25. Tilly

Chapter twenty-five

Tilly

I 'm lucky Tommy left his keys in our room. Within twenty minutes, I've driven his car to the resort, left the keys with the front desk, and then slipped into my own rental. Spy movie theme music runs through my head, but even my brain's attempt at a joke is lame. There's no joy in what I'm doing, but there is relief. So many times in the past, I've done the same thing. Flee. Run. Move on. Don't look back. All things I've had to do before. But this time is different.

I've left a piece of me behind. More than one, if I'm honest. Because I'm not just shutting out the man I love, but my surrogate sister. My pregnant surrogate sister. All the hopes I had of being the best auntie ever have gone up in smoke, much like Henrietta's garage. Maybe it's cheesy, but I was really looking forward to helping her baby piss her off. Really, I don't even know how I would do that, but I was ready for it.

Nope. Not going to think about that. In my cheap Kia rental, I know I'm a mess. Tears have been falling for the entire drive so far. I'm speeding down the mountain, destination unknown. After I pretended to fall asleep, Tommy went to talk with the others. I overheard snippets of their conversation and realized I can't wait, can't retrieve my things from the apartment in San Diego. I have to leave before I lose my nerve.

My phone remains on the nightstand in the guest room. No turning back now. The car is silent as I drive. No music, no snacks, no road trip games—though that's mostly because I'm alone. Maybe later on, I can try to get truckers to blow their horns by pumping my fist, but for now, I'm content to wallow in my misery.

Trucker games. Yes, that will fix my mood. I roll my eyes, even though I only have myself to impress with the attitude. If Tommy had seen it…Nope. Not going there. Tommy now belongs to my past. That beautiful, sexy, thoughtful man that I love, he's gone. Forever. Thinking of him any other way will have me turning my car around.

"No, Tilly. Focus forward. Keep going," I say aloud, trying to hype myself up.

Hours later, I stop for gas. After setting up the pump, I walk inside, half expecting a tumbleweed to roll by in the middle-of-nowhere pit stop. Once I am through the doors, I nearly walk back out again. God, this place is a dump. First, I need the bathroom, and fear works through me.

"Uh, ‘scuse me?" I ask the man behind the counter.

He barely glances up from his phone, an arched eyebrow—that's pierced, by the way—my only clue to continue. "Can I get the bathroom key?"

He smirks like he has a secret but grabs the obnoxiously large keychain from below the counter and tosses it toward me. It clatters on the glass top with a resounding bang. The man chuckles as I pick it up. "Good luck," he says eerily. Oof. Not a good sign. As soon as I unlock the door, I hesitantly step into the dungeon that they deem respectable for weary travelers. I immediately know my worry wasn't wasted. If I thought the restroom would be better than the rest of the place, I would be sorely disappointed. Thankfully, I was at least mentally prepared for the absolute horror that awaits me.

Look, I know gas stations are necessary and people on the road can't be picky, but would it kill the owners to at least pick up the stray diapers overflowing the bathroom trashcans? Or wash the brown stains along the wall? And what is that smell? Dead possums covered in burnt hair and urine? Without a doubt, it's the most rundown place I've ever been. But this is my life now. Running isn't glamorous. Half-decayed motels and sleeping at herpes-covered truck stops are my new future.

I use my debit card to withdraw the maximum amount of cash possible and shove it into my pocket. Then, grabbing a few snacks for the road, I head back to my car feeling as though I'm covered in every stray pubic hair the road has to offer. Shower. I need a damn shower, preferably in bleach and antibiotics. But I have to remind myself, not yet. Travel for as long as possible before stopping overnight. It's the way of the runner.

As I replace the pump and glance at the road signs, the freeway is close by. East to Colorado or north up to Washington.

I get into my car and pull out of the gas station. Reaching the junction, I steer onto the freeway headed east. Colorado is beautiful, cold, but then, almost anywhere I could go now would be cold—it's the dead of winter. Maybe, once I'm settled, I can have Sam send my passport, and I might flee back to Central America. But for now, this is the best I can do. I settle back into the driver's seat and prepare for the long road ahead.

***

I spend the next two days driving. The road constantly stretches out in front of me like my list of ever-expanding bad life decisions. Every few hours, I pull over for a cat nap. Something everyone should know about me is that I can sleep almost anywhere. Sitting upright at a bus station, under a towel on the hot beach, rocking on a boat on the open ocean, leaning against a wall, movie theaters, seriously; name it and I've probably napped there. So sneaking these recharging sessions isn't torture. Sure, my back is starting to feel like one of those bendy straws. But hey, can't really be picky while fleeing my aunt.

