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1
OLIVIA
Six years.Every minute, every torturous second turned to ash in a giant burning wreck at the bottom of a desert canyon. I watch flames lick the twisted metal of the old Honda Civic our butler gave me for my escape. It’s symbolic—the scorched earth is the violent end of my marriage. I take a deep, shuddering breath, wincing at the pain in my ribs from the last beating I endured at the hands of my husband, Tripp.
Waking up on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, my blood on the walls and floor was terrifying. He didn’t bother moving me. He just left me there for our staff to deal with. They are the only reason I was rushed out of the house tonight while Tripp was at a fundraiser. All I have left of my life is a wad of cash, a bus ticket, and a burner phone in my pocket.
I’m four miles outside of the town where I’m supposed to catch a bus that will take me to the East Coast and, hopefully, my salvation: the only four people I know I can unequivocally trust to help me. It’s been years since I’ve talked to them, even longer since I’ve seen them.
My four best friends. The boys I met my freshman year of high school who became my family. The boys that collectively own all my firsts. The men who didn’t want to let me go but one by one fell out of my life.
I don’t know if any of them are married. I don’t know if they are still as close as they once were. I’ve been locked away for the majority of my marriage, my autonomy slowly chipped away until I was a prisoner in my own home. Part of me is concerned that they won’t care, that they’ll take one look at me and send me away.
I don’t look the same as I once did. I’m too thin. My bones protrude from beneath my skin. My hair is thin and bleached a southern California blonde. My once vibrant blue eyes are dull and lifeless. There’s been no joy to light them up.
Nothing about me is good enough. That’s what Tripp always told me. I wasn’t personable enough for his fundraisers. I wasn’t pretty enough for all the red carpets. I wasn’t smart enough to help with the business, even though I graduated ahead of him from Columbia with my MBA.
A truck pulls over on the highway in front of me, and an old woman rolls down the window. “You need a ride, honey?” Her long gray hair is pulled back in a braid, and deep lines etch her face and hands.
“Yeah, I do.” She seems harmless enough, and really, I’d rather die at the hands of a stranger than go back to my abusive husband.
“It’s pretty intense back there,” she glances in the rearview mirror. “I just came from a back road where a car went off the edge of the canyon. I sure hope everyone is okay.” She says it with enough emphasis to let me know she suspects it was my car.
“I bet they will be,” I offer noncommittally.
“Where are you going?”
I climb into the old pick-up, the broken leather seats scratching my skin, though I can barely feel pain. “The bus station in town, if it’s not too much trouble.”
We drive the final few minutes in silence. She parks the truck in the empty lot and hands me a hat and a hair tie.
“There are a lot of cameras in these places. I don’t know who you are or why you’re running, but I can tell you need help.”
“Thank you,” I say while I twist my hair into a bun and shove it under the worn hat.
“Be safe.”
I lock eyes with the stranger and feel seen for the first time in a long time. Something tells me we are kindred spirits. She ran too. I can’t help but think that she was sent to me. Protection from above as I flee. I nod and step out of the rusty truck. Sitting on a cold, wooden bench, I wait, keeping my head down to avoid anyone seeing my face in the flickering light. I didn’t even think about staying out of view of cameras. The minutes pass slowly, and every once in a while a car drives by, the headlights illuminating my face unless I look down at the ground. So I sit there, elbows on my knees and praying for the Greyhound to hurry up.
I wonder what Tripp is doing right now. Has he figured out I’m gone yet? It’s not the first time I’ve tried to get away. What if he’s tracking me? The thought occurs right as a black sedan slowly rolls past the station, causing my heart to race.
There is only one other person waiting with me when the bus finally pulls in. I pull the ticket out of my pocket as I board. The driver takes it without making eye contact, which is fine by me. The fewer people see me, the better. I settle in a few rows from the back, taking a window seat, so I can curl into the wall and be left entirely alone. I’ll be on this bus all the way to Tulsa. Then I’ll have to switch to a different form of transportation.
The hours tick by with occasional stops. People get on and off, and eventually the driver changes out with another. I’m successful in giving off ‘don’t sit near me’ vibes, aided by the fact that the bus is never full. I doze off for short periods of time, but I can’t relax enough to get any kind of actual sleep.
I’m so used to living on high alert that I have a hard time turning it off. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I don’t even know how to hold eye contact anymore.
With no bags, I switch from the bus to a train in Oklahoma. Thankfully they don't ask for ID, and we leave for Chicago right on time. I can’t remember the last time I saw my driver's license.
I’m starting to smell, so as soon as the train begins moving, I get up and give myself a rinse in the bathroom. It’s better but still not good enough. I decide I’m going to grab a motel room in Chicago. I’ve been living off vending machine food and stale coffee for two days so I have enough to splurge. Part of me is ashamed that I’m this person. The idiot who fell in love with an abusive man. The broken weakling who needed others to push her out the door in the dead of night.
The train is crowded, but I’m still able to sit in my own row. The train stops in what seems like every small town along the way, but I don't care. Each one is another stop further from Tripp. During the scheduled stop in St. Louis, I get off and indulge in a greasy food court lunch. After two days of vending machine meals and stale coffee, it is bliss. I’d like to check what hotels are in the area of the Chicago train station, but the phone that was waiting for me in the car is an old fashioned flip phone with no internet.
Every mile I travel closer to freedom fills me with equal parts dread and anticipation. I’ve been locked down for so long. My inheritance from my parents’ deaths went into my joint account with Tripp, and he controlled everything since day one of our engagement.
Thinking back on my early relationship with Tripp makes me realize how many warning signs I overlooked. He was so perfect in the early days. Charming, thoughtful, and supportive. He listened to my dreams and my fears, building the arsenal he would eventually use against me. Then he slowly started to steer me away from Sawyer, Nolan, Grant, and Lake.
Somewhere between St. Louis and Springfield, I fall asleep. I don’t wake up until we pull up to the platform in Chicago. Exhausted, I take the stairs up to street level and look around, but I don’t see any hotels. Walking back into the train station, I ask one of the workers. She takes one look at me, shakes her head in pity, and points me in the direction of a Holiday Inn.
