Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
“Where you headed?” coughs the woman at the counter. She’s got a thick, gravelly voice and a disinterested expression.
“One ticket for San Diego, please,” I say.
She starts typing on her computer. “One way?” she asks.
I gulp hard and nod.
She types for a few more seconds. “You’re in luck. There’s a bus leaving for California in thirty minutes, or if that’s too soon, there’s one tomorrow morning too.”
My hand tightens around the strap of my backpack. I could wait, clear my head, and come up with a better plan tomorrow. It’s so tempting, but then my chin lifts with a jerk. “I’d like to buy a ticket for the one in thirty minutes please.”
With a yawn, she rings me up, hands me the ticket, and tells me to have a nice day. I head to the plastic seats in the waiting area, which is a typically dismal place. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flicker and buzz. The room smells faintly of cigarette smoke, but I manage to find a hard orange plastic seat near an open window. I pull my baseball cap down over my head and put on a pair of sunglasses. For some reason, I’m sure that someone will recognize me, but of course, no one does. The other passengers have their own problems; they can’t be bothered to waste time thinking about some random girl.
I wrap my arms tightly around my torso and try to keep myself from crying. My phone is turned off and rests loosely in my jacket pocket. It’s been a while since I left Ava, and I know that she’s probably trying to call at this very moment. Channing, however… has he even realized I’m gone? Maybe he thinks I’m just on an extra-long shopping spree.
The thought of the man I love brings tears to my eyes, but I steel myself because I couldn’t face him if he told me to get rid of the baby. I’m preventing him from being trapped, I reason. He wouldn’t want us anyways.
Besides, Channing has so much money. All he has to do is tap into his bank account and hire another woman for five thousand a week. It won’t be hard. In fact, it would be all too easy.
My eyes begin to flood with tears, but a series of quick, hard blinks keep them at bay. To distract myself from my misery, I try to imagine what the other travelers might be doing here. If this were an action movie, the man sitting in the far corner in a slick suit is really a James Bond-type who’s tailing one of the other travelers. Maybe the young woman with neon purple hair and colorful tattoos decorating her arms is a Russian operative plotting to assassinate someone. She’s not sure who her target is, but she’ll get clues at each stop along the way, and at the end of it, it’ll turn out that her mark was the bus driver all along.
My little plot synopsis brings a small smile to my face. When I get to San Diego, maybe I should look into screenwriting. I could write scripts instead of being a model because plus-size modeling was always a long shot anyway. I certainly didn’t have much success at it, and I can’t get by on a shoestring budget anymore. With a baby, I’m going to have to get money in the door, and fast.
Maybe I’ll work full-time as a screenwriter, and when I have a free moment, I could write novels. I’d pen action and adventure stories about bold heroines who go about their lives the way they want to, without letting things like poverty drag them down. My characters would always win out in the end no matter how hopeless the situation. So what if real life isn’t like that?
A drop of warm wetness plops onto my hand, and embarrassed, I rush to the bathroom and try to get a hold of myself. The gleaming steel stalls greet me, and I lock myself in the handicapped one. Unfortunately, I just end up breaking down and because there’s no one else in here with me, I let myself tremble and sob until the tears have dissolved into hiccups. Then I exit the stall, wipe my face, and put my sunglasses back on. It’s time to go.
By the time I get out, the bus has arrived at the depot, and I stand in line behind the Russian operative and James Bond. Neither of them pay me any mind. In fact, both seem totally obsessed by their phones, and I look down. This is true anonymity, and I should be appreciative because it’s helping me make my escape.
But once I’m on the bus, I feel terribly, crushingly alone. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes. It’s a 70-hour ride to San Diego, so I might as well catch up on some sleep.