I try to smile and I do, but I know it looks like something in-between a smile and a frown.
I adjust the strap from my purse on one shoulder and my sling bag on the other and then just let my arms hang limply at my sides.
“It was nice meeting you, too, Andrew Parrish,” I say, though I don’t want to say it. I want him to ride with me just a little farther. “Do me a favor if you don’t mind.”
I’ve piqued his curiosity and he cocks his chin a little to one side. “Alright. What kind of favor? Is it sexual?” His dimples deepen as his devilishly handsome lips start to curve.
I laugh a little and look down with a blush hot on my face, but then I let the moment fade because this really isn’t a lighthearted kind of request. Instead, I soften my expression and look upon him with true sympathy.
“If your dad doesn’t make it,” I begin and his expression falls, “let yourself cry, OK? One of the worst feelings in the world is being unable to cry and eventually it…starts to make things darker.”
He stares at me for a long, silent moment and then he nods, allowing a tiny thankful smile to appear only in the depths of his eyes. I reach out my hand to shake his goodbye and he does the same, but he holds it there for a second longer than normal and then pulls me into a hug. I hug him back tight, wishing I could just blurt out to him that I’m scared of him leaving me alone, but I know I can’t.
Suck it up, Camryn!
He pulls away, nods at me one last time with that smile I grew so quickly to like and then he walks away and out of the terminal. I stand here for what feels like forever, unable to move my legs. I watch him get into a cab and I keep watching until the cab drives away and out of sight.
I’m alone again. Over a thousand miles away from home. No direction, no purpose, no goals other than to find myself on this journey I never imagined I could bring myself to begin. And I’m scared. But I have to do this. I have to because I need this time alone, away from everything back home which brought me here in the first place.
Finally, I take control again and walk away from the tall glass windows to find a seat. There’s a four hour layover before I get on the next bus into Idaho, so I need to find something to make use of my time.
I hit the vending machines first.
Sliding my change into the slot I start to hit E4 to get the fiber bar—the closest thing to healthy in the whole machine—but then my finger makes a sharp U-turn to hit D4 instead and a fattening, disgusting, sugary chocolate candy bar falls from the spiral and into the bottom. Happily taking out my junk food, I move over to the soda machine, passing up the one before it which has bottles of water and juice, and I get a teeth-decaying, stomach bubbling, carbonated drink instead.
Andrew would be so proud.
Dammit! Stop thinking about Andrew!
I take my junk food and find an empty seat and wait out the day.
A four hour delay turns into a six hour delay. They announced it over the intercom, something about my particular bus being late due to mechanical failure. A chorus of disappointed moans rises throughout the terminal.
Great. Just great. I’m stuck in a bus station in the middle of nowhere and I could very well end up here all night, trying to sleep curled up in the fetal position on this hard plastic chair that’s not even comfortable for sitting.
Or, I could just go ahead and buy another bus ticket somewhere else.
That’s it! Problem solved!
I just wish I would’ve thought of this sooner and spared myself the six hours I’ve already wasted here. It’s like I tricked my brain somehow into thinking I actually had to drive all the way to frickin’ Idaho just because I already paid for the ticket.
I grab my bag and purse from the seat next to me and shoulder them as I march my way across the terminal, past a boatload of disgruntled passengers who clearly don’t have the option that I do, and make my way to the ticket counter.
“We’re closing the counter down ma’am,” the employee says on the other side.
“Wait, please,” I say, throwing my arms across the counter exasperatedly, “I just need to get another ticket somewhere else. Please, you’ll be doing me a huge favor!”
The wiry-haired old woman wrinkles her nose at me and appears to chew on the inside of her cheek. She sighs and then taps a few keys on her computer keyboard.
“Oh thank you!” I say. “You’re awesome! Thank you!”
She rolls her eyes.
I swing my purse around and toss it on the counter and search quickly through it to find my little zipper wallet.
“Where are you traveling?” she asks.
Oh great, there’s that million dollar question again. I look around the counter for any other ‘signs’ like that baked potato back at the North Carolina terminal, but I don’t see anything obvious. The old lady is starting to get even more agitated with me and it makes me more anxious to hurry and figure this out.
“Miss?” she says with a heavy sigh. She glances at the clock on the wall. “I clocked out fifteen minutes ago. I’d really like to get home to my dinner.”
“Yeah, I’m so sorry.” I fumble my credit card out of my wallet and hand it to her. “Texas,” I say first as a test, but then afterwards I realize it felt right on my tongue. “Yeah, anywhere in Texas would be great.”
The old lady raises an ungroomed reddish brow. “You don’t know where you’re going?”
I nod furiously. “Uh, yeah, I just mean that I’ll take any bus going to Texas that’s next in line.” I smile across at her hoping she’s buying this load of crap and doesn’t feel the need to have my driver’s license checked out for anything suspicious. “I’ve already been here for six hours. I hope you understand.”
She looks right at me for a long, unnerving moment and then takes my credit card from between my fingers and starts tapping her keyboard again.
“Next bus leaving for Texas is in an hour.”
“Great! I’ll take that one!” I say before she even has a chance to tell me whereabouts in Texas exactly.
