Page 1 of Missed Exit

1

Greta

I Hope His Tailgate Falls Off

Ishakemyheadto ward off the highway hypnosis. It happens so easily out here in the middle of nowhere, but I’m too close to my destination to stop now. And I’ve come too far to doze off at the wheel and wake up in the afterlife with some angel narrating the highlights of my life story—especially the last chapter.

Thanks, but no thanks. Been there. Done that. Have the emotional scars to prove it.

Another shake of my head and downing the dregs of my now very warm, watered-down cold brew wakes me back up. Whoa, that’s bitter. Me and my coffee: both bitter and past our prime.

Slipping back into self-pity-mode is exactly what I promised my therapist I wasn’t going to do . . . right after I promised her I wasn’t going to run away from my problems.

What does she know, anyway?

She wouldn’t answer when I asked the question—just gave me that astonished look she gives for a hundred and fifty bucks an hour—but I’m sure she never had a fiancé confess that he’s been fucking his brother’s wife the day after her wedding planner mailed their invitations. She and I are not the same.

And since she’s never been through it, she doesn’t actually have a clue what I’m dealing with.

It’s been six weeks since the bomb went off, and I still get messages every time someone new finds out the wedding is off. They all start off sympathetic and caring, but quickly slide right into the prying questions.

The bastard could’ve at least done me the favor of imploding our fairytale one day sooner.

Okay, maybe we weren’t exactly living a modern-day fairytale, but his timing added insult to injury.

It’s not like you can call back your mail from the US Postal Service. Don’t even ask. Begging won’t work either. And they’re immune to the tears of a broken-hearted public-school teacher.

As if we don’t have enough reason to cry every damn day without having our hearts shattered by an architect named Brick, who’s been extremely devoted to a very important project for going on six months now. So much overtime. So many out-of-town visits to the building site.

Yes, really. On both counts—his name and his behavior.

Clearly, I’m not so great with initial clues. Or apparently, any clues thereafter. Because I’m told there were additional clues. Did my friends bother to tell me when they saw those clues?

To be fair, Carter insists that she did, but I wasn’t ready to hear it.

So, I made excuses for him.

I vaguely recall a few conversations where that might have happened. A lot of my memories are vague right now, sort of like ruined watercolors where all you can make out are browns and grays and pukey greens all smeared together.

What’s done is done, though. And I’m done with my sad, ugly memories.

But I’m not running away; just hitting the reset button. Six months in Agate Ridge, Texas—miles and miles from Brick the Dick. That’s his name now. Anyway, this little break from crisis should be plenty of time to heal my heart and put me back on track.

One thing’s for sure: I won’t run into anyone I know. And that is exactly the way I want it. I’ll be a stranger in a strange place.

I won’t even bother to meet my neighbors. In fact, I’ll avoid them at all costs. This is my hermit era, and nobody is going to ruin it for me. I’ve earned this shit.

A new crop of cars appears in my rearview mirror. It’s been like this for the entire seven-hour drive. Clumps of traffic and then miles of near isolation. I prefer the latter, but I know we’re getting close to Agate Ridge. It’s the farthest west exit for a string of small towns right off I-10, the last populated patch before another long stretch of nothing.

I’ll be far from any bustling cities, but there’s enough of a population to warrant a small grocery store and emergency services. And those were just about my only requirements, so it’ll be perfect.

I watch as a bigger vehicle breaks away from the pack behind me. It’s coming up fast, so I move into the right lane. My exit shouldn’t be too far ahead, anyway.

Oh, not this asshole again!

This wannabe cowboy in his big, black pickup truck made my drive hell for nearly two hours. I thought he turned off miles ago. Right after I let my middle finger do the talking.

Shit. I’m not sure I want this guy to catch up to me again. Maybe he changed his mind about letting me get the last word, or in our case, the final gesture.

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