By midday, my resolve is hanging by a thread. I’ve had ample time to envision every possible outcome, and none of them seem promising. I have no place to live, I don’t have a job, unemployment is screwing me, my car payment is due next week, and then there’s that lovely student loan lying in wait forme in the shadows. And the cherry on top, my mom is MIA in a time when I desperately need her.
It seems I may be out of options. Except for one.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for my phone. With trembling hands, I dial the number from memory. My breath hitches in my throat and doesn’t release until the line picks up.
“Hello?” he sounds hesitant, as if he isn’t sure I meant to call him.
“Hi, Dad.”
CHAPTER 3
Marisa
BRAWNY PAPER TOWEL GUY
According to the GPS, I’ll be in Red Mountain in about ten minutes. It’s music to my ears after driving for nearly four hours, clutching the wheel a little too tightly for most of the drive due to nervous jitters.
Most people don’t realize there’s more to Washington than evergreen trees and rainfall. While I do love theTwilightaesthetic, there are several different landscapes across the state. After crossing the Cascades and heading east, cheatgrass and tumbleweeds gradually replace the tree line. It’s like a dry desert on the eastern side of the mountains. Not nearly as pretty, in my opinion, as the western side of the state, but there is something kind of calming about the desert view. Must be all the beige.
I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up at any moment and this will all have been a nightmare. Unfortunately, it’s been five days and that still hasn’t happened. When I caved and finally called my dad, I didn’t expect him to be quite so welcoming. I was thinking something more along the lines of a small loan to keep me afloat, but I should’ve remembered Robert Stephan doesn’t do anything I’ve ever expected him to. Why start now? He was insistent that Icome stay with him while I figure things out, and for the life of me, I couldn’t find one excuse good enough not to.
Our relationship hasn’t been the greatest, and apart from birthday and holiday texts, we haven’t spoken in almost two years. It’s been even longer than that since we’ve seen each other. I try not to think about it too much, because I grew up a daddy’s girl, and somewhere between my parents’ divorce and emerging into adulthood, our relationship fell apart.
A little over fouryears ago, my dad had, what I refer to as, his midlife crisis. He retired early from his cushy job at Rainer Publishing and bought a crumbling newspaper in Red Mountain. Things were already strained between us for several reasons, but his decision to move over two hundred miles away really hammered the nail into the coffin. I know he’s married because I received an invitation to the wedding, but I’ve never met his wife. I never intended to either. I guess that’s out the window now.
Unease twists and swirls in my stomach when theWelcome to Red Mountainsign comes into view. I can’t believe my life has come to this. At twenty-eight years old, I’m unemployed and running to my daddy with my tail between my legs—teenage me would be so disappointed.
Rolling hills of vineyards flank either side of the road as I approach the downtown area, further confirming I’m no longer in Seattle. My clammy hands grip the steering wheel while I take in the main stretch of town. The street is quaint, lined with various brick storefronts and old-fashioned lampposts. Rustic artisan shops display handcrafted goods in their windows, and flower boxes overflowing with colorful mums hang from the buildings. At the heart of Main Street stands a picturesque archway with a festive banner stretching across it announcingWinetober. Considering it’s Monday and Red Mountain is asmall town, it’s fairly busy. Lots of people mill about, strolling in and out of tasting rooms and restaurants.
“In half a mile, turn left onto Bordeaux Lane,” the GPS tells me.
I thought the town appeared charming when I looked it up online, but seeing it up close, it’s like a picture-perfect Hollywood set. I have yet to see any big box stores or commercial businesses. No Starbucks, no McDonald’s, and sadly, no Target. Red Mountain may as well be another country, with everything appearing homegrown, mom and pop, and local. Even the sidewalks are cobblestone, like something you would see in Europe. From what I gathered during my internet deep dive, the town was a ramshackle of dilapidated buildings and farmland before the wine industry took off. Today, it’s considered the Napa of the Pacific Northwest.
“In two-hundred feet, turn left onto Bordeaux Lane.”
My heart rate increases. There’s a nagging feeling telling me to turn around and go right back, that I don’t need to do this. I ignore it, because the truth is, this is my last option. Whether I like it or not.
I take the left and drive down the narrow road, downtown disappearing in my rearview mirror. The further I drive, the rougher it gets. This can’t be right. There’s nothing but vineyards surrounding me. Not a house in sight.
“The destination is on your right,” the GPS claims.
I look to the right and then to the left, but see nothing indicating a house is nearby.
As I continue coasting further, the GPS announces, “You have arrived.”
Again, my eyes take in the expansive vineyards and desert terrain, looking for any sign of a house. Nothing.
I pull over to the side of the road, my car half on the shoulder, half on a mixture of loose dirt and sand. Off the shoulder, theroad is walled in on both sides by large vineyards that seem to go on forever, taking up acres of land.
Re-reading my dad’s text, I confirm his street is Bordeaux Lane, and according to the app, I’m at the location. This is ridiculous. Only in a small town would the GPS send me on a wild goose chase. I can navigate Seattle rush hour traffic with my eyes closed, but send me to the middle of nowhere and I’m lost in what looks like the setting ofThe Hills Have Eyes. I give up on the accuracy of my phone’s directional abilities and call my dad. Of course he doesn’t answer. Well fine, I will figure it out myself. His house can’t be that hard to find in a town this small.
I put the car in drive, but when I try to pull back onto the road, instead of going forward, my car does the opposite and starts rolling backward. In a panic, I slam my foot down, flooring the gas. My little car practically screams as it tries to fight gravity, a cacophony of tires screeching and my engine revving roars loudly, yet the downward journey continues. I stomp my foot down on the brake and yank up on my e-brake, even though it hasn’t worked in years, but I’m too late. I can’t fight the momentum. Bracing myself for an impact to jolt me, I hunch my shoulders and squeeze my eyes shut. Blood rushes to my head, and my entire body tenses. This is it, this is how I die.
And then, like someone hit pause, everything stills, save for the small little thump that brings my uncontrollable car to a stop. With the car finally at a standstill, my body slumps, relief uncoiling my tensed nerves. As I come down from the panic of a potential accident, the blood pounding in my ears starts to ease. I put the car back in park, something I probably should’ve attempted when my car refused to stop, and a sudden bubble of laughter jumps out of me. The laughter seems to have opened a door that won’t close, and now I’m full on laughing. It’s a deranged kind of cackling, but it’s the first time I’ve laughed in days. The hilarity of the past month, the reality of where I am,and the fact that I’m lost both mentally and physically—it all hits me at once, harder than I’m prepared for. Thank goodness I’m alone, because this is by far the ugliest I’ve ever looked, bursting with a witch-like cackle, frothing at the mouth. I’m beside myself, spiraling into oblivion.
I’m not sure how long my spiral goes on for, but eventually, I’m spent. I pant and wipe the tears from my eyes. The episode seems to be behind me, and my sanity returns.
I make a few attempts to get up to the road, but each time I’m met with the same result; my car simply cannot handle the terrain.
