The second I make it into the kitchen, I stop.
I have no idea where I’m going. No idea what I’m doing.
I consider saving my dramatic exit for another day, but my eyes catch the ivory invitation that’s hanging on our fridge:
* * *
You are cordially invited to the (Shhh! It’s a secret!) engagement party of Paris Weston & Adrian Smith, III.
Cocktails will be served at 6 p.m. sharp,
and the unsuspecting bride-to-be will arrive at 7 p.m.
* * *
My blood begins to boil.
That engagement party is something I don’t want to do—something I begged him not to do, but he’s done it anyway. And he told me all about the big “secret” weeks ago, telling me that I should, once again, trust him about this: “Just pretend that you don’t know anything about it when you walk in, okay? Oh, and make sure you smile big. The ring is two carats, so that practically guarantees a smile from you. Could you also do a little gasp once you see the ring? I want all my colleagues to know that you’re impressed with my selection.”
Enraged, I snatch that stupid paper from behind its magnet and rip it to pieces.
Then I calmly pick up every shred and throw them into the trash can. (Adrian is a neat freak.)
Nonetheless, I quickly find my rage again and storm out of the house. I slip into my car and slam my foot onto the gas, driving into the night with no destination in mind.
Four hours later
I have no idea where I am.
All I know is that my car can’t possibly go too much farther. The engine is starting to make a clucking noise, and the wire hanger I’ve been using to keep my muffler attached is scraping the ground.
Pulling over, I get out of the car and slam the door shut. The engine needs to cool off for a bit, so I walk to the rear and take a seat on the trunk.
With my head in my hands, I consider calling Adrian ahead of time to let him know that I’m not coming tonight, that I’m rejecting his proposal. Then again, I remember that for the past three years he’s forgotten to tell me “Happy Birthday.”
And not just “forgotten.”
He hasn’t even had the decency to apologize for leaving me waiting at my favorite restaurant alone. Each time he missed it, he’d say, “Aw. I’m so sorry, babe. It is your birthday, huh? Well, Happy Birthday! I didn’t get a chance to buy you anything yet, but I have something that’ll make you feel much better. I got an ‘A’ on [insert something I couldn’t care less about here].”
Before I can turn my phone off, I see that I’ve missed five calls—all from my boss, so I call him back.
“Paris Weston?” he answers.
“George Nicholson. Are we about to play the name game?”
“Spare me your crap today, Paris. Where the hell are you? We just got a whole new set of sweaters delivered and we need someone to get them ready. There are ties that need to be organized, women’s heels that need to be shined, racks of slacks that need to be…”
I tune him out as he goes on and on, as he reminds me of just how pathetic my life really is.
“Paris!” He snaps, several minutes later. “Are you there?”
Barely.
“You’re already late, so you know you won’t get a break whenever you do arrive. Then again, I may give you a ten minute one if you stay for a few extra hours. It’s the least I can do. Oh, and if you pick up my favorite coffee on your way here, I’ll make it fifteen. Get me a bagel with my dry cleaning while you’re at it.”
“Screw you, George.” I hang up. I’ve been wanting to tell him that ever since I started working there, ever since he made me more of a personal assistant than a retail clerk.
George calls my phone again and I hit ignore. I know he wants to get the last word, to say, “No, you’re fired!” like he told the last person who quit, but I refuse to give him the chance.
I lean back against my dusty car and sigh, staring up at the sky. I’d give anything to be far away from here right now.
Anything.
Suddenly, a plane cuts through a cluster of clouds and I start to think about how lucky those passengers are, about how many of them could possibly be running away from a broken dream like me.
Then it hits me.
With no hesitation, I jump off my trunk and wrap the wire hanger around my muffler the best I can. Then I drive towards the airport and park in the extended lot—rushing into the terminal as if I’m about to miss a flight.
“Good morning and welcome to US Airways!” The desk agent smiles as I approach. “Will you be checking any bags today, Miss?”
“No.”
“In that case, I’ll need a form of photo identification. Can I have your confirmation number, please?”
“I don’t have one.” I slide my license across the counter. “Do you have any roundtrip flights for four hundred dollars or less?”
“What?” She looks confused.
“Do you have any flights for four hundred dollars or less?” I enunciate every word. “I need to disappear, and I would like to fly somewhere far away. Can you do that?”
She furrows her brow, but she nods and looks at her screen. “Let me check.”
Typing away on her keyboard, she whispers something into the tiny mic that’s tucked into her jacket.
I’m pretty sure I heard her say, “Potential flight risk passenger heading for security soon,” but I shake that thought away.
“How long are you trying to get away, Miss Weston?”
“However long four hundred bucks will cover.”
She whispers into her jacket again and then she forces a smile. “We have quite a few roundtrip flights in your price range for anywhere between four to fourteen days. Would you like to go up north or further down south?”
“Whichever is the cheapest.”
“Okay, up north then.” She types for a few more seconds. “Chicago, Boston, New York, Cleveland, Brunswick, and anywhere in between.”
“Boston.” I like the way it sounds. “Fourteen days if possible.”
“And for fourteen days.” She tilts her head to the side. “Unfortunately, since you’re booking this so late, you’ll have to have two layovers—one in Atlanta and one in Washington. But if you want to wait until tomorrow morning—”
“No, thanks. How much is it?”
“Three hundred eighty-eight dollars.”
I immediately hand over my card.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to check that bag, Miss Weston?” She hands me a boarding pass and eyes my oversized purse. “It looks kind of heavy,” she whispers into her jacket.
“Why do you keep whispering into your jacket? Do you honestly think I have a—” I almost say “bomb” and bite my lip. I’m sure security guards will pop out of nowhere and tackle me to the ground at the mere mention of that word.
“No, thank you.” I roll my eyes and head straight for security.
As I hand my documents to the guard, I feel my cell phone buzzing. A text from London, my sister:
“Don’t forget I’m picking you up around six-ish for dinner! Sister Day! Yay!”