It doesn’t matter. And she’s in such a hurry to get home that she’s doesn’t seem to think it matters, either. As long as I don’t care, she surely doesn’t.
I get my brand new bus ticket and shove it inside my purse next to the old one as the counter closes behind me at 9:05 p.m. and I feel a small sense of relief wash over me. Walking back towards my seat, I fish around in my purse for my phone, pulling it out to check to see if I missed any calls or text messages. My mom called twice and left a voicemail both times, but still no call back from Natalie.
“Baby, where are you?” my mom asks on the other end when I call her back. “I tried calling Natalie to see if you were staying with her but can’t seem to catch her. Are you OK?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine.” I’m pacing in front of my chair with my phone pressed to my right ear. “I decided to take a trip up to see my friend Anna in Virginia. I’ll be here for a little while hanging out with her, but I’m OK.”
“But Camryn, what about your new job?” She sounds disappointed, especially since it was her friend who gave me the chance and hired me. “Maggie said you worked for a week and then didn’t show up or call or anything.”
“I know, Mom, and I’m really sorry, but it just wasn’t for me.”
“Well, the least you could’ve done was be courteous and tell her—give her a two-weeks-notice—something, Camryn.”
I feel awful about how I handled that and normally would not have done something so inconsiderate, but the situation unfortunately warranted it.
“You’re right,” I say, “and when I get back I’ll call Mrs. Phillips personally and apologize to her.”
“But it’s not like you,” she says and I’m getting worried she’s steering too close to the reasons why I really left and all that which I refuse to go into with her. “And to just up and leave to Virginia without calling me or leaving a note. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Stop worrying. Ple
ase. I’ll call you again soon, but I gotta go now.”
She doesn’t want to and I can tell by how deeply she sighs on the phone, but she gives up.
“OK, well you be careful and I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
I check my phone one more time, hoping maybe Natalie sent me a text message and I just didn’t see it. I scroll back to several days, even though I know full-well that if there were any unread text messages on my phone that there would be a little red circle on the icon indicating it.
I end up scrolling back down so far without realizing it that Ian’s name pops up and my heart freezes inside my chest. I stop it right there and start to run my thumb over his name so that I can read the back-and-forth between us shortly before he died, but I can’t.
I thrust the phone angrily back into my purse.
11
NOW I REMEMBER ANOTHER reason I don’t like soda: it makes me have to pee. The thought of being trapped on that bus with just a tiny matchbox restroom in the back forces me straight toward the facilities inside the terminal. I chuck the half-full soda in the trash on my way.
Passing up the first three stalls, because they’re disgusting, I close myself up inside the fourth and hang my purse and bag on the hook mounted at the top of the blue door. I spread a good layer of toilet paper over the seat so I don’t catch anything; do my business fast and now comes the strategic part. With one foot propped on the toilet seat to keep it from flushing on its own because of the sensor, I fumble the button on my jeans, reach out to get my bags from the hook and then open the door, all still with one foot propped awkwardly behind me.
And then I jump out fast right before the toilet flushes.
Blame it on Myth Busters; I was mortified for months after the episode on how the toilet really does spray invisible germs on you when it flushes.
The fluorescent lights in the restroom are duller than the ones in the waiting area. One flickers above me. There’s two spiders burrowed behind webs tangled with dead bugs in the corner wall. It stinks in here. I step in front of a mirror and look for a dry spot on the counter to put my bags and then I wash my hands. Great, no paper towels. The only way I’m drying my hands is by that obnoxious blower hanging on the wall, which never really dries anything, but just spreads the water around. I start to wipe my hands on my jeans instead, but I hit the large silver button on the hand drier and it roars to life. I wince. I hate that sound.
As I’m pretending to dry my hands (because I know in the end, I’ll be wiping them on my jeans anyway), a moving shadow behind me catches my eye in the mirrors. I turn around and at the same time the hand drier turns off, bathing the room in silence again.
A man is standing at the restroom entrance, looking at me.
My heart reacts and my throat goes dry. “This is the ladies restroom.”
I glance at my bags on the counter. Do I have a weapon? Yeah, I did at least pack a knife, though little good it’ll do me when it’s several feet away inside a zipped-up bag.
“Sorry, I thought this was the men’s room.”
Good, apology accepted, now please get the hell out of here.
The man, wearing dirty, old running shoes and faded jeans with paint stains on the legs, just stands there. This isn’t good. If it really was an accident that he came in here, surely he’d look more embarrassed and would’ve already turned tail and left.
I march over to my bags on the counter and I notice from the corner of my eye that he takes a few more steps toward me.
“I…didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.
I throw open my bag and dig around inside of it for my knife, while at the same time trying to keep my eyes on him.
“I’ve seen you on the bus,” he says and he’s still drawing closer. “My name is Robert.”
I swing my head around to face him. “Look, you’re not supposed to be in here. It’s not exactly the place for conversation and I suggest you leave. Now.” Finally, I feel the contours of the knife and grip it in my hand, keeping my hand hidden inside the bag. My finger presses down on the thin metal piece to set the blade free from the handle. I hear it click open and lock in place.
