This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First edition: February 2016
Cover by Scott M. Leonard
Dedication
Dedicated to Scott:
The king of my heart, the light of my life, the apple of my eye and the inspiration for many of the romantic elements in my stories.
Dedication
Contents
Beginning: Welcome to Dumpsville. Population: Rhea.
From LA to Chicago: Day One.
From LA to Chicago: Day Two.
From LA to Chicago: Day Three.
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Beginning: Welcome to Dumpsville. Population: Rhea.
he Facebook update announcing her divorce was one of the hardest things Rhea had ever done. Saying “I do” at nineteen had been a breeze. Saying “I sure as hell don’t” at twenty-three was a nightmare wrapped in a special hell tortilla no self-respecting hopeless romantic should ever have had to experience.
Still looming for Rhea was a trip to the local Social Security office to reclaim her maiden name. And then it would be off to the Department of Motor Vehicles to handle her driver license and vehicle registration, followed by the United States Post Office for an address change—which posed its own problems she really didn’t want to think about at present. Hadn’t she been hurt enough without having to deal with a whole hell of a lot of waiting in line at government offices?
Despite that awful to-do list, all Rhea could do was sit and stare at the status update she was preparing to make in her Facebook app: The divorce is final. It lacked emojis, emoticons or any other indication of how she felt about it, but she found it weird to add anything to the statement.
“What emoji would someone use on a blindsiding announcement like that?” Rhea wondered. I’m divorced. Just thought you should know, winky face. I’m back on the market, open-mouthed smiley with tears. Maybe it needed an LMFAO.
She didn’t know why it needed any of that stuff.
So Rhea relied on nothing but her words and left their interpretation to her friends list.
She pressed the blue Post button and waited for the first “I’m sorry.”
The first misplaced joke to celebrate.
The first frowning emoji without words accompanying it.
The first “call me if you need me” empty offer of support.
And Rhea would dutifully press Like on each—even the ones that pissed her off, whether or not her anger made sense—knowing behind the hollow acknowledgments of her failure were scads of judgment she deserved for having been a stupid kid who was looking for a quick escape with the first man who’d glanced her way sporting an interested smile.
That’s just what Mark Coleman had been: An interested smile and a four-year mistake.
The first alert buzzed on her phone. Charmed Mooregood likes this.
The daughter of hippiecrites, Charmed was the quintessential frenemy, someone whom Rhea followed on social media—years ago—and who typically made no remark on Rhea’s activities except when she couldn’t pass on the opportunity to Like a bad day. A flat tire. Or that visit to the emergency room for an EpiPen when Rhea discovered her kiwi allergy.
Despite that knowledge, Rhea whipped her cellphone across the living room with an agonized scream.
She knew she shouldn’t have said anything about the D-I-V-O-R-C-E, but she also knew people would notice Mark’s absence of thinly veiled participation on her Facebook wall. Her closer friends with better attention to detail would notice how all Mark’s family members unfriended her in a blitz of social media abandonment.
Rhea stood with a sigh, retrieving her phone from where it landed on the beige carpet after bouncing off the adjoining beige wall. Mark bathed them in beige; that should have served as a prediction of the beige life they would share. In reality, those choices did nothing more than to make the selling of their condominium a little bit easier.
Rhea turned the smartphone over in her hand. Its screen had shattered. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it?” She ran her finger across the screen to wake it. No response. She double-tapped it. Still nothing. She pressed the inset button on its back. When that too failed, she tapped its screen harder in fury which disappeared as quickly as it flared.
Upon further consideration of her broken phone, Rhea smiled. No phone, no phone calls. No well-meaning yet still somehow obnoxious texts. “I have always thought about taking a break from technology. Might as well start now.”
With little fanfare, Rhea dumped what used to be her cellphone into the kitchen trashcan.
“Rhea?” The front door of the condo eased open. “Ready to go?”
Rhea puffed out her cheeks with an exaggerated exhalation. “Come in, Cass. I’m just waiting for the movers.”
Cass let herself in, walking down the short hallway and into the living room. “Mark’s leaving you the couch.” She crossed her arms over her chest and thumped her shoulder against the wall. “Generous.”
“Hey. He could’ve left me with nothing.”
“I’m not giving that asshole credit for nothin’. He hurt my bestie. He can rot in the hottest, foulest-smelling corner of hell for all I care. He should hang out in the sulfur pit where the devil hard-boils his eggs—”
“I really don’t need your animosity toward him. It isn’t helping anything.”
Cass tilted her head, regarding Rhea with a pout. “It helps me. I want to hate him. Look . . . It’s not like you need to put on a happy face for your kids.”
“Thank God for my IUD, right?” Though Rhea never told anyone, condoms broke on Mark routinely. She wanted children someday, she supposed, but was grateful in retrospect there were no unplanned pregnancies. They couldn’t even agree on how to care for pets the few times they broached that topic.
“Right.” Cass smiled stiffly. “So what are you going to do now?”
“I figure I’ll stay in a hotel for a few nights. Return to work on Monday and start searching for an apartment I’ll barely qualify for. Live paycheck to paycheck. That’s the American Dream, isn’t it?”
