Brando

brANDO

It’s about fucking time, I think groggily as I see the Welcome to North Carolina sign.

A little less than an hour to go unless I decide to stop to stretch, which would probably be a good idea.

I left Saint Miles at about five this morning, but the traffic that caught me while I drove through Philly made this trip way longer than it needed to be. About two hours way longer, I muse as I rub my eyes tiredly and start to watch the signs on the side of the highway.

“Come on, big blue,” I mumble to myself. If I can just find one sign that signals a rest area, I’ll be able to stretch and take a leak before I get back on course to Perkins Grove.

I chuckle as I rake a hand back through my hair, rest my elbow against my window, and rub the side of my forehead with my thumb.

My family left one small town for another, and while it shouldn’t have been much of a shell-shock to me, it was. It messed up my entire youth, and most of my early twenties, because it was so hard for me to make friends.

I compared everyone to Parker Finch.

Everyone.

Girls and boys, guys and dolls—they all had to be better than her, and none ever were.

“Fucking finally,” I grumble after another twenty minutes of driving and finally seeing the rest area sign. I gun it so I can cut off the car traveling a steady pace next to me, then smirk when they lay their hand on their horn. I wonder if that’s ever worked for you, I think as I turn my eyes long enough to give the driver a deadly glance.

“I guess not,” I say with a chuckle as they look away almost immediately.

I’ve perfected the art of the go ahead, I fucking dare you stare, and I only pull it out when I feel it’s due. And any loser that thinks honking their little horn is going to rattle me or make things go their way will always be the proud recipient of it.

Easing my wheels off the ramp and following the signs for cars only, I pull into the first open spot I can find. As soon as I cut the engine, I let my head fall back against the seat rest and close my eyes for a moment. I’ve been driving non-stop, and I should have made it to Perkins Grove two hours ago, so I didn’t want to stop to make up time. Now I feel like my bladder is about to explode, and I know that as soon as I get out of this car, my body is going to scream at me over it.

“Fuck it,” I mutter as I open my eyes and retrieve the keys from the ignition. I push the driver’s side door open and step out, getting to my feet and instantly getting hit by the wave of pain admonishing me for trying to make this drive straight through.

I groan internally and rest my hands on the top of my car, doing my best not to look like I’m regretting the decision to exit the car, even though I clearly am.

After a few moments of convincing myself that it’s all in my head, I push away from the car and head across the parking lot toward the small walkway. I move to the side to let a mother carrying her sleeping child pass me, nodding and smiling at her as she goes by. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but I’m not surprised—most people think I’m some kind of thug because of how I choose to dress.

Not that I care.

I rub the bridge of my nose as I enter the one-story, low-ceiling building. There’s an older guy standing in front of the plastic-encased map, clearly trying to figure out where the next road will lead him.

As I walk into the men’s room side of the building, I decide that if he’s still out there when I’m done, I’ll help.

I may have only lived here for seven years of my life, but “go back the way you came” sounds like great advice to me.

God, I can’t wait to get out of here, I think as I pull the zipper down the fly of my jeans and go about my business.