This is insane. This is insane. This is insane.
Those three words were on repeat in my head as I hastily shoved clothes and personal belongings into the one and only duffle bag I owned.
Kalo hopped around my ankles as I flew through my tiny bedroom, tossing items over my shoulder and onto the bed next to my open bag. She licked my face when I got close enough, turning in circles with the same excitement she got as soon as I said, “Wanna go outside?”
“We’re going on a trip, Kalo,” I said to her, scruffing up the soft fur on her head with one hand. She was an Australian shepherd mix, no more than twenty-five pounds with eyes that slightly crossed, which only made me love her more. “With a man. Who I just met.” I paused, swimsuit clutched in my hand. “Whose name I don’t even know.”
Kalo cocked her head to the side, watching me, and I laughed, ditching the swim suit and rushing to my tiny bathroom to rummage through the necessities.
All my life, I’d dreamed of leaving Alabama. I’d dreamed of crossing the country, starting a new life, leaving my past behind. Now that the moment was here, I realized the first thing I should have done all those years ago was make a packing list.
Because nothing I was packing made any sense.
Yoga pants, three of my favorite paperbacks, including my very worn copy of Catcher in the Rye, jeans, the framed picture of Tammy and me on my eighteenth birthday, a dozen or so shirts and tank tops, hair ties, hair brush, razor, three random dog toys, and my eReader. I only owned two sweaters and one pair of boots, and I threw them in the bag, too, followed immediately by my extra liner and socks for my prosthetic leg.
I could still remember the day I could finally afford the extra supplies for my leg, after saving and saving on my own, insurance only covering one set of each once I was in my final leg. I’d gone through several growing up, but now that I was done growing, I had my permanent leg. I was lucky my dad even managed to have insurance at all, and I was pretty sure the only reason he did was because his place of employment took it out of his check before he could even see it.
I added a pair of athletic shorts, ones I only ever wore when I was alone and I figured would stay buried in my bag until we reached Seattle. My tiny Thai Buddha statue Tammy had purchased for me at a flea market was staring at me from the corner of my desk, begging me to bring him along, so I tucked him in the side pocket of my bag.
Then I stood in the middle of my room, looking around at the faded yellow walls, once white, tainted by cigarette smoke from my parents no matter how I’d tried to keep it out.
My room was small. The same twin bed I’d slept on since I was eight was sunken down in the middle, shoved against the far wall right under my enlightenment poster. The springs creaked and groaned each time I applied even the slightest bit of pressure. The desk that sat next to it was old and tattered, too, the warped wood nicked in several places. Kalo’s dog bed rested under the old box TV I’d watched cartoons on as a child and barely turned on at all as a teenager, and not a single movie sat on the shelf below that TV, the space occupied with books, instead.
My eyes caught on my copy of Emerson’s prose and poetry, and I threw that in my bag, too.
The carpet was light brown and stained all over, the sheer curtain covering my window littered with moth bites. Standing in the middle of it all, hands on my hips, I knew I wouldn’t miss a single thing, no matter what I left behind.
So, I zipped up my duffle bag without adding another single thing, slinging it over my shoulder before grabbing Kalo’s bed under one arm and my yoga mat under the other. I took one last look at the room, the place that never felt like home, the prison, and then I turned my back on it forever.
“Cindy,” I said louder than necessary, tapping my mother’s shoulder where she lay on the couch. Sweat matted her ashy blonde hair to her forehead and she squinted, swatting her hand in the air to tell me to go away. “Cindy, I’m leaving.”
“Okay?” she said gruffly, rolling over to face the back cushions of the couch. “What the fuck do you want, a going away party?”
I sighed. “Not for work. I’m leaving. I’m moving out.”
“About time.”
I stood beside the couch, eyes taking in the slight heap of bone and skin that was my mother. It was hard to believe I’d come from her, that I’d been built inside her, and yet the only thing we shared in common was our last name and DNA.
“I’m really leaving,” I said again, voice low. “I’m getting in the car with a boy I just met and I’m driving away. And I’m never coming back to Alabama.” I paused, letting that sink in — both for her and myself. “Never.”
My mother was quiet save for the ragged breaths leaving her lungs, and for a moment I thought she’d fallen back to sleep, but then she spoke.
“Make sure he wears a condom.”
