by T. K. Leigh
“Then what about Jeremy?”
“What about him? We parted ways amicably.”
“Yet you didn’t attempt to reconcile your marriage first.”
I try to stop the look of astonishment and annoyance from crossing my brow, but it’s impossible. I’ve become a master at pretending to be someone I’m not. At wearing a mask, if only to avoid this woman’s criticism. But not even the most accomplished actor can fumble their way through this conversation with a straight face.
“What was there for us to reconcile? I walked in on Jeremy mid-coitus. With a man.”
“All the more reason you should have worked harder on your marriage.”
“Says the woman who’s on husband number five,” I mutter as I approach my building. I grab the keys from my purse and unlock the front door, heading inside.
She glares at me, then brushes off my statement. After all, it’s okay for Elaine Marie Harcourt-Tremblay-Duval-Corbet-Thibault-Vaughn to marry as many times as she wants. But if anyone else does, they’re a failure. She’s a classic narcissist, but her head is shoved so far up her ass that she refuses to see it.
“At least none of my husbands left me for someone else, let alone a man.”
“That’s low, Elaine. Even for you,” I snip out, climbing the stairs up to the third floor. She hates it when I call her by her first name. In my mind, the title Mom should be earned. This woman hasn’t earned it in years.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the therapist. Feel free to psychoanalyze my statement and prepare a full report on everything that’s wrong with me. In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy my night. Send my love to Dan.”
“Your step-father’s name is Dean.”
I snort. “Step-father?”
Upon entering my apartment, I make a beeline for my tiny kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. I’m tempted to forego the glass to cut out the middleman, but I can only imagine what my mother would have to say about that.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Dean’s only a few years older than I am. We went to the same high school. Hell, he asked me to go to his senior prom.”
“Is that what this is all about?” she asks as I take a long sip of my wine, tilting my phone away from me. “Did you only marry Jeremy because you were jealous of my relationship with Dean? I can understand how that might be difficult, especially when you realized you let go of someone who became a right-fielder for the Yankees.”
“I was engaged to Jeremy before Dean was in the picture. Plus, I turned down Dean’s invitation to prom because I thought he was a creep, considering he had a reputation for sleeping with anything with a pulse.” I pause, then go in for the kill, the alcohol coating my stomach momentarily decreasing my “give a fuck” meter. “I guess some things never change.” I grit out a smile, giving myself a mental high five when I see the offended look on her face. “Have a nice night,” I sing.
“Nora, wait!” she calls just as I’m about to end the FaceTime session.
I clench my jaw, but stay on the line, nonetheless. “What?” I grind out.
“I was wondering what your plans are this weekend.”
“This weekend?” I blink, caught off guard by her question.
“Yes. It’s the playoffs, so I’ll be heading up to New York to watch Dean.”
I snort, finding it laughable that this woman who’s always adamantly refused to leave Miami for New York can now find the time to do so. It’s why I chose to move to Manhattan. Not just because my college roommate and friend, Chloe, lives here. But because it’s the one place my mother would never willingly visit.
“Would you like a medal?”
“Sarcasm isn’t an attractive quality, Nora. Perhaps that’s why you can’t seem to hold on to a man.”
I pull the phone away, taking a moment to draw in a deep breath, pushing out all the negative energy that always seems to accompany my mother. Instead, I focus on the good things in my life.
My apartment… It may be small and have its quirks, but it’s all mine.
My job… It’s not what I pictured doing years ago, but it’s brought me peace when I needed it most.
My friends… They’ve been an incredible foundation of support. Not once did they ask what I did to cause Jeremy to seek out companionship from a man. They offered me a shoulder to cry on, then a bottle of wine to drown in. As any friend would.
“Dean and I would like you to join us for dinner Sunday night.” My mother’s voice rips me from my moment of serenity.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my daughter and I miss you.”
It takes all my willpower not to bark out a laugh.
“Don’t worry. You won’t be a third wheel. One of Dean’s teammates will be joining us. Play your cards right and you might just hit a grand slam.” She waggles her brows.
Maybe if I had a better relationship with my mother, this wouldn’t make my skin crawl. Wouldn’t make me feel like she was whoring me out.
“I’m busy Sunday,” I lie.
“Monday then.”
“That won’t work, either.”
“When will work? I’ll be in New York all week. Possibly longer if they proceed to the next round.”
I look past the screen, floundering to come up with some reason why I’m not available to see her at all. Even if I tell her I’m too busy with work, that won’t stop her from showing up at the yoga studio or, God forbid, my apartment. I’ve fought for several long years to make a life for myself in New York. To make it my own. I fear it will only take my mother mere minutes to dismantle everything I’ve built.
It’s a special talent of hers.
“I’ll be out of town,” I lie.
“Out of town?” She scowls, obviously taken aback that I won’t drop all of my plans to cater to her, as she’s used to from me.
I hold my head high. “Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
I part my lips. I hadn’t thought this far ahead into my fabrication. My mother normally doesn’t ask questions unless they revolve around her.
I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Route 66.”
