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“Like I said before, I’ve heard everything I need to hear. You’re no better than Damian. I should’ve stayed in Hicksville and waited for them to fix G-Lo’s car.” When we reach the intersection, the growl of the approaching bus catches my attention, and I break into a run, not sure if I’m trying to outrun the paparazzi . . . or Dash.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here.” My throat closes, my vision blurring with unshed tears as I inhale one jagged breath after another. It takes every ounce of self-control not to cry. As soon as the bus doors open, I jump in. The hurt in Dash’s eyes breaks my heart, but I’ve learned my lesson. “Don’t follow me.”

The doors close behind me, leaving Dash alone on the sidewalk.

27

Sound and Vision

With Dash’s betrayal lodged in the center of my chest like a thorny spine, embedded so deep it would take a team of surgeons to dig it out, I plop into a cracked vinyl seat and sit on my hands to stop the trembling. Shifting my eyes from the road outside the window, I drag in one shallow breath after another. Numbness radiates through my bones, quickly morphing into sharp pain and spreading like a virus until every nook and cranny screams for mercy.

Damn you, Dash Hammond. Damn you and your smirky grin and stupid shiny Tesla.

Part of me wants to set fire to his memory, to burn it out of my system until it doesn’t hurt anymore. But a weak, pathetic piece of me refuses to let go. I kissed this man with my eyes closed and my heart wide open. I gave him a part of myself I can never get back, and he betrayed me as though I meant nothing to him.

Utterly devastated and alone, I drag out my phone and scroll through my favorites, pausing with my thumb hovering over Mom’s number. For the longest half second ever, I stare at her contact info. Then the fog clears, and fresh tears spill over my lashes. She’s gone.

The weight of her loss settles into my chest as I wrap my arms around my tote, hugging Mom’s urn and diary as if the inanimate objects might hug me back. I wish I could rewind the clock to before she died. Wish I’d listened to Jeanie and waited for her leg to heal. There are so many things I wish I’d done differently.

Resting my head against the cool glass, I watch the world outside the window pass by as, bit by bit, the wall of ice around my heart begins to melt, freeing the emotions I’ve held in check for the past two years.

For the first time since Mom died, I dissolve into bone-racking sobs.

Almost an hour later, after riding three full circuits of the city bus’s route, reality sets in. I can’t stay on this bus forever. I need to find a way to get out of Detroit and back to Hicksville. And the Betty.

A quick online search tells me the nearest Greyhound station is just a short walk from the next stop. Using PayPal, and most of what I had left in my checking account, I book two tickets. First, a seat on the next bus to Chicago to spread Mom’s ashes, followed by a ticket from there to Hicksville on the last bus tonight. I refuse to let Dash Hammond derail my mission any more than he already has.

With my eyes and nose leaking like a rusty faucet and my heart shattered into a million pieces, I exit onto Michigan Avenue and walk the rest of the way to the bus station.

After picking up my tickets, I hurry on board the first bus before it leaves the station. Ignoring the blank stares of the other passengers, I lug my tote and backpack behind me until I reach an empty window seat near the back. After tucking my backpack behind my feet, I loop my arms around my tote, cradling it like a baby. With Mom’s diary open to her Chicago entry, I settle in for the long ride.

July 12

My mother is like a cat with nine lives, only instead of lives, it’s get-out-of-jail-free cards. After sneaking into a sightseeing tour of Lake Michigan, Mom talked our way into Wrigley Field for a Cubs game, and then we swam in Buckingham Fountain . . . all without ending up in striped jumpsuits. Sometimes, I swear she’s playing an epic game of tag, and the loser gets an all-expenses-paid trip to the county lockup. One of these days, she’s going to run out of cards, and I just hope I’m not caught in the dragnet when she does . . .

More than five hours, and several stops, later, the bus finally pulls into Union Station. Easily the size of several football fields and filled to the brim with travelers rushing off in every direction, the palatial building looks like something ripped right out of the pages of Fitzgerald or Hemingway. Decades of history ooze from the walls and the marble floors, and I nearly get swept into the crowd before even making it outside.

I need to conserve what little cash I have, so with less than an hour before I lose what’s left of the light, I head west. According to the guy at the information desk, Grant Park and Buckingham Fountain are only about a twenty-minute walk.

Burnt-orange and purple shafts of evening sun slice through the gaps in the buildings as I make my way through downtown Chicago. I don’t have time to take in the scenery, and I refuse to think about walking back in the dark.

By the time I reach the massive three-tier fountain, it’s lit up like a damn space station. Classical music accompanies the light show as plumes of water erupt from the center spout.

Eager to get my picture and get the hell out of town, I push my way through the tourists and run straight into an ornate green metal fence surrounding the perimeter. I could easily step over the low barrier, but I can’t help noticing that out of the hundreds of people here, not a single soul stands on the other side.

. . . the loser gets an all-expenses-paid trip to the county lockup.

I take one last look at the picture of Mom in Buckingham Fountain before tucking it between the pages of her diary and shoving them both deep into my tote.

“I’m about to regret this, aren’t I?” I toss the question into the wind.

“If you’re thinking about getting into that fountain, then yeah. Big-time regret.”

I whip my head around and stare at the stocky guy in the shiny new Cubs jersey. “What are you talking about?”

His wide grin exposes a gap between his front teeth wide enough to park a number-two pencil. The sweat forming on his dark skin reflects like diamonds in the light. “There’s a security system around the fountain.”