Page 125 of Intermission

“That’s what I thought.”

“I’m sure it is.” I heave the overnight bag off the bed and onto the floor beside its empty mate. “But things aren’t always what they appear. I have spent the last year trying to earn back your trust—or at least your respect—but you have none to give. Not to me.” I pick up the empty suitcase and open it on the bed.

“Faith Prescott, you put your things back where they go this instant and desist with this childish running away game you’re playing. It’s infantile. And it won’t work on me.”

“I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

“Grow up, Faith. You’ve had your sport. Now put that luggage away.”

“I’m eighteen, Mom. Iamgrown up.” I grab the overnight bag. “And by now, you, of all people, should know that I don’t playsports.”

Leaving the two bigger suitcases behind—I’ll come back and finish packing after school—I slip by my mother and head down the stairs... and out from under her expectations and accusations for good.

ONE YEAR LATER

August 9th

Present Day

Somewhere between Michigan and Iowa

Tick-tick-tick-tick.Tick-tick-tick-tick.Tick-tick-tick-tick.Tick-tick-tick-tick.

I tear my gaze from the highway’s hypnosis-inducing rhythm that took me to such a dangerous, mind-numbing place. I’ve spent these last hours driving through even more miles of my subconscious than I have trekking through Michigan, Indiana, and Illinois. I’ve practically driven drunk, intoxicated on memories. It’s a little scary actually, just how absent I’ve been, how little I recall of the drive.

“Get it together,” I tell myself through gritted teeth. How ironic it would be if Noah showed up, but I absentmindedly drove my car off a cliff and ended up at a hospital instead of at the waterfall.

Not that there are that many cliffs along the interstate in this fairly flat part of the country, but still.

I take a deep breath. Just another few miles, and I’ll cross the border into Iowa. Eventually, I’ll trade the interstate for a crisscross quilt of rural highways that will take me to familiar gravel roads.

I can do this. And I’m close enough to home now that I might be able to find a non-country station on the radio.

I hit one of the presets I never took the time to reprogram in Michigan and...voila!I’m two measures away from the beat drop on Beyoncé’s latest single.

Music. Distraction. I can do this.

Within thirty minutes of crossing into Iowa, I reset my cruise to sixty-two—the fastest speed I’ll risk on these bored-country-cop highways.

At the end of a commercial-free hour of music—thank you, God—I’m in the home stretch.

Literally. I keep my focus steady, forward, as I pass the blacktop turn-off for Parre Hills.

As I slow for the first of two gravel roads, my stomach tightens. My chest, too.

Dizzy. I try to blink it away, but when Janey nudges my shoulder with her nose, I realize my breathing is keeping up with my blinks.

She whines.

I’m scaring her. “Sorry, girl.” I take a deep breath. In. Out.

Inhale. Exhale. “Noah.”

Noah.

Gravel dust chases my taillights, layering off-white waves on the rear window. Out my side window, the sun is descending, teasing the blue of the sky with shades of melon and lavender.

Lavender. Like those roses Noah sent me, for being a dumb hotel.