Runaway Road

by Devney Perry

  I hadn’t wanted to risk an accident, so I’d continued to drive the BMW, wearing my suits and heels. I’d played my part as the refined wife he’d gotten bored with.

  All while the Cadillac sat, covered and alone.

  Shame on me.

  I’d hidden away something important in my life. I couldn’t pin the blame on Thomas either, because I’d forgotten who I was.

  Too soon, I inched up to Gemma’s car and put the Cadillac in park. She didn’t get out. Neither did I.

  “I’ll call,” I promised.

  “You better.” She twisted to me and leaned over for one last hug.

  We met in the middle. She gave me a tight squeeze and then she was gone, walking with grace and elegance to her car.

  Gemma had grown up in a hovel worse than mine, but she’d always had this regal nature. She’d lived on her own since the tenth grade. She had no Ivy League education or family pedigree. Yet Gemma Lane was pure class.

  I hit the button to lower the convertible’s top, smiling wider as the summer air filled my nostrils along with the smell of fresh-cut grass and wind. “I love you, Gem.”

  “Love you, Lonny.” She smiled, standing next to her Porsche. Then she raised a pointed finger at my nose. “Call me.”

  “I will.” I laughed as she got in her car, slid on sunglasses and waved one last time before racing away.

  The sound of her exit faded in the distance and I took a final quiet moment to look at the house I’d called home. The brown brick façade stood tall and stately. The arched double doors were traditional and fancy. The pillars bracketing the porch were pompous.

  This house wasn’t me.

  But my car was.

  I gripped the steering wheel with both hands. It hadn’t always been white, just like the seats hadn’t always been leather.

  Had I gone too far with the restoration? Maybe Karson would feel like I’d butchered the thing. But deep in my heart, I believed this was what the car should have looked like in its glory days. This was how it should have been before someone had forgotten its beauty and left it in a junkyard for two teenagers to squat in for a couple of years.

  The modern touches, like power windows and an air-ride suspension, were purely a comfort thing. I was glad for them, given I was about to drive across the country.

  I hit the gas, speeding out of the loop. When I passed through the exterior gate, I took one final glance in the rearview mirror.

  No more gates.

  The traffic in the suburbs wasn’t awful, but as I hit the city, things slowed to a crawl. It took an hour for the congestion to break, but break it finally did.

  Then I raced.

  Karson had always said running away from home was the best decision of his life. I had to agree.

  The wind whipped through my hair as I sped along the highway. Just me and my cherry-red Cadillac.

  On a runaway road.

  Chapter Two

  Londyn

  Two days on the road and I was free.

  Boston had been slowly suffocating me, something I hadn’t realized until five hundred miles separated me from my former life.

  Screw daily routines. Screw schedules. Screw structure and convention. I’d been trapped in normalcy and ignorant of the heaviness in my heart. Turning a blind eye to my problems had been easy with the schedule I’d maintained. Every minute of my life had been choreographed. Sitting idle hadn’t held any appeal.

  Now that I had time to think about why I’d kept myself so busy, I saw that routines and structure had become a necessary distraction. When I was working, running the house or organizing a function for Thomas’s company, I didn’t have time to think about the last time I’d truly smiled or laughed carefree. When I was spending time at the spa or shopping, I only relaxed enough to recharge my batteries. But the downtime had never been long enough to reflect.

  Sitting behind the wheel of my car forced me to take a hard look at the past eight years.

  When I’d started working for Thomas, I’d enjoyed the routine, mostly because it had been an anomaly. Knowing what each day would entail had been a new concept for me. Stability had been refreshing.

  And I’d been blissfully in love with my husband. I’d fit our lives together—or fit my life to his.

  Thomas required structure. He thrived on a schedule. The man knew what he was doing with precision, every single day for the upcoming three months mapped out in detail. Gemma was the same way. Maybe it was a CEO thing, but the two of them had next to no flexibility. No spontaneity.

