Page 2 of Sweet Like Whiskey

With that, my friend clicks off the call, and I’m left wondering what in the actual hell I’ve gotten myself into.

“It’s fine,” I say for the umpteenth time, popping Edna’s trunk. I pull both of my suitcases out and set them on the asphalt. “This is the start of something new. An adventure. Nothing’s going to get me down.Nothing.”

Slamming the trunk closed, I let out a breath. As I stand upright, the twinge in my back has me wincing, but I roll my shoulders, grab the handles of my suitcases, and put mypretty feetto work.

There’s a reason I up and moved across the country on a whim. A reason I asked my friend if her standing invitation to crash on her couch was still good. A reason I drove my run-down car over 2,000 miles from Maine to the Wild freaking West, of all places, with no more than two bags in my possession and a conviction that it was the right thing to do.

My life was in desperate need of an upheaval. It’snotbecause I’m having a midlife crisis at three-and-a-half decades, as my mom so kindly accused me of. It’s not even because of my ex. At least, not directly.

I needed a change—forme. So am I going to complain about having to hoof it a couple measly miles at the end of my journey? Not a chance.

The navigation on my phone tells me The Barrel, the bar where Virginia works, is precisely 1.9 miles straight ahead. So, with determination, I set off that way, my suitcases dragging noisily behind me. After a while, I start to hum. Cat Stevens is welcome company on the trek, and when I remember Nicholas—“don’t-call-me-Nick” Nicholas—isn’t here to silently judge my song choices, I sing. Because why not?

Luckily, there’s enough of a breeze to keep me from sweating through my shirt. For being the end of September, warm temperatures sure are hanging on.

Not so luckily, I’m only one mile in—or one mile away, depending on how you look at it—when one of my suitcases lists to the side and begins scraping against the pavement.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, stopping and staring at the wheel that’s now rolling slowly toward the grass on the other side of the road. “Seriously?”

A short honk has me whirling around, my pulse jumping. A rusted orange truck slows to a stop in front of me, its driver an older man with a big white beard.

Oh, Jesus. Please don’t let me end up in some guy’s basement freezer. I didnotsign on for that.

“Need a ride?” the man asks, his window rolled down. The…is that agoat?…in the passenger seat bleats.

“Uh, I’m just heading into town,” I tell him, well aware that doesn’t answer his question.

“You own the car a mile back?” he asks.

“Yeah?” I hedge. “She’s mine.”

He nods. “We’ll have Ratchet fix ’er up.” Hitching a thumb over his shoulder, he says, “Hop in back. I’ll drop you off.”

“In…back?” I ask slowly.

“Misty’s got shotgun.”

Misty bleats.

I weigh my options for all of two seconds before decidingscrew it. Suitcases in hand, I march forward and climb into the bed of the truck.

The man opens his rear window once I’m situated. “Name’s Earl.”

“Ash,” I reply.

“Welcome to town, Ash.”

Before I have time to formulate a response, Earl is gunning it. I brace myself against warm metal as the old, rusty truck ambles down the road. Misty hangs her head out the passenger window, and I bark a laugh.

In a matter of minutes, Earl is slowing down in front of what looks like the town center. It’s the first time I’ve seen civilization in a good thirty miles.

“Where to?” he asks.

“Actually, you can just drop me here,” I tell him, grabbing my suitcases. Earl keeps the truck in park while I jump down. When I get near the front of the vehicle, Misty bleats again, her head straining my way. “Can I…pet her?”

Earl nods, chewing something. Gum, maybe? Tobacco? “She’s friendly.”

Misty practically headbutts my hand when I hold it her way. I huff a laugh, rubbing over her head and behind her tiny stub ears. “She’s cute.”

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