I closed my eyes, not sure why somewhere deep in my heart I expected more, wanted more. She’d never given me anything, only taken, why should today be any different?
With a quick scribble, I left a note for my dad on the folding table where I’d eaten cereal every morning since I could remember, then I shoved through the front door of our trailer for the last time, leaving the smoke and the stink and the scars behind.
As soon as I expelled a long breath and lifted my eyes to where the boy from the diner stood leaning against his car, I halted.
He’d followed me as I rode my bike back to my house, and I’d ditched that same bike in my front yard before sprinting inside without another word. But here he was, waiting for me, and again, the same three words cycled through my head.
This is insane.
“I don’t know if I packed the right stuff,” I admitted, feet moving toward him and the car. “I wasn’t sure what to pack, honestly. It’s still hot here but I know it won’t be in Washington. Then again, we’ll be in the car, so I guess it doesn’t really matter too much what the weather is like. We can just adjust the air. I mean you can, since it’s your car. I won’t touch the air. Or the radio. I promise. I’ll be like a fly on the wall. Or, well, not a fly, because flies are annoying. I’ll be like a butterfly. Like, the caterpillar in the cocoon before the butterfly actually happens.” He was just looking at me with those same questioning eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched at a smile. “I won’t be a problem, that’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Good to know.”
I nodded, adjusting the yoga mat under my arm. He was just leaned up against the car, which I realized now was not only a convertible, but a BMW, too. His hands were tucked easily into the pockets of his navy blue pants, one ankle crossed over the other as he watched me.
When he stood straight and opened the passenger side door, Kalo bolted from where she’d been sniffing the grass at my side and jumped right into the front seat, parking her little butt down and letting her tongue hang out as she panted up at us.
He eyed her, one brow cocked as he turned back to face me.
“Kalo. I rescued her when she was a pup.” I shrugged. “Can’t leave her behind.”
He wet his lips, looking back down at Kalo with a curious stare. “Will you be like a butterfly, too?”
Kalo popped up, little paws pressing into his chest as she lapped at his face before jumping into the backseat.
He chuckled, wiping at the slobber on his chin before turning to me with an outstretched hand aimed at the bag over my shoulder. I handed it to him, mind still racing with all the reasons this was the dumbest idea ever as he loaded my bag into the trunk, taking my yoga mat next.
I dropped Kalo’s bed into the back seat and she immediately climbed into it, turning in two circles before plopping down.
And then I had a panic attack.
“Wait!”
He paused mid-reach for the handle on the driver door, but he was still relaxed, a peaceful expression on his face as he did what I asked.
I couldn’t catch a steady breath, ears ringing and fingers reaching blindly for my braid. I pulled it over my shoulder and picked at the ends of it, mind racing, questions burning through me.
“What’s your name?”
“Emery.”
“Emery what?”
“Emery Reed.”
I nodded, over and over, still picking at my split ends. “Okay, Emery Reed, and have you ever been convicted of a crime?”
He laughed, just one quick, humored bark, the noise warm and comforting. “No. Have you?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Of course not.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I agreed, looking up and down my street. One of my neighbors a few trailers down was sitting on their porch, watching me with curious eyes. “Are you dangerous?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“But you’re not, right?”
He shrugged. “Guess you’ll find out.”
I scoffed. “I’m serious. You’re not like… crazy or anything, are you?”
At that he threw his head back and laughed again, eyes warm when they found mine. “Of course I am. Aren’t you?”
A warm breeze blew between us then, the faint smell of pumpkin riding on its wings, giving me the first scent of fall I’d had all season.
“Can I get in now?” he asked, eyes not leaving mine.
I swallowed, and then with a quick nod, he opened his door as I slipped into the passenger seat, and we closed the doors at the same time, the quiet thunk of them solidifying my choice.
I was leaving Alabama.
I was going to Washington.
With a strange boy.
Whom I had just met.
Who admitted out loud that he’s crazy.
He fired up the engine, the soft purr of it sparking a wave of chills up my arms. And there was no ceremonious goodbye, no rush of memories as he put it in drive and pulled away from my house that never was a home.
I’d nearly shredded the end of my braid, so I threw it behind me, right leg bouncing as I wrung my hands together in my lap.
“I’m Cooper,” I finally said when we pulled out of the trailer park. “Cooper Owens.”
“Nice to meet you, Cooper.”