The man stops about six feet from me and smiles. His black hair is oily and slicked back. Yes, I remember him now; he’s been on every bus change with me since Tennessee.
Oh my God, has he been watching me all this time?
I pull the knife out of the bag and hold it up clutched in my fist, ready to use it and letting him know that I will not hesitate.
He just smiles. That scares me, too.
My heart is banging against my ribs.
“Get the hell away from me,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I swear to God I will fucking gut you like a pig.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, still smiling eerily. “I’ll pay you—a lot—just if you suck my dick. It’s all I want. You’ll leave the bathroom about five hundred dollars richer and I’ll get this image out of my head. We’ll both get something out of it.”
I start to scream at the top of my lungs when suddenly another dark shadow catches my eye. Andrew barrels into the man, hurling his body over a two foot space and onto the long counter. His back crashes into one of the mirrors. The glass shatters and shards rain down all over the place. I jump back and shriek, pressing my back against the hand drier, waking it up again. My knife fell from my hand at some point. I see it on the floor, but I’m too afraid to move right now to pick it up.
Blood drips off what’s left of the mirror when Andrew pulls the man off the counter by the front of his shirt. He pulls back his other hand and buries his fist in the man’s face. I hear a nauseating crunch! and blood pours from his nose. Again and again, Andrew rains blows down on his head, one bloody hit after another until the man can’t hold his head up straight and it starts to bob and sway drunkenly on his shoulders. But Andrew goes in for more, digging both of his hands into the man’s shoulders and lifting his feet from the floor, bashing his back twice against the tile wall.
He knocks him out cold.
Andrew lets go and the man’s body falls against the floor. I hear his head thump against the tile. Andrew just stands there hovering over him, maybe waiting to see if he’s going to get up, but there’s something disturbingly untamed in his posture and his enraged expression as he stares down at the unconscious man.
I can hardly breathe but I manage to say, “Andrew? Are you alright?”
He snaps out of it and jerks his head around to face me. “What?” He shakes his head and his eyes narrow under lines of disbelief. He marches over. “Am I alright? What kind of question is that?” He fastens his hands around my upper arms and stares deeply into my eyes. “Are you alright?”
I try to look away because the intensity in his eyes is overpowering, but his head follows mine and he shakes me once to force me to look at him.
“Yeah…I’m fine,” I finally say, “thanks to you.”
Andrew pulls me into his rock hard chest and wraps his arms around my back, practically squeezing the life out of me.
“We should call the cops,” he says, pulling away.
I nod and he takes me by the hand and pulls me with him out of the restroom and down the gloomy gray hallway.
By the time the cops get here, the man has disappeared.
Andrew and I agree that he probably slipped out right after we left. He must’ve gone out the back while Andrew was on the phone. Andrew and I give the cops a description of the man and our statements. The cops commend Andrew—sort of vacantly—for stepping in, but he really just seems to want to stop talking to them altogether.
My new bus to Texas left ten minutes ago and so once again I’m stuck in Wyoming.
“I thought you were going to Idaho?” Andrew says.
I had let it slip that my ‘bus to Texas’ just left without me.
I bite gently on the inside of my bottom lip and cross one leg over the other. We’re sitting near the front doors inside the bus stati
on, watching passengers come and go from the tall windows.
“Well, now I’m going to Texas,” is all I say, even though I know I’m ‘caught’ and have a feeling I’ll be spilling some of the truth very soon. “I thought you left in the cab?” I say, trying to divert the subject.
“I did,” he says, “but don’t turn this around on me, Camryn. Why aren’t you going to Idaho anymore?”
I sigh. I know he won’t stop asking until he gets it out of me so I throw in the towel.
“I don’t really have a sister in Idaho,” I admit. “I’m just traveling. Nothing more to it, really.”
I hear him let out an irritated sigh next to me.
“There’s always something more to it—are you a runaway?”
I look over at him finally. “No, I’m not a runaway, at least not in the underage illegal sense.”
“Well then in what sense?”
I shrug.
“I just had to get away from home for a while.”
“So, you ran away from home?”
I let out a sharp breath and look right into his intense green eyes staring right through me. “I didn’t run away, I just had to get away.”
“So you jumped on a bus alone?”
“Yes.” I’m getting irritated at the drilling.
“You’re gonna have to give me more than that,” he says, relentless.
“Look, I’m more appreciative than you know for what you did. I really am. But I don’t think you saving me gives you the right to know my business.”
A small wave of insult subtly stuns his features.
I feel bad instantly, but it’s the truth: I’m not obligated to tell him anything.
He gives up and looks out ahead, propping an ankle on the other knee.
“I saw that piece of shit eyeing you since I got on the bus in Kansas,” he reveals and has all of my attention. “You didn’t see it, but I did so I started watching him.” He still hasn’t looked over at me again, but I’m staring right at him from the side as he explains. “I saw him get into a cab and leave here before I did and only then did I feel it was OK to leave you here by yourself. But on the way to the hospital, I just had this bad feeling. I told the cab driver to drop me off at a restaurant instead, and I ate. Still couldn’t get it out of my head though.”