Page 2 of Chill

It’d be too embarrassing to completely fall apart over two men who I met while they intended to murder me, after all.

When she doesn’t say anything, I hide my anxiety by once again mutilating my already destroyed eggs. As a last resort, I take a bite of the almost burnt toast, nose scrunching at the bitter taste even through the butter I layered on top that’s noteven a little melted. Erika watches me and finally snorts before she once more settles back on her side of the booth. “Give me your number.” Her voice is quiet, almost resigned, and I don’t let myself get my hopes up as I recite it to her.

Seconds later, there’s an address popping up from an unknown number I save as her, and then a phone number after that.

“If you want my advice, don’t call that number,” she tells me. “I’d rather have the upper hand if I were you, for whatever you’re planning. And don’t try to, you know” She taps her knife, then her throat. “Because then you’d piss off the rest of us, and one of us would end up doing the same to you.”

Shaking my head at that, I shove my phone into my pocket again, while trying to figure out just how far the drive from here to the town she’d sent me is. Frankly, I’ve never heard of it and I have no idea if it’s anhours-longtrek, ordays.

I guess I’ll find out once I’m back at my apartment if the cats are going on vacation to Auntie Sienna’s house.

“Thank you,” I tell Erika again. “I really appreciate this, since you didn’t have to.”

“If I didn’t, it would’ve been for you,” Erika replies honestly. “I think you deserve somethingnormal.But I also think you deserve the choice. Just because the rest of us didn’t really get one, doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to make your own.” She taps her fingers on the table and I go back to my toast, suddenly not feeling quite so nervous or put out by the situation.

Our waitress comes back minutes later, as if magically summoned by the end of our conversation, and by the time I’ve taken care of the small bill for our meager breakfast, I’m itching to leave. To go home, change, and plan out this spontaneous road trip.

“Hey.” Before I can even stand up, Erika reaches out to grip my wrist, her dark eyes on mine. “Noa…” She hesitates, trailingoff, then sighs. “They won’t change, you know? Theycan’tchange. Not even if they love you. Can you handle that?”

I open my mouth, then close it. I definitely hadn’t been expecting the question, but Erika is proving she’s good at coming up with things out of left field.

“That’s what I want to find out,” I admit as I get to my feet, causing her hand to slide off of my arm. “One way or the other, I want to know the answer to that question, too.”

2

It takesall of two hours into my nine-hour drive before I start questioning my life choices.

Specifically,thislife choice.

Not that I haven’t prepared to the best of my ability, I remind myself for the tenth time.

The cats are on vacation at Auntie Sienna’s house, so I don’t need to worry about them. I have a backpack full of clothes and whatever else I thought I’ll need for at least three days without re-wearing anything. Though maybe a small duffel bag would’ve been the smarter answer, I think ruefully.

There’s gas in my car.

My stomach is not too upset from the chicken nuggets still making my car smell like the inside of the fast food place I grabbed them from.

And the music is loud enough to blast out my eardrums and cause my smartwatch to worry pretty dramatically.

You’re fine,I tell myself.You can turn around whenever you want and go home.

But that’s a lie, and even the thought turns sour in my mind, causing my hands to tighten on the steering wheel of my small, dependable car.

Either way, I can’t keep doing what I’ve been doing, I reason to myself as my mind drifts back to examine the last few weeks under a mental microscope.

For amonth,I’ve been living my normal life, trying to go back to it.

For amonth,I’ve been lying to Sienna and telling her that I’m completely fine, that there’s nothing I want to talk to her about.

For amonth,I’ve been lying to myself, and I just can’t do it anymore.

A groan leaves me and I thump my head back against the headrest. I’m not tired, seeing as driving for hours and hours is my one pretty useless super power. Really, I missed my life’s calling as a long-haul truck driver. With just a sniff of coffee, I can make it six hours without blinking. If I pour a cup of it down my throat, I’m pretty much unstoppable.

And unable to shut my eyes, even with a crowbar.

By hour eight, I’m wondering what the hell is so interesting about the southwestern corner of Arkansas, and I’m screaming along to my 2000s emo music so loudly and with so much dedication that I miss my turnoff.

Twice.

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