Page 26 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

T he road rolls out in front of me, flat and endless, the highway cutting through fields golden in the morning sun.

The Harley hums under me, steady and alive, the wind scouring the last of Texas from my skin.

Behind me, Dogwood Bluff is just another dot on the map, another town in the rearview mirror but my thighs are sore in a way that makes me grin.

My heart is still beating, and I tell myself that’s enough.

I didn’t say goodbye at sunrise. I left a note on the nightstand, not poetry, not promises, but simply the truth in my own hand.

Thank you. For letting me stay. For letting me go.

You’re braver than you think. She’ll understand.

She always did. Roots were never for me.

I’m not built for stillness or happy endings.

I’m built for the road, and I hope that somewhere out there, I might find something worth staying for.

Or maybe I’ll just keep chasing the next town, the next horizon, even the next woman who needs a little chaos to burn her world clean.

The Oklahoma border sneaks up on me; only a battered green sign and a cracked stretch of asphalt.

I cross it without ceremony. A truck passes me, horn blaring, with a kid hanging out the window flashing a peace sign.

I salute him back, grinning into the wind.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and, seeing a rundown gas station ahead, I pull over, kill the engine, and check the screen.

Matt. Always Matt. His message is short. “You still in Texas?”

“No,” I reply. “Left this morning.”

There’s a pause, then another text. “Heading where?”

“North. Still on Route 69 and just crossed into Oklahoma.” He shoots me a message right back. “Tulsa’s not far. Remember Diaz from Bravo company? She’s living there now. Bet she’s got a spare couch if you’re passing through. Imagine she misses your ugly mug.”

I grin, the first real smile since I left Kristin’s porch last night.

Diaz. Tough as hell, mouth like a sailor, made me laugh even on the worst days.

Tulsa’s not in my plans, hell, I don’t have any plans, but the idea of a couch, a cold beer, and someone who knows what it’s like to bleed for something, tugs at me.

I don’t answer right away. I only stare at the message, the road stretching out in front of me, the itch in my bones that won’t go away. I text back. “I’ll think about it.”

My mind drifts to Kristin. About the way she looked at me last night, like she saw right through the armor and wanted me anyway.

About the way she let me go, no tears, no drama, only our bodies saying goodbye.

I think about the women in that town, the ones who’ll come to her clinic now and find the door open, the light on, someone who won’t let them be small.

I tell myself that’s enough, that I did what I was meant to do, but there’s a heaviness in my chest that doesn’t go away when I start the engine again.

As it roars back to life, the vibration settles deep between my legs.

I pull back onto the highway, the sun at my back, the road unspooling in front of me, wide, wild, and waiting.

There will always be another town. Likely another woman.

Possibly even another mess that needs cleaning up, and I’m still here, still riding, still hungry for something I can’t name.

Maybe I’ll find it in Tulsa, or maybe I’ll never find it at all, but for now, I keep moving. Let the next story begin.

TO BE CONTINUED