“Stay with us! Jack won’t mind. We’ve . . . kinda . . . already discussed it.”
Rhea turned away from Cass to hide her scowl. Who hadn’t talked about her in the last few months? “I couldn’t.” At the moment, she didn’t want to live with her best friend, let alone talk with her.
“Why not?”
“I—I just—can’t be around other couples right now. I’m sorry.”
“It kills me a little to think of you, all alone in a hotel room—”
“I’ll figure something out,” Rhea snapped. “Don’t worry about me.”
Rhea spent Friday night in the Holiday Inn down the street from where she’d lived with her ex-husband. She stepped out only to get food from McDonald’s—lamenting their lack of all-day breakfast because she believed the only thing worth eating there was the Egg McMuffin with sausage—otherwise lounging in bed with the television on the local evening news. If there was anything more depressing than Rhea’s life, it would be on the local news.
By noon on Saturday, Rhea ventured to the hotel lobby. She perused the rack of travel pamphlets, picking through them for something new to do in the area. Sea World. San Diego Zoo. Disneyland and Disney California Adventure. Balboa Park, Hotel del Coronado, El Campo Santo Cemetery and the neighboring Whaley House. All of which she’d visited, many of which she visited enough to justify having ann
ual passes.
Once the prune-skinned, white-haired, shaky-limbed gentleman left the lobby computer, Rhea settled down at it. She supposed she should search for apartments though what she wanted to do instead was to sit around and do nothing for a month or two. Procrastination sounded wonderful.
She double-clicked on the browser icon and it pulled up from being minimized in the taskbar. The previous user left the Amtrak website open. Rhea blinked and glanced around the lobby. The gentleman was nowhere to be seen. She returned her attention to the website, pursing her lips. Her voice was a mere whisper: “Dare I . . .?”
From LA to Chicago: Day One.
Rhea approached the Southwest Chief at Los Angeles Union Station, suitcase wheels clacking on the ground behind her to the rhythm of concrete and mortar joints.
She’d never been that close to a train and was surprised by how big it was.
It would not have taken much for its size to intimidate her into tucking tail and running home—well, to the Holiday Inn, anyway—so she set her mind to dwelling on that later. If she gave it more than a passing consideration this was the first time she’d done anything of this caliber by herself, she was afraid she would be out the two hundred-some dollars her coach ticket cost her.
She wasn’t going to dwell on the cost, either. If Amtrak didn’t issue refunds—and she doubted it did—that money was long gone either way. A sunk cost.
Might as well use it.
With a deep breath, Rhea allowed the attendant to help her onto the train. He set her luggage into a compartment with other suitcases, and directed her up a tight staircase into the upper level coach seating. The car was damn near empty with only three other passengers aboard. They were settling in and gave off vibes of having no interest in socializing. So Rhea set her backpack on the seat beside hers and sat, looking out her window.
When the train pulled from the station—so smoothly Rhea didn’t notice the sensation of moving, only the station as it slid by outside her window—she gave a small start. It was too late to back out now, regardless of the throat-clenching anxiety rising in her chest, so she thought it prudent to stave that off by pulling out her small laptop. Okay, so it went against her technology break. She still wasn’t getting on social media, though, so in her opinion it wasn’t cheating.
Day one, she typed.
I have an overwhelming feeling this is going to be a quiet, lonely trip.
And maybe that’s a good thing. I needed time away from everything.
I don’t know what I was expecting but the Amtrak attendant was nice enough.
The people in my car so far are quiet and keep to themselves.
I think I might go find the lounge car and see about getting myself a snack.
I kinda miss having wifi already though it’s nice to not have the temptation to get online. What would I do? Check social media, get pissed off and wish I hadn’t looked? I don’t yet miss my phone. I hope that won’t change. I wonder if anyone will even notice I’m gone?
Doubtful.
Rhea closed her laptop and stuffed it into her backpack which she stowed on the overhead storage shelf. Praying it would be there upon her return, she went hunting for the snack car.
Situated on the lower level of the lounge car, the snack car was something akin to a musty deli with limited stock that could accommodate no more than two customers at a time. Three if they didn’t mind getting personal or if they were all far skinnier than she was. Rhea bought a bag of Fritos and a can of Pepsi; after all, what good was vacationing without eating poorly for at least part of it? Still, she promised herself her next meal would be at least a little bit healthier.
The train stopped at Riverside station while Rhea sat by herself at one of the small tables adjacent to the snack bar, first devouring the bag of chips before polishing off the soda like a frat boy drinking beer. For the sake of appearing feminine near the snack car attendant, she swallowed a burp. The carbonation stung her nose.
Once the train departed Riverside station, Rhea ascended the narrow staircase to the observation car where she settled into an outward-facing seat to watch the unimpressive view of Southern California chug by.
Train rides, Rhea mused, involve an impressive amount of sitting. I should really figure out what there is to do at the end of the line. Maybe see if anyone has any ideas—of course, that’d involve talking with someone. Good luck with that, Rhea.
But then she would have something to look forward to during her humdrum train ride.
Two hours done. Forty-six to go.
