Page 3 of Traitor
Chapter One
Peyton
Present
My fingers twitchon the steering wheel, but for the first time, it isn’t due to the dark grip of anxiety. It’s with the urge to paint, to create. I haven’t felt the blessing of inspiration in so long that shock has me tapping on the brakes. They squeal and a car behind me honks in protest at my sudden deceleration.
Get it together, Peyton.
I accelerate once more and commit the location to memory. I pull off the next exit from the Blue Ridge Parkway, and direct my car toward the town that shares the name of the view—Windy Point, North Carolina.
The stunning landscape keeps pressing me toward the town center. The urge to capture the mix of color, of movement and shadow.This. This was what I was looking for.
As I pull to a stoplight, I search the town on my phone, excitement bubbling happily in my stomach. The quaint little mountain village of Windy Point boasts a population of less than two thousand year-round. But it’s not the variety of tourist attractions, the museums, or the multitude of shopping boutiques I’m interested in. It’s the openness. The freedom that attracts me. I’m in awe of the sweeping thrust of mountain peaks and the deep blue-green of the oak and hickory forests. The jewel blue of a sparkling lake peeks out between thick brush as I round a corner, and I force myself to release the tension I’ve been holding in my muscles since I set out on my journey two weeks and three states ago.
When I realized the urge to paint had all but dried up inside of me.
When it felt like the last part of me holding out hope had died.
Realizing I could either wither away and accept the inevitable slow march to death, or fight for the life I’d lost, I packed what few possessions I could fit into my car and began my search for something—anything—that could make mefeelagain. Feel in a way I hadn’t in longer than I could remember.
I used to be a big believer in passion, in fate, destiny.Life.
I’m determined to find my way back to life, even if it kills me.
I followed the winding roads from Mississippi to North Carolina without a destination in mind. Searching for—I wasn’t sure what exactly—but I figured I’d know it when I saw it.
For anyone else the journey would have taken less than half a day, but I decided for someone who couldn’t even leave her own house six months ago, it was progress. Slow, but progress nonetheless.
I didn’t have a plan. The mere thought of it has me gnawing on my thumbnail. I didn’t have a structured to-do list to guide my every waking moment or a host of professionals telling me the right way—or the wrong way—to face my demons each day. Supposedly, the years of intense therapy would teach me how to handle my grief, my anxiety, but all it did was remind me at every session of everything that had happened.
Counseling gave me tools to deal with those things, but it was the shock of my twenty-eighth birthday that propelled me to make a drastic change. Something about facing the tail end of my twenties, and the eventual dawn of my thirties, forced me to pull myself out of the mire of my past and do something about it. The only other option was letting it drown me. And I owed it to myself—and to them—to make something of the life I had left.
My heart pounds and I stifle a giggle in relief, because it doesn’t make me want to run for the nearest sanctuary and bolt the doors behind me. Instead, I want to scream and dance. I want to explore and paint—God, I want to paint more than I ever have—even more thanbefore.
The exhilaration may fade, but for now, Windy Point is my new beginning, a fresh canvas. As I told my therapist at our monthly check-in, I’m prepared for the worst, but expecting the best. Even if I only stay a night or a week or a month, the change of scenery is what I’m looking for more than anything. I’ll get the chance to go back and take in more of the view that inspired me so much, go hiking, or swim in the lake if the weather warms up—and I ever learn how.
I don’t need a job, but if my stay winds up being longer than a week, I can visit any one of the touristy places I’ll pass on my way through town for something to keep me busy. A restaurant, a museum, or one of the boutiques may need some extra help now that the last fingers of winter are beginning to loosen their strangling hold on the surroundings. Visitors will no doubt flock to the area, which will mean a healthy supply of employment opportunities, should the need arise.
Dusk sweeps over the nearby peaks and bathes the town at its base in an inky pool of blue-green shadow. There won’t be any exploring tonight, but I don’t mind. If nothing else, the years spent cooped up with my nightmares taught me to wring every drop of pleasure out of each moment, no matter the circumstances.
A fluorescent sign advertising a 50s-style diner named Lola’s catches my eye and my stomach lets out a grumble. Realizing I haven’t had anything to eat since Tennessee turned into North Carolina, I flip my signal on and merge over to the right lane to pull into the parking lot. It gives me a little flutter in my chest to realize I have an appetite again. To be excited to eat food, to enjoy it, and not only for fuel.
Once, not too long ago, the scents of charred meat and grease that greet my nose as I open the diner door would have sent me running in the other direction. Instead, my stomach grumbles again as I walk up to the hostess stand.
A young girl in ill-fitting black pants and a rumpled white button-down shirt greets me with an easy smile. “Evening! How many?”
“Only me,” I answer, returning her smile.
“Right this way.”
She guides me through a crush of evening patrons, around a knockout brunette who gestures wildly to a captive audience of men, to a small table in the back of the restaurant. Nerves jangle uneasily in my stomach and my mouth goes dry. I wish I could be like the brunette, wildly confident and unfettered by anxiety and the shackles of the past.
“That’s Lola, the owner,” the hostess says. “She normally tries to greet all of our customers, but she may be too busy this evening to introduce herself.”
Lola. Even her name was sassy, spunky. I used to be sassy and spunky. With one last look at the brunette, I refocus on the hostess.
“I’m sorry,” I say before she can lead into her spiel about the waitress being with me soon. “Would you mind? I’d love to have a seat in the corner, if it isn’t any trouble.”