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It’s not a chain company, but the store is clean and organized, and the pharmacy itself looks as big as the ones back home. With Wyatt here, maybe I won’t have to beg the pharmacist to sell me the pill at a discount if I don’t have enough to pay for it. Wyatt is the reason we’re in this situation in the first place, so he can pick up the bill.
We get in line at the pharmacy counter, and when it’s our turn, I take a step ahead of Wyatt, who seems to be lost in thought about something.
The pharmacist, an older man with combed-over white hair and a kind smile, greets me and asks, “What can I do for you, young lady?”
“Um, I need the morning after pill,” I whisper so the other shoppers in line behind us won’t hear me.
His smile starts to droop. “What was that? Speak up.”
I lean closer and say a little louder, “I need the, um, the pill.” When he doesn’t say anything and his smile disappears, I repeat myself. “I said I need—”
With a curt tone, he cuts me off and tells me, “We don’t carry any of that here, and you’ll be hard-pressed to find it anywhere else around these parts.” He slides a pamphlet across the counter and pointedly looks away from me, then calls out loudly, “Next customer, please.”
I take the pamphlet, feeling thoroughly dismissed, and step to the side. Looking down at it, I see it has an enlarged photograph of a heavily pregnant woman. She’s cradling her baby bump with a serene smile on her face, and there’s a Bible verse printed in the corner.
Wyatt presses against my back and reads the pamphlet over my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispers in my ear while he reaches around to wrap me in his arms from behind, trying to comfort me.
I relax into his arms for a split second. It feels so good to be held like this when I feel like I’m about to fall apart, but then the look of disgust he gave me earlier flashes through my mind, and I shake him off.
“Maybe we can find one in the next state,” he says with a frown. I know exactly what he’s thinking—that the next one will probably be just the same, at least in these little towns disconnected from the larger cities with their more lenient views. “Come on, let’s grab some snacks and drinks since we didn’t get to eat earlier.”
I drop the pamphlet back on the counter and don’t fight him when he places his hand on my back and steers me toward the grocery section while I’m lost in a whirl of thoughts. Millions of what-ifs? run rampant in my head.
Wyatt finds a handbasket and loads it up. “I got a little bit of everything. See anything else you want?” I just shake my head. This time, he grabs my hand, slides his fingers in between mine, and once again leads me silently through the store.
When we get to the checkout counter, I notice an old box TV tucked into the corner set to the local news station. The hairs rise on the back of my neck when I see a photograph of me taken last year with my name and description on the screen.
The volume is turned down low, but I can just make out the solemn voice of the news anchor, a pretty woman with long micro braids when she says, “Eighteen-year-old Dolores Harris has been missing since approximately 9 p.m. last night.”
Wyatt looks up when he hears me gasp and then goes still when he sees what’s on TV, too. The screen then splits in two and cuts to live footage of Dad standing in front of his police station. He’s dressed in his uniform, looking uncharacteristically rumpled with a pained expression on his face. Cameras continually flash as the reporters around him lean in with their microphones held out toward him. His normally perfectly slicked back, dark blonde hair hangs limply over his forehead, and his cheeks look pale.
Nice act you’re putting on, Dad, I think sarcastically, since I know without a shred of doubt that he doesn’t actually care about my well-being. It also doesn’t escape my notice that Mom is conspicuously absent, which is odd for this type of news conference, and I wonder why.
I’m snapped out of my thoughts about Mom and where she might be when Dad begs the viewers in a broken voice, “Please, if you have any information, any information at all, regarding my daughter’s whereabouts, please call 9-1-1 immediately. Her mother and I…”
My vision blurs, and I stop listening as dread pools in my belly. I never thought I’d hear that man’s voice again, and seeing him act like the loving father who’s grieving his missing, precious little girl makes me sick to my stomach. So sick that I wrap my hands around my middle and hold my breath until the nausea passes.
When the cashier tries to hand Wyatt’s change back to him, she follows his line of sight and sees what has both of our attention. “Hey, she kind of looks like you,” she says, dropping her chin to look me up and down over her glasses. She frowns, seemingly confused as to how I can be standing in front of her when I’m reportedly “missing”.
Her thin, gray brows crease as she cuts her eyes to Wyatt, and it’s clear she’s sizing him up. Her eyes bounce back and forth between us as Wyatt stiffens, then leans a little closer to me, placing his hand on my lower back. I’d bet my last few dollars that she thinks he kidnapped me or something crazy.
Well, he kinda did just now, hauling me off my feet on the shoulder of the highway and forcing me into his truck.
But it’s not the same thing.
When she picks up the yellowed store phone hanging on the wall to her side, I rush to say, “Please don’t call the cops. I’m not missing, and I wasn’t kidnapped. I left of my own free will, and I don’t want my dad to know where I am.” She looks unsure, but she eventually drops the phone back into its cradle when I lean into Wyatt’s side. “Thank you,” I sigh out in gratitude and relief. “Um, can I use your phone? I’ll call them myself and clear this all up.”
“Customers aren’t allowed to use the phone, but we do have a payphone that still works. It’s outside, to the left of the doors.”
“Great, thank you,” I say to her as Wyatt grabs the bags with his purchases and follows me as I hurry out of the store. He tries to hand me his cell phone, but I shake my head. If I use his phone, then the police will have his phone number and might be able to track me through him.
I have the number to Dad’s station memorized, and my hands shake as I drop in the quarters Wyatt hands me to pay for the call. I count to ten, trying to slow my heart rate before dialing, and I try to keep from panicking at the thought that it could be Dad who answers the phone. Wyatt stands behind me, gently running his hands up and down my arms, steadying me. I find myself leaning into his comfort and support again.
I silently give thanks when it’s Office Moore who answers my call. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to go through with this if it had been Dad on the other end of the line.
“Hi, um, this is”—I swallow through the lump in my throat, close to losing my nerve and hanging up—“this is Dolores Harris.”
“Holy shit, Dolores Harris!” she exclaims, obviously surprised. “Excuse my French, I just can’t believe it’s you! Hold on a minute, Dolores. Let me get your dad on the ph—”
