Page 3 of Come Home to Me

Sarah

Gerty—my car—is a disaster. Try as I might to start her up so I can get the hell out of Denver and never look back, it’s just not going to happen. Even if it did, there’s no way she’ll drive with the giant-ass dent in the door. Thank goodness the entitled asshole in the Mercedes hit me in the passenger side and not the driver side, otherwise, I’d be in far worse shape than I am now. Which is saying a lot because, while my body is going to be okay, my life has pretty much fallen apart.

And just when I started to think things couldn’t get any worse than they already are, (although part of me thinks I’m finally taking the right steps to make life better) I go and do something stupid like wreck my car. Sure, I was lost, but I know better than to look at my GPS while I’m driving.

In an unfamiliar city.

During traffic.

While medicated.

I grab my bags out of the trunk and watch as they load Gerty up on a truck and take her off to some dealer who’s sure to charge more than I can afford for repairs.

The EMTs try to talk me into going to the hospital, but, as of two weeks ago, I don’t have a job. Hence, I also don’t have health insurance. So, a trip to the ER is a great big no-thank-you wrapped up in a fuck-you-very-much. I do, however, have car insurance, and the asshole who T-boned me is all too happy to take down that information. And by happy, I mean he’s downright gleeful, as if he takes a special kind of pleasure in knowing he’s going to make my life exponentially more difficult in the coming weeks. The afternoon passes in a blur of questions, clipboards, and the fear of dollar signs floating through my head until finally, the show is over and I find myself alone.

So now what?

I’m standing on a sidewalk in a strange city without a car or a place to stay, my entire world stuffed into a couple bags and a suitcase. I have a savings account, but I’ve been hemorrhaging money since I left Ohio two weeks ago. What’s left in there won’t last me very long. Especially now that I have to pay for a hotel in downtown Denver on top of whatever it’ll cost to fix my car.

So, I ask again.

Now what?

I push away a surge of panic strong enough to drop me to my knees by dry swallowing half a pill my doctor prescribed me for anxiety. Shake out my hair. Take a deep breath. Square my shoulders. The way I see it, my choices are limited to feeling sorry for myself or shrugging it off and rolling with the punches.

With the help of the anxiety medication, I choose option B. All the way. No doubt. Why bother wallowing in my misery when I can turn this unscheduled pit stop into something fun? I’ve been looking for adventure and damn if it didn’t drop straight into my lap and make itself at home. I spin in a slow circle, looking for a restaurant or coffee shop or something, and find a bar across the street. The sign overhead reads Derby’s.

“Welcome to Denver,” I mutter to myself as I hitch up the two bags draped over my shoulder and step into the crosswalk, trundling a giant suitcase along behind me, then heave open the door and take a seat at the bar. When the bartender stops in front of me, I order the cheapest beer I can think of while I pull out my phone, dial my brother’s number, and put my head in my hands while it rings.

“No shit.” Colton’s voice is at once soothing in its familiarity and frightening in the distinct lack of warmth. “We thought you were gone for good this time.”

“Yeah…about that…”

“You missed my wedding.”

I grimace. “I know.”

“That was a dick move.”

“I know that, too.” And I do. I really, truly do. I have my reasons, and they’re good reasons, though I doubt Colton is ready to hear them and I know I’m not ready to speak them.

There’s a pause, and then, “Well, now that we have that covered…”

Maybe calling Colton wasn’t the best idea. I’m not ready to tackle the giant fuckup that is me pulling a no-show when my brother married my friend. Not now, sitting in a strange bar, surrounded by strange people. “I’m in Denver.” I grab a pen from my purse and start doodling on a napkin. Long lines and arching curves become the buildings on the other side of the windows.

“You don’t say.” Colton sounds less than thrilled. “The wedding was great, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m sure it was amazing. You and Tessa are great together.” I want to beg him to be nice to me, but I don’t deserve it. I stood him up on the most important day of his life to date. He has every right to be mad at me. Even as broken as I am, I’m capable of recognizing that.

“So, you’re in Denver…”

“Yeah.”

“Any reason why?”

When I packed my things into the back of my car, I thought I was heading to his wedding. I really did. But the more I thought about what might happen when I got there, about what might happen when I saw my dad, the tighter my chest got. Before I knew what I was doing, I was in Indiana. Then Missouri. Then I veered south and hit Texas because, why not? And now here I am in Colorado.

But I can’t say that to Colton. Instead, I gloss over it all and offer him a bullshit excuse. “I’ve never been west before,” I say. “Thought it was time. I kind of want to sit on a beach in California. You always hear good things about the beaches.” I widen my eyes and take a breath. “In California.” I suck in my lips to stop myself from talking. This is officially the most painful conversation of all time.

---