Chapter One
Leni
IF MY MOTHER WERE HERE, she would tell me that my eyes were going to get stuck in the back of my head with the amount of eye-rolling that I was doing. Yet my mother wouldn’t be caught dead on a stinky Greyhound bus, so my eyes are free to roll at will.
I scroll through my Facebook News Feed, and it makes me literally nauseous. Post after post of my friends in New York City, enjoying their Saturday night in “the greatest place on earth.” They all have appropriate hashtags to put emphasis on the pure amazingness of their lives.
#blessed
#bestlife
#lucky
#sohappy
#pinchmeImustbedreaming
#bestboyfriendever
Seriously, Madison? Best boyfriend ever? Totally #stfu. I’m glad that silver Tiffany necklace that you just posted eighty-five pictures of erases the last year of Stewart screwing other skanks behind your back.
“Ugh,” I grumble under my breath.
Social media is killing America, and if not America, then my soul—at the very least. Facebook and Instagram posts are the fleeting moments of happiness in someone’s mediocre, if not completely lame-ass, day.
Am I jealous?
Hell yeah, I’m turning green from envy. I want to be #blessed in #nyc. But I’m a #loser on the way to #loserville to live with my grandma. I’m being a brat; I know it. Mason is actually a sweet little Texas town that holds the best memories from my otherwise depressing childhood.
My summers spent with my grandmother, whom I lovingly refer to as Mimi, are true highlights of my life. If it were a thing back then, every moment in Mason would have been social media–worthy.
Just going back there now means that I’ve failed. Just as my father said I would.
When I left Texas five years ago, I had no intention of going back.
After high school, everything was falling into place. I had been accepted into Cooper Union, home to one of the most prestigious undergrad art programs in the nation. Major bonus points that the college of my dreams was located in the most magnificent city in the world—New York City. I was going to attend college, refine my art skills, graduate, and create beautiful pieces that people from all over the world would clamor to buy. I would most likely meet and marry another artist, and the two of us would spend the rest of our days doing what we loved.
It was the dream.
Yet it wasn’t my father’s.
My father has always been a difficult man for me to connect with. The only thing bigger than his ego is his ambition. He had no desire to take over his father’s farm. The second he could, he left for Houston and began pursuing his political career. He’s always wanted to be a man of stature, of power. He’s now a Texas senator, and if he has his way, I’m sure he’ll run for president at some point.
My mom is the polar opposite of my father. She has no need for personal glory. Her only ambition seems to be helping my father with his.
I am the only child of Henry and Eleanora Turner, who had my entire life planned out from the moment I was born. The only problem is that I’ve never been who they wanted me to be. I’m no debutant. When I refused to pursue a “respectable” degree, such as political science or business, my father cut me off. In fact, besides the few Christmas presents my mom sends me each year, I’ve received nothing from my parents since I left Texas five years ago.
Unfortunately, it seems a hundred twenty thousand dollars in student loan debt and an art degree leave one with very few options. For the past year since graduating, I’ve been working my ass off. Despite having two jobs and three roommates in an apartment the size of my parents’ kitchen, I couldn’t make it in New York. I spent more on art supplies than I ever made in sales. I ended up giving away most of my pieces.
Mimi sent me enough money to buy a one-way bus ticket to Mason. So, here I am, forced to sit on this bus for two days, with nothing more to do than think about my life and the mess that it is. I’ve lost my cool New York apartment, my group of hip and eclectic friends, my art, and the dream I had for my life. All my worldly possessions fit into one suitcase, and the sad part is, there’s room to spare. I can’t even stuff a suitcase.
Pathetic.
I’m left staring at other people’s lives on a phone that’s going to shut off at any minute since the bill hasn’t been paid in a couple of months.
#lifeisgrand
I want to cry.
Despite my better judgment, I continue to scroll through social media until the battery on my phone dies. I throw the phone in my purse with a sigh.
Pulling my knees up, I rest them against the seat in front of me and lean my head against the window. As far as the eye can see, there are fields of tan grass. I’m not sure where we are. I just hope the rest of this ride passes quickly.
Sadly, New York was never meant to be. That’s my reality. Mason isn’t my end destination either, but I’m anxious to get there, so I can start figuring out a plan to get to where I’m supposed to be.
A day of self-pity and insane jealousy catches up to me, and my eyelids become heavy. The soothing motion of the moving bus, the low rumble of its engine, and the exhaustion that pure heartbreak brings pull me into sleep. Right before slumber takes me, I see my sweet Mimi, and my heart smiles. In a world where I feel I’ve lost everything, I still have her unconditional love, and right now, that has to be enough.
I bolt awake. Passengers are filing down the aisle of the bus, bags in hand. Looking out the window, I see the Mason bus station.
We’re here!
My past woes are momentarily forgotten as my excitement to see Mimi grows. I pull out my phone to call her, only to remember that it’s dead.
Hmm.
I try to recall where I left my charger. I’ll have to plug my phone in for a minute somewhere around the bus station, so I can call Mimi to come get me.
I exit the bus and retrieve my single suitcase. After an extensive search through my purse and luggage for my charger, I come up, hands empty. Darn, I’m sure it’s right where I left it—plugged into the wall back in my New York apartment.
The sad thing is that I don’t even know her phone number by heart, or I would just ask to borrow someone’s phone. She’s number one in my speed dial, but that’s of little help with a dead phone. I don’t think a town as small as Mason has Uber or taxis—not that I have any money to pay for a ride anyway. I truly don’t even have a dollar to my name. I held out as long as I could in the city. I left when I literally had nothing.
I start walking, pulling my suitcase behind me. Mimi’s farm is a few miles outside of town, I think. I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Yet it shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours to walk it.
I hope.
I’m so hungry, I could eat my hand, and I finished off my last granola bar on the bus. My mind drifts to dreams of Mimi’s homemade bread with real butter and jam.
Oh, jam. Maybe she’ll have raspberry—my favorite.
I moan, not caring who hears me because I would do anything for a piece of that bread right now.
When’s the last time I ate bread? Wow, I don’t even know.
Over the past five years, bread slowly got replaced with salad greens. PB & J sandwiches were replaced with sushi, mac and cheese with brown rice. Come to think of it, I don’t know how or why it happened. It just did. Comfort foods weren’t in style with the crowd I hung out with. I suppose that’s healthier, but now that I really think about it, it’s weird.
Seriously, when was the last time I ate a piece of bread? This is going to bother me.
My thoughts are pulled from the soft deliciousness of Mimi’s bread to the squeal of tires. I turn to the side to see headlights from a large truck barreling toward me, stopping mere inches from my face.
Well, crap.
I didn’t think my life could get worse, but I underestimated the wrath of the universe. They say that, the moment before you die, your entire life flashes before your eyes. The split second before my death isn’t that way. As I close my eyes and brace for impact, my thoughts aren’t of my family, my joys, or my regrets. My focus is singular.
Now, I’m never going to get another piece of Mimi’s bread.
This sucks.