Starting my life over wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

When I first planned it out, I saw myself leaving with purpose. Not out of the blue with a stranger, and not on money that, more or less, had been stolen from the only two people I have in my life right now. Or used to have, anyway.

It was going to be incredible. I’d set out early in the morning, maybe in summertime, with the sun rising over the trees along the highway. My destination—an element I never bothered choosing, sure it would suddenly come to me before I left—would be circled on a map in my bag. I’d have an apartment already picked out. My new home would be a blank slate, no memories, no temptations. No reminders of the person I used to be. Life would be easy.

Now, though, with strangers bumping past me while I stare up at the travel boards in the bus station, I realize how wrong I was.

Just pick somewhere. It doesn’t matter. I need a new town, any town, and things will feel easy after that.

If I can get away from here, I’ll stop thinking about her.

Austin is less than three hours away, and one of the cheapest routes. What I’ll do when I get there, I have no idea: I definitely don’t have enough for the apartment my little New Life fantasy calls for, but maybe I can find a couch to crash on, or a room to rent, from someone who isn’t caught up on details. I’ve done both before.

The bus smells like hot rust and tar. I put my bag in the seat beside me and shut my eyes against it all: the fumes, the people, the noise of other lives.

I sleep for at least half the trip. The other half, my brain won’t stop turning.

This would have happened anyway, right? At the end of the road trip, after we found Tillie—if we found Tillie—I would have still been on a bus like this one, headed far away from my old life. Away from Lila.

You wouldn’t have hurt her, though. You would have gotten a chance to say goodbye.

Every time the thoughts get too bad, I let myself drift off, the bus swaying and rattling over every bump in the road. People filter on and off at each station. Most look exhausted, and thankfully, none try to talk to me. I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to be friendly.

I miss talking to her. It was easy, or at least easier than talking to most people. Even though she prodded into my life more than I wanted, I didn’t mind, after a bit. It was nice to have someone care enough to ask.

“You’ve changed, though. I think you’re a nice guy.”

Maybe I wouldn’t have dragged her down, after all. Maybe I wouldn’t have slipped and gone back down in the first place. But I care about her too much to hinge all that on maybe.

“I won’t say giving you to them was the wrong choice.” Tillie finishes her coffee after another yawn; we’ve been talking for over an hour. “I missed you, though. I never stopped. And there were plenty of times I wished I’d never taken the Ashburys up on their offer, even though I knew it would have been selfish not to.”

“I’m not angry at you for giving me up,” I say. “I understand why you did it.”

“Really?”

I nod.

Tillie grabs a napkin from the dispenser and wipes her eyes, wincing when she touches the bruise. “Thank you. That means a lot to me. I spent a long time worrying you’d hate me, or something.”

I think about this. The pamphlets mentioned resentment, a section I’d skipped entirely. If I’d learned the truth sooner, maybe I would have been angry at Tillie, or even hated her, just because I was too young to see the other side. Finding out as an adult has its upsides, I guess.

“I definitely don’t hate you,” I assure her. It makes her tear up all over again.

The waitress comes back for our orders. I get pancakes this time, and Tillie orders the same. We both add whipped cream.

“Did you inherit my infamous sweet tooth?” she jokes.

“Must have,” I smile. “My mom—um, Evelyn…she used to say I was more sugar than girl.”

Tillie smiles too, not at all bothered by the word choice. After all, we’re still learning the ropes here. We’re still strangers.

“So,” she says, folding her hands on the tabletop, “you found the letter, and...?”

“Oh, right,” I blink, getting back to the story. The last hour has been basic chitchat and getting to know each other, our trajectory all over the place. “It had your address in Crossbridge on it, so I went there, but...your tenant, he told me you’d been gone for months.”

“Shepherd is still there? I figured he’d move somewhere else when I didn’t come home. I told him I’d only be gone a month.” She raises her eyebrows and chuckles. “Then again, he’s got no reason to leave. Free house, no rent.”

I feel my brow furrow. “You told Shepherd you’d only be gone a month?”

“Well, I didn’t know Nick would…would have me stay—”

“No, I mean...you told him you were leaving?”

She nods. “In my note.”

“He said you didn’t leave a note.” My stomach hurts, a deep and searing nausea. Did he lie to me all along?