  Gemma, I understood. She was desperate for surety, and after our childhood, it made sense. But Thomas’s motivation wasn’t born from fear of the unknown or a chaotic youth. Thomas had discipline and drive in every aspect of his life because it made him money.

  Success and status were Thomas’s true loves.

  Why had I tried so hard to fit that mold? Because of love? I’d convinced myself I was happy, but did I even know what happy was?

  All questions I’d been asking myself since leaving Boston. Maybe by the time I reached California, I’d have them answered.

  In the meantime, I was shunning all structure. I took the road at my own pace, not worrying about the speed limit or keeping up with traffic. The clock on the dash meant nothing because I had nowhere to be.

  It was peaceful, simply driving alone. When I’d made my way to Boston—and all the stops in between—it had been by bus. Trips since had been with Thomas, and if we hadn’t been in an airplane, he’d been behind the wheel.

  Maybe for the first time, I felt ultimate control.

  No wonder Gemma had become a control freak. It was fucking awesome.

  I’d plaited my hair in a tight braid, but the wind whipped a few strands free as the sun warmed my face. Occasionally, another vehicle would pass me by and the smell of gasoline would linger for a mile. Unless it was raining, I was driving with the top down.

  The day I left Boston, I drove for five hours without even a bathroom break. I wanted to get the hell away from traffic and the city. Cutting through Connecticut and a sliver of New York, I didn’t stop until I hit the middle of Pennsylvania.

  I pulled off the interstate and found a midlevel motel. I checked in and slept for fourteen hours. The grueling months of the divorce, when Thomas had fought me hard to reconsider ending our marriage, caught up to me. So I recharged in my motel room, making up for the sleepless nights.

  The next morning, I woke up tired, not ready to get on the road. So I didn’t. What was the hurry? This journey had no deadlines.

  I added another night to my stay and spent the day in bed with a box of pizza delivery and the television.

  Thomas didn’t have time for movies or binge-watching television shows. We’d had one television in the house, a flat screen in the informal dining area where we’d eat breakfast. Thomas turned it on to watch the news each morning over egg whites and turkey bacon.

  I hadn’t minded. Before I’d run away at sixteen, I’d spent countless hours in front of the TV. Nickelodeon and MTV had been my babysitters while my parents had been busy with their current drug of choice.

  But now, when those memories weren’t as sharp and TV didn’t equate to loneliness, I found the mindless entertainment soothing.

  I watched John Wick first, finally understanding the fuss about Keanu Reeves. I cried through Beaches, knowing I was lucky to have a similar friendship with Gemma. And I stayed up until three in the morning, laughing at a rom-com about bridesmaids.

  The next morning, I slept in again, leaving before noon checkout. Then, instead of rushing for the road, I drove to a local café. For hours, somewhere in Pennsylvania, I sat at a window table watching traffic, eating lunch and eavesdropping on other conversations. I left long after the smell of the café’s fresh pastries had seeped into my blond hair.

  Even after driving for hours, the scent was still in my hair. I picked up a lock of it, bringing it to my nose to inhale the lingering yeast and sugar. I’d always
been conscious of smells—mostly my own.

  Was I spoiled? Probably. After sleeping in a rusted-out, junkyard Cadillac for two years, did I deserve to be a bit spoiled?

  Maybe so.

  One thing was for certain, running away was much easier with money, and for that, I was grateful.

  I could pay for hotel rooms and café lunches. I would never fear the charge at a gas pump. I could stop for a decent meal in a sit-down restaurant instead of scraping together enough change for a dollar-menu cheeseburger.

  The money I’d earned working had been considerable for a woman with a fresh GED and no higher education. A perk of being married to the boss. I’d saved it all, minus what I’d spent on the Cadillac. Everything else—our household budget, clothes, shoes, the spa, vacations—had been paid for by Thomas. I could live off my savings for years. Designer garb wasn’t in my budget these days, but I’d had enough of labels to last a lifetime.

