Page 37 of Endless Southern Love

Sadly, I’m too anal to let voicemails sit there. I’ve listened, more so read the generated text, to each one. The chair of the school board has grown increasingly angry with each message he’s left. I’m making notes, for when he doesn’t show up at the next board meeting, to harass him relentlessly.

Another gust of wind blows through my open windows, bringing with it the unmistakeable smell of warm sand. I close my eyes and imagine myself running along the surf, laughing, and smiling. Behind me, a man who loves me. He runs after me, trying to catch the random scarf I’m letting blow behind me. When he does, he kisses my neck and turns me around in his arms. Before I can see his face, I know I’m happy.

Nearby, a child laughs.

My eyes startle open when Wade’s image appears. Behind him, Goldie waves at me like we’re best friends. The scene doesn’t fade and continues to play out in my mind, no matter how hard I try to stop it or erase the clips. My hand—the one in my vision—touches my stomach, cradling a bump.

I sit up and gasp for air before running to the bathroom and falling to my knees. I expect to revolt what little contents I have, but the only thing that comes is relief and longing. Deep down, I know it’s my biological clocking tick, tick, ticking away like a bomb about to go off. And I know my body, mind and soul haven’t gotten over Wade, making me want him more and more even though I know my heart can’t take anymore disappointment when it comes to him.

Maybe I needed therapy. There isn’t an expiration date on when someone should seek it. Goldie could be a trigger for me and . . . and it’s literally ridiculous to put my emotional instability on her. She’s an innocent child and didn’t ask her principal to hate her.

No, you did that all on your own.

I amble my way out of the bathroom, my body defying me into thinking there is something wrong with me when it’s all in my head.

I’m fine.

Everything. Is. Fine.

It’s what I’m going to tell myself so I can function like a normal human being who needs to get the fuck over an almost decades old heartbreak.

The edge of the bed dips from my weight as I sit. I’m tempted to crawl back under the covers, close my eyes, and dream of a time when everything was right in my world—a made-up time where I didn’t listen to my so-called friends—and Wade and I would be together.

Another gust of wind rushes through the window. This time, instead of the warmth coming through, the breeze is cool, and the smell of rain lingers. I go to the window, battling the sheer curtains as they flutter wildly, and look out.

The waves are tall and fierce, swallowing surfers like a candy dispenser. I glance at the sky. What was blue and cloudless, is now covered in gray, angry rolling balls of danger. I watch the surfers, waiting to see if they leave the water. They don’t. They’re fearless and most likely adrenaline junkies. The bigger the wave, the bigger the ride.

At the first sound of thunder, I make the decision to head home. Being in the south, we never know what kind of storm we’re in for. After packing, I drop my key off at the front desk and sign the hotel bill. I think this is what I liked about this place so much, the quaint nostalgia feel reminded me of the stories my grandma used to tell. Long before everything went digital or with keycards.

I’m barely out of town when the first raindrops land on my windshield. I’m mesmerized by the size of them, how fat and perfectly round they are. I swear, it stares back at me before its tail starts to drip down my window. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I turn my wipers on and follow the back-and-forth motion for a second.

I already know I’m in for a long drive and ask Doris to play my audiobook. Doris is the name I’ve given to my phone because Jean dictates her texts all the time, and my phone was constantly doing whatever Jean asked hers to do.

The book starts and instantly I know this isn’t the book I’ve been listening to. I listen to murder and mayhem, so I don’t have to be jealous of people falling in love and living happily ever after. Nothing screams single with no mingling prospects like a heavy dose of I love yous and all the other mushy shit I used to have.

“Doris.” I say her name with an exaggerated sigh and ask her to play the other book. I don’t even know how this romantic junk ended up on my app because it’s not like I have bought or downloaded it. Maybe Leslie did since we used to share an account.

Less than an hour into my drive home, the sky turns black, and the rain comes down in sheets instead of drops. Like everyone else, I turn the sound down so I can concentrate on the lights in front of me. Visibility is almost zero and it would make sense for me to pull over and wait the storm out, except I have no idea where I am, and my dad always told me pull off in well-lit areas.

Nothing is well lit at the moment.

I continue on, keeping my car a good distance behind the one in front of me, gripping the steering wheel as if my life depends on it each time a semi speeds past me, splashing copious amounts of water onto my car.

“Asshole!” I think about honking my horn, but what good would that do? Absolutely nothing. I’ve always said trucks shouldn’t be allowed to go over the speed limit. In fact, they should have to drive ten under.

I’m another hour in when I have to stop for gas. The rain has let up a bit, but it’s still coming down steadily. After filling up, I park and head into the store for snacks and to use the restroom.

“There’s a tree down about five miles north of here,” the clerk says. “They should have the detour up soon.”

“I should be able to turn off before I get there,” I tell the clerk for no other reason than to make polite conversation. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Back in my car, I open my Coke and bag of chips before backing out of the parking lot and driving toward the on ramp. My wipers are on full blast, making it hard to see each sign that comes into view. When the first one mentions Mobile, I signal and turn off toward that direction. There is less traffic on this road and I’m a bit more comfortable. With that, I tell Doris to turn my book on so I can find out who the murderer is in this series I’ve been listening to.

When my book cuts in and out, I do the most logical thing ever and hit my dashboard. My grandpa used to hit the side of the TV—or boob tube as he called it back in his day—to get the color straight. From what I recall, he had that TV until the day he passed, and it was still working. Now, we get a good five years out of our electronics before they need to be upgraded to the next latest and greatest smart whatever.

Yet, my book cuts out again and Doris doesn’t do anything but show me she’s working on trying to honor my request. I try to keep one eye on the road and the other on my phone while I drag the screen down.

“Crap,” I mutter when I see that I have zero bars.

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