Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
But the more I walk, the farther I feel like I’m going from actual humans.
I know the town is small, but where is it? Did they move it?
The late July sun beats down on my back, reminding me that even Vermont gets hot, and a small part of me wonders if I’m going to die out here alone with only a Louis Vuitton suitcase filled with my best friend’s clothes beside me.
I stop halfway across the bridge to catch my breath and watch the river flowing beneath it.
Everything about my life feels trapped in the flowing, bubbling, swirling water. Like I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m still moving forward at ten miles per hour.
Tires crunch on dirt and rock in the distance, and my head whips around to find the culprit. An old, vintage Ford pickup in a pristine shade of baby blue with chrome accents that glitter in the sun drives toward me.
Proof of life!
Without thinking, I start waving both hands in the air and try to flag down the unknown driver. Yes, I’ve listened to far too many crime podcasts to engage in this kind of reckless behavior on a normal day, but the boob sweat and three-inch helmet of frizz that’s now sitting atop my curls is anything but standard.
As the truck moves closer and closer without slowing, I realize this is a real red-wire, blue-wire kind of dilemma. The only thing that’s going to stop it is a risky move by me. I imagine this is what Bruce Willis felt like when they were trying to defuse the bomb in Armageddon.
Time is dwindling.
The truck is closing the distance.
And I cut the proverbial wire and put myself in the road. Directly in front of the moving truck.
A beat of time lifts my heart into my throat before tires skid across the dirt, and the truck comes to a shaky stop about a foot away from my body. A cloud of dust rushes forward and swirls around me like a tornado.
When we’re finally close enough to see each other, the driver’s eyes lock with mine, venom and disbelief within them. Guilt and shame form a friendship in my chest, shaking hands and sharing smiles and leaving me feeling like a buffoon.
“I’m sorry!” I exclaim toward him, lifting my arms in apology at his huge, unmoving frame. His tanned knuckles tighten reflexively around the white steering wheel.
Cautiously, I walk toward the driver’s side door. His window is rolled down, and the soft sounds of an oldies sixties song my father loved to listen to when Josie, Jezzy, and I were just kids trills from the speakers.
The man in the driver’s seat, however, is soundless.
I feel seventy shades of awkward, but I swallow past my discomfort and try to cut through the tension with an apologetic knife. “I’m really, really sorry. I just… I was just trying to get your attention and—” I stop midsentence when his blue eyes move across the dashboard to meet mine. The malevolence in them would silence anyone.
“And you thought it was a good idea to throw your body in front of my truck?” he questions with a deep, husky voice of honey and sandpaper all at once.
My stomach lurches and pitches to one side. I loathe upsetting people, even strangers, and yes, I imagine Freud would have something to say about that.
“Again, I’m sorry.” I wince and swallow past the nausea that’s migrating up my throat. “I just got off a nine-hour bus ride where I was sandwiched between two people who found camaraderie in chatting about politics and a driver who must’ve gotten her license from NASCAR. It’s been a bad day, an even worse week, and it’s hot, and while I know my methods for trying to get your attention weren’t ideal, I’m just…I’m trying to get into Red Bridge.”
He might as well be made of stone.
“Again, I sincerely apologize.” I continue to try to win him over. “I’m not generally this much of a mess. Normally, I have it together, I swear. It’s just that the bus driver dropped me off out here, and I’m starting to question if they’ve moved the town. I don’t know the logistics that are involved with moving an entire town, no matter if it’s the size of a shoebox or not, but I can imagine it would take, like, NASA engineers. And permits. Lots of permits. Everything needs permits these days, you know?” I joke and offer an encouraging “go ahead and laugh with me because I’m really funny, right?” kind of laugh, but it comes out all stilted and stroppy because I’m talking a million miles a minute and my lungs are having a hard time keeping up and I’m starting to wonder if I should be muzzled. Or sedated. Either would probably work.