Page 23 of A Taste of Vanilla

How could you? Why wasn’t I enough? Do you love her? Did you love me?

I lock the phone and throw it into the passenger seat and start my car.

I don’t not know where I’m going, but I know I’m not going home. I can’t.

Home has Grant’s things. It has wedding magazines on the coffee table, seating chart notes on the fridge. A garment bag handing in the guest room with a dress inside that I haven’t letanyone see yet because I wanted just one single thing about the wedding to feel private.

Home has our toothbrushes in the bathroom, and our phone chargers plugged into the wall.

I can’t go into Bitter Bloom because my employees will see my face.

I can’t go to Oliver’s because he will know within seconds.

And I can’t go to Marley because she will ask if I wanted comfort or revenge, and I’m not sure I know what I want.

So I drive.

Out of the city. Past streets I know. Past signs I ignored. Past the life I had decorated around the crack.

At some point, I stop crying.

At some point, emo music comes on because my phone connects to my Bluetooth automatically. Even my car knows I’m ruined.

At some point, I see a sign for I-95 South.

Florida, I think. My dad’s in Florida.

Eddy Smith. A baker with sunburned shoulders, a big laugh, and terrible texting habits. The parent who had left Maryland after the divorce and somehow made distance feel like a personality trait instead of a wound.

He would answer if I called.

But I don’t.

Calling would require me to talk.

So I take the exit.

My car makes a funny clicking noise as I accelerate onto the highway. I ignore it.

My gas gauge hovers near a quarter tank. Good enough for me.

I drive south with coffee dying on my boots, no ring on my finger, and the horrifying certainty that if I stopped moving, the rest of my life would catch up. That I’d have calls to make and plans to cancel and reasons to explain.

For twenty minutes, escape feels possible.

For thirty, it feels cinematic, even. Like that scene in Gone Girl.

At forty-seven, it becomes inconvenient.

The engine coughs. Once. Then again.

I look down at the dashboard. The gas gauge still claims I have fuel.

“Liar,” I hiss.

The car shudders.

“No, no,” I repeat.