He was disappointed—always disappointed—and I was so close to getting her to stand still for more than a second so he could say hi back.
Instead, I wasn’t there. I never showed up or even called. The disposable cell phone in my hand turned heavy. My phone, the one I’d been forced to leave, along with more of my life than I’d even realized, was no doubt flooded with texts and missed calls from her and Carmel.
Aiden.
I was supposed to meet him two days ago.
I keep expecting you to just ghost me one of these days.
The phone slips through my fingers and clatters to the floor. That’s what he said to me, and now that’s exactly what I’ve done. I can see his face, his ever-present easy, warm smile dimming as the minutes ticked past and I failed to show. He would have sent texts too, making sure I was okay.
By now, would he have decided his prediction had come true?
And I can’t even contact him and explain. Or Regina. Or Carmel or anyone. That’s why my muscles seized. I don’t know what a call from me might do to them.
Better they think I flaked out.
Blew her off.
Broke his heart without a single care.
I wrap my arms around myself and suck in a shaky breath. “Mom, where are you?”
* * *
The walls never get any closer no matter what I do to mentally shorten the distance between them. Counting off the number of paces from side to side doesn’t help, but something else does. Ever since I can remember, Mom and I had a ritual for whenever we moved to a new place. Before we unpacked our bags or picked our bedrooms, we played a game where I had to find the way out of every room. When I was little, it was as easy as pointing out windows or doors. But when I got older, it wasn’t enough to identify the basement window I’d use. Mom made me show her how I’d reach it, pry it open when it was inevitably stuck, and show her how quickly and quietly I could get out. Just in case.
Mom always said it was the Girl Scout in her that kept her so vigilant.
Girl Scout, my ass.
There are only two rooms in this motel room. The bedroom has the front door and two large windows, but the bathroom has only a small window above the toilet, one of those pull-out deals with hinges at the bottom, which are held in place by rusted screws that make my fingers throb just to look at them.
It’ll take hours to loosen them, assuming I even can. And I don’t want to. I want to go back to the bed and curl into a ball and sleep until Mom wakes me up and tells me this has all been a bad dream.
The toilet seat creaks when I step up on it, and the rust digs into my fingertips as I start twisting. It ends up taking just over an hour, and I sacrifice two fingernails to the cause before the final screw gives up its fight. I leave the last one loose but in place and trail back to the bedroom.
I avoid the bed, since planning for exits didn’t feel anything like a game this time and I’m too afraid to sleep. Instead, I slide to the floor and stare at Mom’s engagement ring, a gaudy piece of costume jewelry that my dad found at a flea market. I’ve worn it on a delicate chain around my neck for years. I try to catch the light on the many facets until I fall asleep or, more accurately, pass out. I dream about Aiden climbing through my window and Mom catching him in my bedroom. I know it’s a dream because she invites him to stay for dinner, and I keep jumping throughout the meal whenever somebody clinks a fork against their plate.
A car door slamming in the parking lot jolts me awake. Tucking the ring beneath my shirt, I break another one of Mom’s rules by dashing to a front window and moving a curtain aside to peer out. I leave the sheer one in place, so everything I see outside is hazy as the last sliver of the sun slips below the horizon, but I can tell that the person in the driver’s seat of the car outside is definitely not my mom. I don’t have time to register the sharp agony of disappointment, because Mom’s paranoia is seeping into my pores. It’s like my eyes have finally been opened to the world for the very first time.
The last person I saw besides my mom was someone trying to run us off the road.
All I can think now is that danger is only a pane of glass away.
A lump forms in my throat, and I want to sink to the floor. I can’t pretend that she’s coming back for me anymore, that I don’t have to protect myself because she’ll do it for me. Something has gone very wrong with her plan. The lump swells, but I force it down. If she were with me in this room, I know what she’d tell me to do. So I start breathing and thinking, moving almost before deciding I’m going to.
I scoop up a chair, dragging it across the carpet to block the door. As a barrier, it’ll provide nothing more than a few seconds’ delay, but if someone comes through the motel room door, I’m going to need every advantage I can get. I want to add more chairs, to build a mountain of them between whoever is outside and me, but no amount of furniture will save me if I’m still here when they come in. It already feels like ages since the car door slammed.
I have no reason to feel safer once I’m in the bathroom, but I do. Just being in here buys me a few more seconds. They’ll have to search for me.
I stand on the toilet, and the screw I left in earlier takes barely a turn to pop free into my hand. I lower the window to the counter and peer outside to ensure there’s no one there. I pull myself up and begin the Houdini-like task of squeezing myself through. I’m not as slight as my mom, and so I get stuck almost immediately.
My hands are frantic, searching for something to grab and use as leverage, and I imagine someone bursting into the room and finding me like this. But fear is a great motivator. I shimmy around and exhale every scrap of air that ever entered my lungs. My jeans catch on the window frame and I hear a rip, and I hiss when my hip scrapes along a jagged edge. But I don’t stop. If anything, I redouble my efforts.
Someone is at the door. I hear the knob turning, gently at first, then with more force.
I brace my hands on the exterior wall and push as hard as I can. Harder. I pop free and slam down, a good seven feet below, onto the chewed-up asphalt. Blood trickles from my elbows and my hip, but the pain barely registers. The door to room 5 is rattling, and then bang. A crack reverberates through the entire building as the door is kicked in. I’m choking on my own heart as I shoot to my feet and run.
The pavement behind the motel slopes into a ditch, which I skid down before tumbling into the densely packed forest of birch trees. The jagged bark catches my clothes and hair as I run, pulling at me, slowing me down. And I can’t make myself stay quiet. My breath comes in strangled gasps. Help me.
The ground is wet and muddy from the rain the night before, causing me to slip over and over. Each time I get to my feet, I’m sure I’ll see the person after me, but I can barely see at all. The sun is setting fast, and I can’t make out anything more than ten feet in any direction in the murky darkness of the forest.