“Oh,” Tillie says, slumping. I know she’s only forty, but the lines around her mouth and eyes—at least, the one that isn’t swollen—make her look older. “I bet Nick had something to do with that. I wondered why he ran back inside.”

“Wait, wait.” I hold up my hand. “So you didn’t mean to be gone all this time? And this guy, he...took your note?”

“I don’t know that for sure,” she says, “but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“I think you should start at the beginning. I’m having a really hard time following, here.”

“But you were telling me how you found me.”

I shake my head. “It’s not a big deal. I found the real estate listing in your room, so Shepherd gave me your car and...and I drove here. Okay, now you.”

She takes a breath. “I met Nick speed-dating. Which is a little embarrassing to admit, but…. Anyway, things got kind of serious with us, and then he told me was moving to Houston, for work. I mentioned wanting to see it someday, so he asked if I wanted to come along. You know, to help him get settled.”

I nod, following so far.

“He said he’d pay for me to fly back after a month, and we’d do long-distance.” She pauses, tracing the edge of the table with her finger. “But I decided to stay.”

Decided. The bruise snares my attention again. She must notice, because she brushes her hair back, hiding it with her hand until I look away.

“Do you want to be with him?” Like her, I whisper. “When he treats you like that?”

“It isn’t….”

“Don’t say, ‘It isn’t as bad as it looks.’ Because it looks like he hit you, and that pretty much says it all.”

“I was going to say, ‘It isn’t that easy.’ The house is rented in my name, because my credit is better than his. And…and he has my money.”

“All of it?”

Her eyes are wild now, darting around the diner like Nick will erupt from the floor, or appear in the streaked windows and drag her back. “I tried calling Shepherd from a payphone a few times, so he could wire me more, but the phone was disconnected.”

The smolder in my gut flares again. Granted, Shepherd had no idea this was going on—I hope—but with all his pawning, he couldn’t spring to keep her phone connected, just in case she called?

“He let you go shopping today, though, right?” I ask.

“Well, he…. We budget a little at a time for groceries.” Her brave face flickers back into place like a projection. “You aren’t seeing the whole story. Nick can be really sweet, and thoughtful….”

Oh, God, I think, my head ringing with sarcasm. There’s a twinge of shame in there, too: I used to say the same thing about Donnie.

“What’s his last name?” I ask, after the waitress delivers our food.

She busies herself by slathering whipped cream across her pancakes. “Lawson. Why?”

Nick Lawson. I commit it to memory. “Just curious.”

We eat with minimal conversation for a while. Tillie checks her watch, and her eyes move in a flurry around the diner again. “I should go soon.”

“Already?” Our food is barely a quarter finished. “I was hoping we could talk more.”

“Oh, we can. Maybe tomorrow evening, if you’ll still be in town?”

My vacation days go on a little longer, but I hadn’t planned on staying more than a day. I hadn’t planned beyond this point at all, actually, which was probably foolish. All my brain could handle was the task of finding her. I never summoned the energy to think ahead.

“I guess I can check back into my hotel for another night,” I answer, “but do we have to wait until tomorrow evening? That just eats up a lot of time we could use to hang out, you know?” I hope she can hear past the smooth turns of my voice and catch the real message: she might let Nick control our schedule, but I sure as hell won’t.

“Will ten not work for you? It’s just that I’ve got work tomorrow.”

I study her carefully. “You can’t work around it? Shepherd said you’re a freelance editor. Unless it’s a new job, which…I mean, if Nick’s controlling all your money, then how do you—”

“He doesn’t control it,” she protests, like she can reel in all the truth she’s let out so far. “But that’s okay, if tomorrow night doesn’t work for you. We could do the next day. Or maybe coffee tomorrow afternoon, if I finish early enough.”

Ah, this routine. I was good at this one, too, once upon a time: pretend the other person has their facts wrong, and provide reasonable, “everything is normal” alternatives that will never come to fruition.

“Tomorrow, then,” I repeat, and she nods, the painted look of domestic bliss sliding back into position. There’s just one thing it can’t cover, as we flag down our waitress for the check—that ringed swell beneath her eye, like a plum, rising to the surface. It makes my own eye ache so badly, just to look at it.