“Route…66?” Her voice is laden with disgust. Of course she’d turn up her nose at the idea. Roadside diners. Cheap motels. Driving for hours. Certainly not my mother’s idea of a vacation.
“Yes,” I answer with more confidence than I’ve ever shown her. “Years ago, I made a promise to Hunter’s mother that I’d take the trip and spread his remains along the route. Unfortunately, life got in the way, so I never got around to it. Now I am.”
“You’re driving Route 66 to spread your dead fiancé’s ashes?” She scrunches up her nose.
“I sure am.”
“The psychiatrist in me wonders if the only reason you’re doing this now is because you’ve realized you’re a failure at forging strong relationships with another person and are leaving town to further avoid having to try.”
I pull my lips between my teeth, biting back the words I’d love nothing more than to unleash on her. I’ve learned she’s not worth the time or effort.
“And the compassionate person I’ve grown into, no thanks to you, would tell you I’m doing this because I made a promise to someone I care for. Something you wouldn’t understand the first thing about. So, as enlightening as this conversation has been, I need to pack. Enjoy New York.”
Before she can utter another syllable, I end the FaceTime call, shaking off the invisible bugs crawling on my skin. I always get itchy talking to her.
I fall onto the couch, taking a minute to calm myself. Deep breath in. Satisfying breath out.
But with each breath, I ruminate on the lie I told my mother. How I wanted her to see that, despite her influence, I am nothing like her. That I’d drive thousands of miles across the country to fulfill a promise I made, whereas she couldn’t even be bothered to get on a plane to visit her daughter mere hours away. Until now.
Earlier today, driv
ing Route 66 was the furthest thing from my mind, even after Chloe mentioned it a few weeks ago. Now, I can’t stop thinking about the trip Hunter and I never got to take.
Gingerly rising from the couch, I set my wine glass on the coffee table and make my way toward the bedroom. Focused on the dresser, I step toward it, lifting the envelope from beneath the simple canister containing Hunter’s ashes. Dust has settled on the paper from years of being left untouched, the corners yellowing with age.
For several minutes, all I can do is stare, not wanting to open it, knowing what I’ll confront once I do. But I can’t keep running from my past. I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist. Like Chloe said weeks ago, we repeat what we don’t repair. It’s time I finally repair the hole Hunter’s death left in my heart.
My hands tremble as I turn the envelope over and lift the flap, pulling out the worn pages within. A tear escapes when my eyes fall on Hunter’s handwriting for the first time in years.
It’s amazing how something you once thought to be common and insignificant can spark such intense emotions, bring forward such powerful memories. I can almost feel the summer sun beating down on my skin as Hunter and I sat on the beach, writing this very list, planning the first adventure of the rest of our lives.
One he never got the chance to take.
But I do.
It’s time I take it. For Hunter.
And myself.
Chapter Four
Nora
This is a mistake, I think as I sit in a Chicago diner, staring at the list that started me on this path less than a week ago.
The past few days have been a whirlwind. One second, I was happy to continue on in my normal existence. Wake up. Workout. Head to the yoga studio. Go home. That all ended yesterday morning when I landed in Chicago.
Now I’m about to set out on the adventure I never got to take with Hunter.
In the comfort of my tiny apartment, it seemed like a good idea, if only to get me out of the city while my mother was there. But now that I’m here, the reality hits me. At every turn, I’ll have no choice but to be reminded of Hunter, the first man to possess my heart, my soul, my everything.
“More coffee?”
I pull my attention away from Hunter’s list, looking up at my waitress holding up a pot.
Forks scratch against plates as boisterous conversations fill the large diner located mere blocks from the start of Route 66. This spot was first on the list of places to visit — Lou Mitchell’s. Apparently, it’s a ritual for all travelers on the Mother Road to fill up with a greasy breakfast here before setting out on their journey.
“Thanks.” I smile as I tuck my list into the leather-bound journal the girls had surprised me with. They’d also given me a vibrator, which shouldn’t have shocked me. They have a tendency to be irreverent, yet poignant at the same time. Case in point, my Ding-Dong Divorced Party.
“You got it.” She tops off my mug, the nutty aroma fighting for attention over the scent of bacon and pancakes. Then she places the check in front of me. “Take your time, sweetie. No rush.”
“Thanks,” I say again as she heads off to check on other customers.
I bring my coffee to my lips, closing my eyes, taking this opportunity to find peace using the techniques I teach in my meditation classes.
Rather than dwelling on the memories of Hunter this trip will inevitably evoke, I force my brain to only focus on the present. I don’t think about the past. Don’t worry about the future. As I’ve learned, no one can be prepared for what life has in store for us. I couldn’t have prepared myself for losing Hunter like I did. Or learning Jeremy was gay, although in retrospect, there were quite a few signs. Regardless, it’s useless to dwell on any of that.
I clear my mind and make a list of things in my life without judgment. Rather than wishing this coffee was stronger and more like the local coffee shop in the Village I’ve grown addicted to, I appreciate the fact I’m alive to drink coffee. Instead of questioning my decision to overindulge in a greasy omelette and breakfast potatoes, I give thanks that I can afford food in the first place and still have a healthy metabolism.
