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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
*Lace*
Mauve lipstick pinched between my finger and thumb, the waxy tip slowly smushes and crumbles, whittling down to nothing just like me as I write across the fragmented mirror.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
In “The Road Not Taken,” Robert Frost ultimately chooses the one less traveled and reveals how much of a difference it made. I envy that man — or woman, depending on who thrusts themselves into the poem — of the ability to have both options and the gift of choice.
Not bothering to cap the pulpy mess, I drop the lipstick applicator onto the vanity top, get a makeup remover wipe out of the cubby, and scrub my face clean.
Technically, there are two roads presented before me. Down road one is my escape. Hell for Leather will be riding out soon. When they do, there will be no literal, physical restraints keeping me bound here. I can walk out of Tit for Tat, start up my wagon, and drive away. Would they find me one day? Probably. Then again maybe not, and that might make it a risk worth taking.
Though my hopeful fresh start keeps getting set back, at least my face is on the jump right now; proof of all the emotional damage these men are putting me through washed away, I begin applying my moisturizer, sunscreen, and a fresh layer of makeup, using the biggest broken mirror fragment for guidance. Contour, highlights, blush, and brows — the more defined the better since the stage lights tend to wash out everything.
As I go through each step on autopilot, my eyes stay focused on my reflection between the waxy letters, but my mind floats back to their poetic analogy. Option number two: down the road more traveled. I can stay, succumb to the demands Kal assigned to me, and perhaps save a life in the end. If not my own, at least the one Reece deserves.
This road has emotional chains, though, and those feel even more binding than the physical ones. Had I originally been planning on leaving without Reece? Yes. After all, I have no business raising a child, especially displaced and living in an old wagon.
I get that my parents are damaged, but I still had structure and a roof growing up. If nothing more. What about her school years and making friends? School was my escape. I loved it. Anything to get away from home. School could have been her escape, too. But if I leave now, what will Reece have? There is no telling where Mom is or if she will even notice Reece is gone when she returns. With Dad dea—
My eyes fill, and my nose starts to run yet again. Fuck. I scramble to get a hold of a cotton swab to catch the drip since wiping my nose with a tissue will mess up my foundation.
Rapidly fanning my face to dry my eyes, I finish the thought; with Dad dead and Mom missing, Reece will have nothing and no one.