Whenever I do stop, to grab some chicken nuggets, or pee, I use only cash, maybe out of paranoia, but my family is resourceful, and I don't want to make it easy for them. By the time I run out of money, I'm almost in Kansas.

I find myself in a small, frozen-solid town called Burlington. There's no snow, but ice covers everything. I park the rental and step out at the most decent rundown motel I can find.

It's $30 a night, a bargain if you don't mind sharing the room with a few freeloading cockroaches or mice. Yes, it's gross. But see above—can't be picky. After checking in, I go straight to my room and collapse on the bed. Every inch of the room should probably be inspected with a black light. Comforters are not supposed to be stiff like this. Lord, I really should buy some bleach. The color in the blanket is nearly nondescript anyway. Adding bleach spots might give it more character. Right now, I can't be bothered with doing anything. This isn't my first time running away, and the fatigue washes over me in a familiar wave.

The second part of my plan has to wait until tomorrow anyway. I'm too stiff from the long hours in the car to do anything else.

Before I know it, I fall asleep on top of the covers.

***

The next morning, I get out of bed and head to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I notice the bags under my eyes and poke at them. I wish I had grabbed my makeup from the hotel in Tahoe, but there had been no time.

I go downstairs for the complimentary coffee. I need it desperately. Something warm and familiar to wash down the bitter taste of the last week. The woman at the desk is absorbed in something on her phone but looks up when I head towards the coffee pot.

"Morning," I say.

"Hello, everything good?" she asks. She seems about forty and looks almost as tired as I feel. But there's a soft smile on her lips. I've heard from dozens of people that I have a bad case of resting bitch face probably because I am a bitch to strangers. Sue me. Strangers are strange. If anything, this woman is the opposite. Everything about her screams friendly.

"Yep, as good as a cheap motel gets. Clean at least." That draws a short chuckle from the woman, and I smile despite everything. The coffee is scalding hot, but it is fresh. I wander around the lobby. It's drab, mundane, rundown, but well-kept. Whoever this lady is, she obviously takes pride in keeping her work area clean. Matter of fact, it's so spotless, that it almost takes away from the yellowing walls, threadbare red carpet, and mystery stain on the table. Almost. I take my time looking at brochures, touching some as I go. I don't really have any ideas for the next leg of my trip but probably should turn in my rental car and grab a bus.

"Looking for something to do?" she asks. I glance up at her. She's wearing faded jeans and an emerald green blouse that perfectly matches her eyes. Long blonde tendrils of hair are falling out of the messy bun on top of her head. But the warm smile on her face is what doesn't have me making an excuse to run back to my room.

"Kind of. I'm just passing through, I think."

"Passing through? But you reserved the room for a month," she points out. I barely remember checking in, but it must have been with this same woman if she knows what I did.

"It's a long story," I admit. I had used my debit card to book the room for a month, planning to stay only a few days. I hoped it might mislead anyone trying to find me. Miss Friendly studies me, her arms crossing in front of her chest. Her eyes are narrowed but not in a way that makes me uncomfortable. If anything, she just looks like she's trying to figure me out.

After a few moments, she eases her staring. "You know, I work a few different jobs. One's at a women's shelter."

I shake my head. "That's not—"

She arches an eyebrow. "I'm not an idiot. I know when someone's on the run. Ex-husband?"

I almost laugh at that. If only she knew the truth. "No, and I really don't want to talk about it."

She raises both hands in a gesture of peace. "I get it. But these shelters are nationwide. And they don't share their records with anyone."

"I really appreciate it, but I couldn't use that kind of resource when I don't need it. At least not yet," I say. It's surprising how honest I'm being with this woman, but she really does seem trustworthy. Like a fireman or lifeguard or something. A person that I can tell is really just looking out for me without any reason. In fact, she probably has a reason all her own on why she can spot a person on the run so easily. It's another in a long line of evidence that reminds me, everyone has their own demons. Some more serious than others, but the kinship in trauma can be universal. That, above all else, makes me trust her.

"All right, I'll stop pressing."

I let out a breath and close my eyes briefly. "Honestly, just trying to get a new start. I should probably get on the road."

The staring is back. God, can this woman see right through me? "You know, if you're strapped for cash, how about moonlighting as a ghost maid?"

It takes me a split second to realize what it is she's offering. Again, how she knows that I'm low on money is beyond me, but it must show somehow.

"You need help with the rooms?"

She nods. "Oh, yeah. One of our regular girls vanished, possibly in room 237." She laughs like it's some sort of joke, but it's lost on me. With a touch on my arm, she shakes her head. "Sorry, bad joke. Someone called out with a nasty hangover. Which happens like three times a week. Interested?"

