Page 15 of Catch Me When I Fall

Everything had gone smoothly up until this point.

The ride to the airport went smooth, and I’d purchased a one-way ticket for one of the only two flights going out that night— thank God my card didn’t decline, which meant that no one—not even my friends in St. Louis knew about my secret bank account. This was surprising; some of those friends were law enforcement. The plane ride was uneventful, giving me time to nap. Once I landed in Portland and stepped out into the terminal, I felt a sense of freedom I’d never felt before.

The weight on my chest seemed lighter, despite the horrors of my past chasing me. I knew I couldn’t escape them, at least not completely.

I still chose to focus on the sense of freedom as I sat in the airport coffeehouse, sipping a piping hot lavender latte, my first one in over a year, while I mapped out a plan. The first thing I needed was a car, and before my escape, I’d made a rough budget of money I could spend. I found a used car dealership online, picked out a cute, lightly-used sedan, and got a taxi to the bank. After withdrawing the money for the car, I headed for the car dealership and paid for the little navy-blue sedan in cash. I had thirty days to register it, which was plenty of time. I filled up with gas, got some food, and headed northwest.

I’d been driving for half an hour when I stopped to use the restroom in St. Helen and spotted an ad for a restaurant in beautiful Astoria, Oregon.

The name of the town caught my eye, and without a second thought, I wanted to see it.

Now, here I was, on the side of the road with the sheriff behind me, Astoria just ten minutes ahead of me.

I let out a groan when I saw the driver’s side door open and a tall, young man in uniform step out. His head tilted as he eyed my temporary tags, making his way up to my window.

“Stay cool, Carrie,” I told myself as I rolled the window down, plastering on the best fake smile I could manage. “Hello, officer.”

He looked younger than me by a year or two, had a mustache, and brown eyes. “Do you know why I pulled you over today, ma’am?” he asked, all business.

I swallowed the lump of terror in my throat. “I—I’m sorry. I really don’t, sir,” I admitted. I’d been admiring the beauty of this state for the majority of the drive. I must’ve not been paying attention to the speed limit signs as I passed them.

He held my eyes, and when I couldn’t take it any longer, I looked out straight ahead, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel even more—any harder, and I was sure to break the dang thing.

“You were going sixty in a forty, ma’am,” the officer told me.

My eyes widened, and I snapped my head back to him. “I was?” I gasped.

He said nothing, tilting his head to the side.

“I-I am s-so sorry,” I stammered, shaking my head as I released the steering wheel, bringing my hands to my chest. “Please, write me a ticket. I had no idea I was going that fast. I just—” I cut myself off as the last twenty-four hours finally hit me.

I’d been running on auto-pilot, so desperate to taste that freedom I felt when I landed in Portland. My throat thickened as the emotional wall of trauma slammed into me.

“I—I really am sorry,” I continued, eyes stinging now as I sucked in a choppy breath. “I just—I was just so ready…” I trailed off as a broken sob left me, the tears I didn’t know I could form falling down my cheeks.

What the heck was wrong with me?

There wasn’t enough time in the history of the world to answer that question.

My bottom lip trembled as I looked back up at him through my tears.

I expected a stern face and no bullshit attitude. It was what I deserved, after all. Instead, I found the sheriff’s eyes had gone soft, his mouth turned down into a frown. He put his hands on his hips, looking back to his car as he sighed. “Dammit,” he muttered as I sniffled.

When he looked back at me, he bent down, getting eye level with me. “What were you ready for?” he asked, his voice smooth and soft.

“What?” I asked, my breathing hitching as hiccups threatened to take over.

“You were saying that you were just ready for something before you started crying, sweetheart. What was it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t n-need to burden you with my problems, officer. I’m sorry for speeding. I’m so, so sorry,” I croaked as the tears continued to slide down my cheeks. They knew where to fall. They’d done it so many times before—countless, actually. I was surprised I didn’t have a skin condition with the amount of tears I’d cried in the last year.

He sighed again, ducking his head and muttering something to the ground. Then, he rose up and walked back to his car.

I blinked, dumbfounded and I sniffled. Where was he going? Didn’t he need my information?

Less than a minute later, he returned, carrying a travel sized package of tissues. He met my eyes and held them out for me.

I looked at them for a moment, questioning everything before looking up at his face.

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