  The interstate cut through the countryside and signs flew past every now and then. I reached for my purse, ready to dig for my phone and check a map.

  “It’s not there,” I reminded myself. How long would it take to break that habit?

  And I didn’t need a map. I was on the East Coast and had to get to the West. How I traveled didn’t need to be charted. I was driving. The road beneath my tires would take me there eventually.

  A large truck roared past, its diesel exhaust leaving behind a black cloud. I scrunched up my nose and slowed, but the stink clung to the car. I’d been dealing with the same all afternoon.

  “To hell with the interstate.” I flipped my blinker at the next exit, seeing a sign for a gas station. I wanted to go a few miles without passing another car.

  I refueled the Cadillac and washed the windshield. Then I went inside and bought a couple bottles of water and a bag of chips.

  “Thanks,” I said to the clerk. “I don’t suppose you have a pay phone anywhere?”

  “Sure do. Just go out the door and take a right. It’s around the corner.”

  “Thanks again.” I collected my things and took them to the car, dropping them in the open seat. Then I fished out some quarters from my purse and found the phone. It was old and the keys dirty. I pressed the black receiver to my ear and propped it against my shoulder as I dialed Gemma’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Gem.” I smiled.

  “Lonny?”

  “Yes, it’s me. See? I told you I’d call. I figured I’d get your voicemail.”

  She laughed. “Perfect timing. I’m in between meetings and alone for once. How’s it going? Where are you?”

  “Still in Pennsylvania, according to my receipt from the gas station. And it’s good. I’m taking it slow.”

  “I figured you’d be across the Mississippi by now.”

  “Soon enough. How are you?”

  “Fine.” She blew out a long breath. “I miss you already.”

  “Miss you too.” Though I was glad she’d declined my offer to come along. As much as a road trip would have been fun with my best friend, I needed to do this alone. This trip was for me.

  “Listen, I need to tell you something. I hate to do it on your first call, but I don’t want you calling Thomas.”

  I scoffed. “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Good. Because he called me yesterday.”

  “What?” I tensed. “Why? What did he want?”

  “To find you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, tough shit.”

  “There’s, uh . . . something else.” She paused. “It’s not good. Want me to tell you? Or not?”

  Not. Whatever was happening with Thomas wasn’t going to change anything. I wasn’t going back.

  He’d stifled me, something I was coming to realize the farther I got from Boston. He didn’t care about my ideas or feelings because he was the business mogul and I was only the poor girl he’d turned into a princess.

  He couldn’t fathom I’d leave his riches because of a silly office affair.

  No, I didn’t want to know.

  Gemma knew I didn’t want anything to do with him. So why even bring up his call? Was Thomas sick or something? Was he hurt? Was he in trouble?

  “Tell me.” Damn you, curiosity.

  “It’s, um, Secretary.”

  I cringed. Neither Gemma nor I would speak the woman’s name. That bitch had sat across from me for months, smiling and pretending to be a friend while secretly fucking my husband. Maybe he had actually fired her.

  “She’s pregnant.”

  The phone fell from my ear, the black plastic crashing into the wall beneath the booth. The cord swung back and forth like a man hanging from a noose. Kind of like my marriage.

  Dead.

  “Londyn!” Gemma’s voice yelled into the phone, forcing me to pick it back up.

  “I’m here.” I cleared my throat. “That’s what he called to tell you? Why?” Hadn’t he hurt me enough? Why couldn’t he leave me alone in my ignorance?

  Gemma sighed. “He wanted you to know in case you decided to come back.”

  “I’ll never come back.” Not now.

  “I’m sorry,” Gemma whispered. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “No, I’m glad you told me. I wanted to know. It doesn’t change anything. Did he say anything else?”

  “Only that he’s worried about you.”