“Driving Route 66?” A deep voice cuts through my moment of reflection.
I open my eyes, looking down the counter and to my left, a pair of vibrant blue orbs peering back at me from a few seats over. Thick locks of hair frame his distinguished face, the hue a mixture of various shades of brown, turning to copper and blond toward the ends that fall just over his collar. Days-old scruff dots his jawline and upper lip, but not in a way that makes it seem as if he doesn’t care about his appearance. It’s more like…organized chaos.
“I noticed your list,” he adds in an accent I can’t quite place. It sounds British, but there’s a hint of American inflection, too. “Judging by how faded it is, seems it’s been several years in the making.” He brings his mug up to his lips, sipping on what I assume to be coffee. “Am I right?”
Goosebumps prickle my skin as his gaze locks with mine. There’s something that draws me to him when I’d normally politely answer his question, then disengage. As I peer deeper into his eyes, I see it, as unmistakable as the rising of the sun. Heartache. Despair. Grief. I can physically feel the sorrow rolling off his body.
“I am,” I breathe, curious about his story. Why doesn’t his smile light up his face like it should? What caused the dark shadow that seems to cloud everything about him?
“Well…” He lifts his mug in a toast. “May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and the rains fall soft upon your field.” He offers me a slight smile. “Until we meet again.”
I mirror his movements, sipping on my own coffee. Then I tilt my head, brow furrowed. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“It’s an old Irish blessing my mum used to say to my father before he left on a business trip.”
“A more eloquent way of saying have a good time, I suppose.”
“She was a very eloquent woman.” His expression falters briefly before he recovers, plastering a smile on his face I can tell is forced, despite being a stranger. But grief has become an odd bedfellow of mine over the years. I can see when it’s befriended someone else.
Fighting the urge to delve deeper into this mysterious man’s background, I offer him a smile of my own, then slide off my stool, placing enough cash to cover my breakfast and a tip on the counter.
“Until we meet again,” I say. It’s the only part of the blessing I can recall.
He tilts his mug at me. “Until we meet again.”
I hold his gaze for a beat, something keeping me rooted in this spot. When the bell over the door chimes, I manage to pull myself away from the mysterious stranger, making my way past booths filled with diners and out onto the busy Chicago sidewalk.
It’s the first week of October, but summer is hanging on, the air warming as the day goes on. But it’s still comfortable, the sun shining through textured clouds. The perfect day for a drive.
My phone in hand, I check the map to make sure I’m heading in the correct direction. Sirens blare in the distance, and I inhale the smell of car exhaust, but it’s not as overwhelming as the pollution I’m used to in Manhattan.
After walking a few more blocks, my destination comes into view. I slow my steps as heaviness settles in my chest. This is why I sat in that diner for nearly two hours, struggling to summon the courage to start my journey instead of heading back to the airport to book a flight home. I’ve already put this off for six years. I can’t put it off any longer, especially now that I’m finally here.
Drawing in a deep breath through the thickness in my throat, I stare up at the brown road sign with the Route 66 insignia on it, the word BEGIN in bold lettering below it. A breeze picks up, wrapping around me as the wind changes direction. I close my eyes, an unexpected warmth filling me. Something about this moment makes me feel like my life’s about to change. Like this adventure will alter everything.
; Isn’t that what I’d hoped for when I decided to do this?
Withdrawing the canister from my bag, I lift the top and look at all that’s left of Hunter. He was once this vibrant, sympathetic, selfless man I was lucky enough to receive a wrong number text from my freshman year of college. Now he’s reduced to a can of ashes. His memories will live on, but it’s time I stop clinging to those memories and make new ones. And I deserve to move on, don’t I?
I tilt the can, pouring a handful of his ashes into my hand, allowing them to sift through my fingers as they fall to the ground around the road sign.
“Here’s to the start of our adventure.”
Chapter Five
Nora
Turns out, that Irish blessing from the mysterious stranger was exactly what I needed. All day, as I made my way along the approximately two-hundred-mile route I’d planned, the wind has been at my back, the sun shining upon my face. At least as much as it could through the windshield of the compact car I’d rented.
To say I’ve been nervous about this trip is an understatement. The idea of thinking about what Hunter would say or do at certain stops, of watching the amount of ashes slowly dwindle, knowing that he wouldn’t be with me at my apartment when I returned home, made me edgy. But once I was on the road, all that trepidation vanished. I can almost feel him beside me, hear his laughter, smell his cologne. He may not physically be with me, but his spirit is here, guiding me along this adventure six years in the making.
Tom Petty’s voice comes over the speakers, and I’m drawn to the words as he sings “Square One”. The lyrics fill me with determination and encouragement. In a way, I’m on square one. This journey marks the start of the rest of my life. It took a while for me to take that first step, but now that I’m here, I feel peace wrapping around me.
I glance out my window as wind feathers through the tall grass, the sky a beautiful shade of blue interspersed with picturesque, fluffy clouds. The sun sparkles brightly in the west as I enter Springfield. While it’s technically a city, I’d be hard-pressed to categorize it as one. It’s remarkably quiet. I suppose any place would seem that way after living in Manhattan.
