1
7:15 a.m., Wind Gap, Pennsylvania. 350 miles remaining.
Ten years ago, my boyfriend killed my best friend.
For a long time, that’s all anyone thought about when they looked at me. Christ, for a long time that’s all I thought about when I’d catch my reflection in the mirror: sand-brown eyes, so plain compared to Emily’s vivid green, with dark shadows forming in the creases underneath. I am Micah Wilkes, I’d say to myself, former girlfriend of Alex Swift, former friend of Emily Winters. Or: I am Micah Wilkes, and I make bad decisions. Or, in my darker moments, I am Micah Wilkes, and the one thing I’ve learned, the one thing I know for sure, is you can’t trust anyone but yourself.
Those old mantras come back to me now, and I try to put them out of my head, to focus instead on the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers, the sharp pings of sleet against the glass. I glance up toward the rearview mirror, study the ice-slicked road behind me. A white sedan approaches, moving fast; I hold the steering wheel tight as though my grip could provide some protection against what’s about to happen. But the sedan jolts to the left at the last minute, speeding past me, continuing on its way, and then I’m alone again: just woods and road and snow.
I shouldn’t have let my guard down, shouldn’t have let myself forget. These past few years have been good—even better than good, at times. They’ve been normal. I’d find myself at Stomping Grounds, laughing at a customer’s corny joke, or burrowing into Ryan on the couch, his yellow and black fleece pulled up over us, my cold toes warmed under his feet, and I’d think: Maybe this is what other people have been doing all this time. Maybe this isn’t so bad.
I reach out across the passenger seat for my messenger bag and pull it toward me, across a bed of crumpled-up papers and loose wrappers. My car isn’t usually disheveled like this, but I’ve had things other than cleaning on my mind. I fish around in my bag until my fingers touch my phone. I pull it out, take a breath, and check the screen.
Five missed calls. None of them from you.
I need to talk to you, Joshua. You need to talk to me. It wasn’t him. I got it wrong. I’m trying to fix things. I just want to make things right.
That’s why I’m coming to find you.
1
7:15 a.m., Wind Gap, Pennsylvania. 350 miles remaining.
Ten years ago, my boyfriend killed my best friend.
For a long time, that’s all anyone thought about when they looked at me. Christ, for a long time that’s all I thought about when I’d catch my reflection in the mirror: sand-brown eyes, so plain compared to Emily’s vivid green, with dark shadows forming in the creases underneath. I am Micah Wilkes, I’d say to myself, former girlfriend of Alex Swift, former friend of Emily Winters. Or: I am Micah Wilkes, and I make bad decisions. Or, in my darker moments, I am Micah Wilkes, and the one thing I’ve learned, the one thing I know for sure, is you can’t trust anyone but yourself.
Those old mantras come back to me now, and I try to put them out of my head, to focus instead on the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers, the sharp pings of sleet against the glass. I glance up toward the rearview mirror, study the ice-slicked road behind me. A white sedan approaches, moving fast; I hold the steering wheel tight as though my grip could provide some protection against what’s about to happen. But the sedan jolts to the left at the last minute, speeding past me, continuing on its way, and then I’m alone again: just woods and road and snow.
I shouldn’t have let my guard down, shouldn’t have let myself forget. These past few years have been good—even better than good, at times. They’ve been normal. I’d find myself at Stomping Grounds, laughing at a customer’s corny joke, or burrowing into Ryan on the couch, his yellow and black fleece pulled up over us, my cold toes warmed under his feet, and I’d think: Maybe this is what other people have been doing all this time. Maybe this isn’t so bad.
I reach out across the passenger seat for my messenger bag and pull it toward me, across a bed of crumpled-up papers and loose wrappers. My car isn’t usually disheveled like this, but I’ve had things other than cleaning on my mind. I fish around in my bag until my fingers touch my phone. I pull it out, take a breath, and check the screen.
Five missed calls. None of them from you.
I need to talk to you, Joshua. You need to talk to me. It wasn’t him. I got it wrong. I’m trying to fix things. I just want to make things right.
That’s why I’m coming to find you.
/