  “Well, he’s got other things to worry about now.” Like dealing with the doctor who’d performed his vasectomy. “I’m going to let you go. I’m sure you’re busy.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you,” she muttered. “Will you call me again soon?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t mean it as a lie, but it felt like one. I couldn’t imagine not talking to Gemma, but one call and I’d been yanked back into the life I’d just left. Maybe temporarily cutting ties with her for a while would be best. I’d call again, just not as soon as she probably assumed.

  “Take care of yourself,” she said.

  “Bye.” I set the phone in its silver cradle.

  There were two more quarters in my pocket, enough for another call. I stood staring at the keypad on the phone. Should I call Thomas? The urge to scream and yell bubbled up in my chest and my fingers brushed the phone.

  Since the divorce, I hadn’t gotten angry. I’d gone numb and stayed quiet. My lawyer had encouraged me to stay that way so he could get me the best settlement possible. Thomas and I might have had a prenup, but Thomas had still ended up paying.

  I’d hired a really good lawyer.

  Aside from my own savings, I’d taken ten million dollars away from my marriage in our divorce settlement. Every cent was now being used by an organization that supported runaway kids. That money paid for clothes and shelter. It paid for education and long-term housing.

  Thomas had escalated my station in life. Now his money was doing the same for other unfortunate kids who needed a helping hand. That donation had eased the sting of the divorce. It had helped me keep my temper.

  Until now.

  Fuck him. I stepped away from the phone, my fists clenched and my teeth gritted.

  Thomas didn’t deserve fifty cents.

  I turned away from the phone, practically jogging for the car. I pulled onto the road and drove past the on-ramp for the interstate. Raising my hand, I gave it the finger.

  Fuck interstates. Fuck Secretary. Fuck husbands who got a vasectomy at thirty because they hadn’t planned on getting married five years later.

  I’d been the exception to Thomas’s meticulously planned-out life. I’d been a spontaneous, lead-with-your-heart decision.

  This baby was because he’d led with his dick.

  Fuck him.

  The yellow lines in the middle of the blacktop blurred as a sheen of tears coated my eyes. I slid on my sunglasses and blinked them away.

  Miles and miles streaked past as I drove along the quiet highway. The trees fencing the road were bright and tall under the June sky. Birds flew overhead. Occasionally a
stream would appear, kissing the road before disappearing into the lush greenery.

  It was picturesque and impossible not to appreciate.

  The mental image of Thomas and Secretary holding a baby swaddled in pink was stuck in my head.

  It was ironic that Thomas had impregnated the wrong woman. He’d begged and pleaded for me to stay, and if we’d had a baby, I wouldn’t have left him. Betrayal or not, I would not have taken a child away from a life where he or she would have wanted for nothing.

  But I didn’t have a baby. I didn’t have a family and probably never would.

  The tears threatened again, but I refused to let them fall.

  “No more,” I whispered to myself. “He gets no more.”

  I had this adventure to give me purpose. I didn’t need family when I had my freedom.

  Holding tight to the steering wheel with one hand, I raised the other into the air. The moment my fingertips ascended above the windshield, they chilled. It was getting cooler now as the sun began its descent.

  I’d crossed into West Virginia about an hour ago, a large, faded sign welcoming me to the state.

  I stretched my hand higher, toward the fading light of the sky. Then I balanced the wheel with my knee, letting my other hand reach above. My arms stretched.

  Freedom.

  I was free. I was alone. I was lost.

  And it was beautiful.

  The air streamed through my fingers. As I stretched my arms higher, I filled my lungs, breathing deeper than I had in a long, long time.

  I closed my eyes, for just a moment, until a lurch on my right tire sent the Cadillac jarring toward the centerline.

  My eyes flew open, my hands snapped to the wheel. “Shit.”

  I yanked the wheel to get the car to my side of the road. I overcorrected. The Cadillac, the beast that she was, swayed and lurched again as the tires on the passenger side shook on the rumble strip.