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I shrug. “It is what it is.”
“It sucks, though. I assume you came a long way?”
“Tennessee.”
“Yikes. And, so... what are you going to do now?”
“Travel,” I say, pointing to the RV. “That’s my permanent address. And I work.” I pat my laptop. “So, I’ll probably just continue with that.”
“What do you do for work?” she asks and then leans back when the cook brings me my order, along with a slice of apple pie for her.
Miss Sandra’s cheeks bloom pink as if being caught doing something she shouldn’t.
“There are a lot of jobs you can do remotely,” I tell her. “For example, I’m a virtual assistant for a few offices, and I manage social media accounts for some small to mid-size companies. I do data entry, and audio transcriptions, and... basically anything I can do with a laptop and Wi-Fi, I’m doing it.”
“Fascinating,” Miss Sandra whispers, and I have a feeling this is who she is—a woman stuck in a small town legitimately thrilled with the outside world. That’s why she’s nosey. I respect it. “You must see and do so many exciting things.”
“Sometimes.”
Her eyes narrow, just a tad. “Does it get lonely, though?”
The dull ache in my chest is so sudden; it surprises me. “Sometimes,” I repeat, and it’s only a half-truth. It’s lonely most of the time, and the only real reprieve I have is these conversations with random strangers. “What about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “What’s it like living here?”
“Pfff,” she scoffs, waving her hand between us. “I’m a bore-fest, darlin’. Your life is far more exciting than mine.”
“Not necessarily.” I shake my head. “It’s human nature to be intrigued by what we don’t have, but at our cores, we all want different things. And I’m not saying that intrigue equates to lack of happiness, because you could be completely happy and satisfied living in a small town and working here, but... so could someone like me.”
Miss Sandra tilts her head, her eyes right on mine as she stares, and stares, and stares some more. I smile to one side as I let my own words replay in my mind.
So could someone like me.
Five years ago, what she might believe to be a mundane life was my fantasy.
“You’re right,” she says. “I have three children. Two girls and a boy.” She pulls out her phone, shows me her lock-screen—three beautiful kids ranging from, I’d say, six to ten, all with megawatt smiles and eyes lit with pure joy. “They’re my entire universe.”
I smile when I look up at her. “I can tell.” Then I pull out a notepad and pen from my bag, saying, “Can I ask you something, Miss Sandra?”
“Anything you want, honey. I’m an open book.”
“What’s your favorite childhood memory?”
9
Holden
Headlights shine through the closed curtains of my living room, and my eyes drift shut, irritation swarming through my veins, crawling across my flesh.
I hate that I feel like I can still smell her around me.
On me.
Inside me.
It’s insane, really, especially since I was never even close enough to get a sniff.
A text comes through on my phone, and I don’t bother checking it. Instead, I simply lower my feet from the coffee table and force myself to get the hell up. Besides showering and changing, I don’t think I’ve moved since I finished work.
After grabbing a six-pack from the fridge, I slip on my shoes by the front door and make my way to the car sitting idle in my driveway.