Had she put another few hundred dollars into her tickets, she would have had a private cabin in which to pass the time by getting herself off. In two days, she was sure she could find her G-spot: an endeavor Mark never had any interest in. And so they didn’t bother because they always did whatever he wanted in bed. Why she hadn’t done it on her own, Rhea didn’t know.
“That was an awful big sigh for such a pretty girl to make.”
Rhea glanced up with a start, her face growing hot—not as if the man could have somehow known what was on her mind.
Pointing with a beer can in hand, he asked, “This seat taken?”
More than half the observation car’s seats were unoccupied, yet he pointed at the one adjacent to hers. She thought to send him away.
What if he needs companionship? If the passengers in this car—or his—were as disinterested in conversation as the ones in Rhea’s car had been, well, she couldn’t blame him for coming to her to talk.
She offered him the kindest smile she could muster. With a nod toward the seat in question, she invited him to sit: “Go ahead.”
He sat beside her, gripping the can with both hands. He squeezed it until it crunched before releasing it again and telling her, “Thanks.”
Rhea attempted a casual sideways glance at him. He had sandy blond hair trimmed short, pretty grey eyes, and was surprisingly tan. If she had to guess, she assumed he’d spent recent hours on a surfboard in the Pacific Ocean. What was a surfer doing on an eastbound train?
“Where are you heading?” Surfer Boy asked.
“Chicago,” Rhea replied. “You?”
He nodded. “Same. I make this trip each year.”
“By train? Really? Each year?”
“Yep. I . . . don’t fly.”
“I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t fly,” said Rhea in disbelief. Those were the friends who genuinely believed people who didn’t fly weren’t to be trusted. She had friends who believed non-flyers were modern-day urban legends. Everyone flew. Everyone.
“Never have.” He ran his left hand over his head, his hair feathering back into place. It looked too soft to have been in the ocean recently. She also noted the distinct lack of wedding band, but moreover, the small tattoo on the inside of his wrist: an innocuous semicolon. “Lost my dad in a plane crash about a decade ago. Or . . . Longer, I guess. I don’t like to think about how much time’s gone by since then.”
“Oh. I—I’m so sorry.”
They were silent for a while before Surfer Boy spoke again. “Amtrak’s got an unfortunate reputation. But I’ve personally never had a really bad trip. Of course, some trips are better than others, but never anything bad enough to keep me from booking tickets again afterward. I’ve been thinking about driving there sometime, too.”
“This is my first time on a train,” Rhea admitted.
Surfer Boy finished off his beer. “This is a doozy of a trip to make for your first one.”
Rhea laughed despite herself. “My motto is ‘go big or go home.’ I like adventure.”
“I like adventurous types.”
Her mouth ran away without her: “Was that a pick-up line?”
“It’s just conversation. Small talk.” His tanned cheeks acquired a hint of red.
“I . . . just got out of a disastrous relationship.” Her gaze dropped to her ring-less left hand. “That’s why I got on this train. I’m running away.” From a home I don’t have, Rhea finished sil
ently.
“Cool.” Surfer Boy bobbed his head.
Cool?
She expected he would vanish. When he didn’t, she allowed herself a more thorough physical assessment of him.
He was trim, and her height within an inch; a little above average for a woman, therefore a couple inches below average for a man. Not as though height mattered to her. Nor did appearance, though Surfer Boy was an exceptional specimen in that department.
Upon further investigation, he reminded her a little of Chris Hemsworth. A lot like him, actually. Nice. But a Chris Hemsworth lookalike wasn’t what Rhea was looking for in a future relationship.
What Rhea wanted in her relationships was emotional availability.
She was swift to correct herself: she wanted nothing. Not for a few years, anyway, after getting the yuck of failed marriage off her skin and out of her system. How long did the typical divorce-flush last? A year? Year-and-a-half? Was there a ratio of time spent in a relationship to the time it took to recover? Rhea could check the internet on her phone—No, wait. I broke that.
Surfer Boy gave her a fleeting smile revealing nice teeth. He may well have been perfect and that made her even more suspicious of him.
“We’re all running away from something.”
Judging by the look he was giving her, Rhea could tell he expected her to run.
And yet she remained in her seat. Why? She cleared her throat. “So what’s waiting for you at the end of the line?” Rhea shifted toward him as much as her seat allowed.
“Memories,” said Surfer Boy after a long silence.
Rhea considered how to move along a stalled conversation she hadn’t wanted to engage in to begin with.
He came to her rescue with small talk which was marginally better than uncomfortable silence. “What do you do for a living? No. No, wait. Let me guess.” With a tilted head, he studied her.
Rhea had cut her light blonde hair a few days ago in an act of defiance because her ex-husband had been vocal about disliking, as he called it, “the militant dyke look.” She, on the other hand, referred to her cut as a pixie bob and had longed for that style for years. Her build was a mesomorphic one that took on muscle well when she properly tended herself. In recent months she hadn’t been to a gym more than a handful of times, so her toned belly was on the softer side. Everything was rounder than she preferred, but she was nothing a hot-blooded straight man would boot from his bed.
Tales by Rails (Rays of Sunshine Book 1) Page 1