I nodded, leg still bouncing.
“So, why are you going to Washington?”
He shifted, switching hands on the steering wheel as those two familiar lines creased between his brows. “There’s just something I need to see.”
“Well, that’s not vague or anything.”
He didn’t respond, pulling onto I-10 and picking up speed. The wind blowing through the car from the top being down whirled more now, picking up the stray strands of my hair and twirling them around me.
“How old are you?” I yelled over the wind, heart still thundering under my ribs, nervous system in a practical breakdown as it fired off all the warning signals.
DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS.
DON’T GET IN CARS WITH STRANGERS.
DON’T TRAVEL ACROSS THE COUNTRY WITH STRANGERS.
“Twenty-three.”
“What do you do?”
He shook his head, as if my question disappointed him. “I drive.”
“Like for a living?”
“No, like right now, in this moment, I drive.”
“Well, that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?” he challenged, glancing at me quickly before returning his gaze to the road.
I stammered, hands waving erratically around me. “I don’t know, just like, who are you? Tell me something to help me freak out less about the decision I just made to get in the car with you.”
He paused. “If I do kill you, I promise to take care of your dog.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Funny.”
He bit back a smile, and I lost my train of thought watching the slow spread of it on his face, the wind whipping through his sandy blond hair, the sun casting a warm glow over half of his face and cool shadows over the other.
“Wait, I know,” I said with a snap of my fingers, pulling my cell phone from my back pocket. “Is your name Emery Reed on Facebook? I can just look through your profile and reassure myself that you’re not a serial killer.”
“I don’t have a Facebook.”
I balked, heart stopping in my chest before kicking back to life. “What do you mean you don’t have a Facebook? Everyone has a Facebook.” My nerves sparked to life again, head shaking of its own accord. “Oh, my God, you really are going to kill me, aren’t you? Oh my God, oh my God.”
Suddenly, the car veered to the right and a scream ripped through my throat, Emery riding the tail of a semi-truck and cutting off an old van before pulling off onto the shoulder, stopping us altogether with enough force to send me flying forward before I was jerked back against the seat again.
“We almost wrecked!” I panicked, checking the backseat to make sure Kalo was okay. She just stared up at me goofily from her bed like I was the crazy one.
“Hey,” Emery said, calling my attention back to him. “Are we doing this?”
Cars and trucks zoomed by behind him, each one rocking our car with a whoosh as I tried to calm my racing heart. He wasn’t annoyed, his face wasn’t screwed up with impatience, his eyes weren’t accusing or judging. He was simply watching me. He was simply waiting. I knew that look, because I’d been waiting my entire life.
“Are we doing this,” he asked again, voice even steadier than before. “Or not?”
And in perhaps the most chaotic moment of my life, on the shoulder of I-10, with cars zipping by and a stranger waiting to drive me to my new life, I closed my eyes, pressed my head into the warm leather seat, and took my first breath.
“We’re doing this,” I whispered, eyes still closed.
“Okay,” he said, and then I felt a hand on my knee.
My eyes shot open, heart back in my throat.
“Seatbelt,” he said, squeezing my leg before reaching into the center console for his sunglasses. He slid the frames into place. “And I hope you like The Black Keys.”
His hand reached for the knob, cranking up the volume, and then he pulled back onto the highway, effectively ending my freakout.
Kalo popped her head between our seats, nudging my elbow with her wet nose. I looked down at her, still in a daze, numbly petting her head to assure her I was okay.
Then, with one more deep inhale, I shook the negative thoughts from my mind, choosing instead to embrace the moment.
I was leaving Alabama.
I was going to Washington.
Everything I’d always wanted was finally happening, even if it wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined it, and the next breath that left my lungs also left a sense of peace behind it, one that filled me from the inside out.
I think I knew, even then, that the greatest adventure of my life was about to begin.
I didn’t know who I was, or who I’d become, or where I’d go when we got to Washington. I didn’t know where we’d stop on the way, or how we’d get along, or how I’d feel when we hit our final destination, when we said goodbye and went our separate ways.
I didn’t know any of that.
But I did know something about that day, and that boy, and that car felt right.
I knew as the sun warmed my skin and the wind blew through my hair that I was never coming back to Alabama.
And ten minutes later, when we crossed the state line, I smiled.
I smiled, and I didn’t look back.