quick nap at a truck stop, I need to be caffeinated, and my gaze drifts longingly to the large display of alcohol. I sigh, settling on an energy drink that gives me a rush of adrenaline and a headache.
With shaking hands and no more resolve, I stop at a big box store to pick up a cooler and some supplies. I tell myself just having it in the car will help with my cravings.
By the time I reach the welcome sign at the entrance to my hometown, population 1,250, the slogan of We move slowly as molasses in these parts couldn’t seem more appropriate. Especially for someone who has driven on little sleep, slogging toward a bed and a shower.
Whether an acknowledgment or a humblebrag, it’s evocative of a time that moves listlessly, without the pressures of the big city. Even though sixteen years have passed since I drove out the same way I just came in, the two-lane highway remains unchanged.
I promised Adrienne I would call and update her on my progress. She answers on the first ring, and I can hear the trepidation in her voice. “Did you make it there yet?”
“Almost.” My yawn interrupts my unfinished thought. “Only a few more miles.” I’m curious to know how everything went after she “dropped me off” at the rehab facility. “How did it go when you got to the clinic?” Adrienne drove all the way there, bless her heart.
“Fine. I sent Holden a picture of the outside of the building. I even dropped a pin at the facility so he knew I was there.” She gives a nervous giggle. “And I gave them the updated medical records with your recent injuries.”
I thank her for getting her friend, a doctor, to write a letter to the rehabilitation clinic regarding my car accident and subsequent course of treatment. I’m off the hook, at
