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“Bridge,” I said softly, reaching my hand out.
She put it in my hand and I took it with mine to find the nearest trash can. On the way, I rang August one more time, letting him know we were about to head out and I’d ring him at the nearest payphone when I could. He assured me everything was in place and we hung up.
I slipped both phones into a sturdy plastic bag then placed it on the ground. I raised my booted foot and beat the ever-loving hell out of the contents in that bag. When I was done, I peered inside and found nothing but mutilated pieces of glass and plastic, microchips and two batteries. I dug through the mess and found the SD cards. I took the lighter in my pocket I’d brought just for such a reason and burned them into charred unrecognizable pieces, letting them cool before throwing them back in the bag and then into the garbage.
Goodbye, Los Angeles. Goodbye, Dad. Goodbye, life.
It’s for Bridge, I kept chanting in my head over and over as I headed back to the truck.
Chapter Eleven
We’d gotten on the road by noon, just in time for Bridge to feel “starving.” We stopped at some fast food restaurant and got her something. The entire nineteen-hour drive turned into a two-day fiasco of her feeling ill, me stopping to feed her what seemed like every hour, getting a crappy room at a hotel that would take only cash, filling up the bottomless tank (the truck, not Bridge), staying within the speed limit to avoid getting pulled over, getting Bridge clothes when we got to Salt Lake City and all the while driving by myself.
Yet, I wasn’t looking forward to reaching Bitterroot because it meant a life I wasn’t prepared for, a life I didn’t really want. I’m aware how selfish that sounds, but the thought of not being able to return to Brown, despite the fact I didn’t want to go when I first graduated, was brutal. I’d grown to love Brown, the people there, even my professors. I missed my teammates already. I missed the girls. The glorious girls with their short shorts and bright smiles.
I needed to get Brown out of my head. I was never going back there, and I needed to get used to that.
“How much longer?” Bridge asked. I hadn’t known she’d awoken.
“We’re about an hour away,” I told her, the sinking realization that we were too far gone now.
“Mama’s probably panicking right about now.”
I nodded my reply.
Bridge started tearing up. “I’m afraid, Spence.”
“Bridge, it’s seriously going to be okay.”
“I hate being judged. What if everyone there judges me? I don’t think I can handle being judged...at least not without Mom there.”
I sighed.
“Did you know I wore glasses when I was younger?”
“Of course,” she told me quietly through tears.
“Okay, but listen. I was five years old, sitting in my assigned seat at the back of the classroom. My teacher called on me, asked me to read something she’d written on the board. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t see what she’d written and thought it was because of some insufficiency on my part that I couldn’t see the board. I thought I wasn’t as smart as the other kids. So I sat there, quiet, adrenaline pumping through my little body at a rapid rate, eyes burning, on the verge of tears. The class had turned to look at me by this point, fifty eyes studying me, waiting. She asked again, her tone laced with impatience, but I had nothing to tell her. A few kids started snickering around me, some accused me of being stupid; others giggled with each other. Although it was only a handful, an adrenaline-filled fear kicked into high gear and affected me more deeply than I had ever remembered feeling affected. My pulse strummed feverishly from the tips of my ears to the ends of my fingers. Hot tears betrayed me, spilling over onto my cheeks, making those who were laughing, laugh harder. I was humiliated.”
er Ten
“Welcome to—” the girl at the front desk began, but I cut her off, frustrated, overwhelmed and feeling like we’d wasted too much time already.
“Is your manager in?” I asked.
If she was taken aback by my abruptness, her expression didn’t show it. “Of course, just a moment,” she said, removing herself from her chair and click-clacking over to the manager’s office.
“Can I help you?” an overweight gentleman with a buzz cut asked.
“Spencer Blackwell,” I said, offering my hand.
My name registered with him. “Ah, Mister Blackwell, you can call me Jeff. How are you this morning?”
“I’m well, Jeff. I need to unload these two vehicles,” I said, pointing to my Aston and Bridge’s SLS.
“What are you looking for them?” he asked.
“No less than one-point-two.” His eyes lit up. They were worth half a million more resale.