She must see that I'm considering it and makes the decision for me. "The maid cart is in the hall." She hands me a key. As I reach for it, she grabs my hand to shake first. "My name's Jemma, and just so you know, we don't charge your card until the end of the week. If you have enough cash by then, we won't charge it at all." Coming over to the coffee pot, she refills a huge stainless steel mug. As she's pouring, she asks nonchalantly, "Anything else you need…" She trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air. God, this woman is too nice. Is this because she's never been taken advantage of or because she has?

I won't be the one to take advantage, but I know she will keep asking if I don't give her something to help with. Looking down at my outfit, I muster the courage to ask, "Erm, Jemma? Do you have a lost and found?"

Her entire body lights up and it's impossible not to enjoy the sight. This person, she actually enjoys helping. That's so foreign to me that I take a step back from her like she's spitting acid.

She smirks, "You don't ask for help often, do you?" I shrug one shoulder, but the question does put me at ease. "Relax, honey." She chuckles while shaking her head. "We do have a lost and found, and some of it's even clean." Both of us sipping our drinks, I follow Jemma to the back office where a giant box overflows with clothes. Inside, I score a blouse and jeans still with its tag. Huh, it's my size too. Must be my lucky day. It's not often that the fashion gods smile down on me. My beautiful best friend is taller and wider than me, even when she's not pregnant. But that's not the sole reason I swim in her clothes. Sam is conservative, opting for flowy t-shirts and shorts where I prefer something that shows the junk in my trunk. In the bathroom, I change into the new outfit, ripping off the tags.

When I step back out, Jemma scans me up and down. "Is that your natural hair color?"

I nod, and Jemma, reaching for her bag, instructs, "I'll be back. Just start at the far corner of rooms and work your way back. Empty the trash, clean the toilets, change the sheets, and vacuum. It's not rocket science. If you do get confused, ask the other maid."

She's halfway out the door by the time she finishes speaking. Calling after her, I say, "Uh, thank you!" She cast a quick smile over her shoulder, but doesn't say anything else.

Grabbing the maid cart, I almost feel excited to get to work. I'm not a neat person by nature, but that doesn't mean I don't know how to clean. Wipe shit off the toilet, wipe shit off the counter, etc. It's pretty simple and I easily find a routine once I get started. Empty the trashcans, bleach the bathroom, change the sheets, and vacuum. See? I can do manual labor. Just call me Miss Blue Collar.

A few hours later, Jemma finds me cleaning the third room with an indie punk music station blaring through the TV.

"Hey!" she enters, her arms full of bags.

"Hi, what's all that?" I ask.

She picks up the remote, turning down the volume. "Well," she singsongs, "like I said, I help run a women's shelter, and this is all from there." I'm about to protest when she scans me up and down. "You're a size six?" I nod, already eyeing the loot spread on the bed, touching the different fabrics, overwhelmed by her kindness.

"Jemma, this is too much."

"It's not. All this stuff just sits in donation boxes. But there's more."

She digs into her purse and pulls out a cheap smartphone. "Take it. It's pay-as-you-go, under the shelter's name, and paid up for the next six months."

Holding the phone, I realize how much I've missed having one. I've felt so alone over the last few days and this woman, this stranger is content to fix that.

"And one more thing." I look up. Jemma holds a box of dye and scissors.

Shaking my head, I protest, "No way. My hair is untouchable."

"Yes, and whoever you're running from knows that. Trust me, cutting and dyeing your hair can keep you hidden much longer." I roll my eyes. I've never dyed my hair, proud of its beautiful silky black color. As a self-proclaimed surfer chick among a sea of blondes, my long dark locks always made me stand out.

"What color is it?" I ask, a bit apprehensive.

Jemma winces slightly. "Don't be mad, but... red." I almost laugh. Red hair with my almost olive skin? It'd be garish for sure. "Now hold on a second," she says seeing my terrified expression. "It's a muted red, and I think it'll look kick-ass. Matches your tattoos, though I suggest you keep those covered as much as possible."

I look at the box, considering. I've run before, but this time feels different. I'm far less prepared, my savings not nearly what it should be. In the past, I would've immediately fled the country. But without my passport, that's impossible. Maybe coloring my hair isn't such a bad idea. And if things calm down, I can always dye it back.

"Alright. After I'm done then, you wanna help me?" Jemma claps her hands together, a squeal of glee making me wince.

"Oh, for sure. Do you drink beer?" she asks.

I almost say, 'only every chance I get', but decide that's probably a bit much for this new acquaintance to know. "Okay, I'll be at your room after my shift ends at six."

With that settled, I turn the music back up and head back to the bathroom to scrub the toilet, my mind already panicking with thoughts of me with short red hair.