God. I hate this area of Kentucky.
“None of your damn business. Are you going to help me out or not?” He’s a creep, but he isn’t worse than Trevor. If I can take on my stepdad and make it out alive, I can take on this asshole.
“Sorry, sugar. Ain’t no buses till tomorrow at six. I guess I’ll see you then.” He cackles, and his mouth is wide open, giving me a full view of his toothless gums on the bottom and brown spit.
I’m going to throw up. It’s safe to say.
“God, I hope not,” I mumble under my breath and step away from the bus ticket counter to let the next person get disappointed and sick.
The sun is blazing down on my shoulders, stinging the burnt skin. My cheeks are hot, and I’m exhausted. I’ve been on three buses. Two broke down, and on the last bus there was a man with intense body odor that stunk up the entire bus.
And now I’m sure I smell that way too.
I’m not sure of the town I’m in. I only saw the sign that said ‘Welcome to Kentucky’ but wherever I am, it’s small, the kind of small that if I blink, I may miss it. It reminds me of the old western towns I saw on Gunsmoke when I’d watch it with my dad. The stores and shops are made of old wood, and the ground is dirt. Clouds of dust constantly swirl in the air from the hot breeze and the constant traffic of people on horses.
Yes.
Horses.
Apparently, this is a ranch town according to the men wearing cowboy hats and the feed stores on every corner.
I stick out like a sore thumb too. I’m in leggings and a tank top, and I have the word ‘lost’ stamped on my forehead. Wiping my forehead on my arm to get the sweat off, I peer into every direction to decide which way to go, but it all looks like the same. So I head straight.
My tennis shoes aren’t nearly as loud as the boots stomping along the wooden planks as I pass the cowboys and girls. They all stare at me, lifting a curious brow or the guys’ eyes wander down my body, even with a girl on their arm.
Men are disgusting, and it doesn’t matter what part of the country they’re from; it seems they are all the same.
Is Isaac like that? I want to hope for the best, but I don’t know him well enough to judge him. Yet, I’m traveling across country to a place I’ve never been before, to see a man I’ve never met. And I’m missing school.
My final year of school.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and debate going back home. I’m only a few months away from graduating high school. All I have to do is deal with Trevor, if he survived the beating I gave him. He couldn’t have survived that. Then I’m reminded of the bruises on my face where he hit me, my arms where he grabbed me, the stinging scratches on my inner thighs where he tried to get between them.
Maybe the bruises are the reason why everyone is staring.
If I go back, I won’t survive a few more months with Trevor, but if I go to California, who says Isaac will even let me stay? He might send me back home when he realizes that I’m too young and lied to him.
Where else would I go?
I have no other choice. I’m going to have to live on a prayer in hopes that when I show up at Isaac’s door, he accepts me. By the time I get there I’ll be eighteen, and everything will be alright.
Right?
I can’t stop the doubt. My reasoning is young, naïve, and irrational. I’m hoping a grown man just takes me in. I know how stupid that sounds, but I don’t have much else to go on. He thinks I’m traveling, but I’m on a journey to him.
If he only knew…
A classic rock song blares from a few doors down. There’s a sign hanging from the ceiling just above the door, and the edges are rusted, the paint is chipped, and it has seen much better days. I can’t read the title on the sign; I’m too far away. I pick up my tired feet and hurry across the dirt road, nearly getting hit by a horse.
“Watch wer’ ya goin’ lady!” the man yells from the top of his beast as it neighs.
“Sorry!” I call out over my shoulder and sigh a breath of relief when the trampling hooves get further away.
The closer I get to the music, the faster I walk. I can smell food, burgers and fries, and I bet they have something to drink. My stomach rumbles reminding me I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and I could eat an entire cow.
I give a tight smile to a few people who look at me with caution and curiosity. I don’t care about them. I’m not here to make friends on my journey. I’m trying to run away and start a new life. Fuck everyone else along the way.
When I get to the door, I tilt my head back and look at the sign. It creaks as it swings back and forth from the wind, and written in white cartoon cursive it says, ‘Rock Jollies.’ The cheap screen door is open to allow people in. When I step inside, air conditioning kisses over my skin, and I groan with relief.
Not going to lie, I was worried they wouldn’t have A/C.
I take the space in and immediately like the place. I eye the screen door, which has no screen now that I look at it. It’s just a wooden frame with a bunch of signatures on it, probably from people who have come through this tiny town. I run a hand over it, loving the history and wish I could feel the moments that took place as the people signed their names.
There’s a jukebox on the far side wall, lit up like a Christmas tree and playing a sound by Queen. The floors groan as I step forward, and the pops and crackles of bacon sizzling behind the counter has my nose leading the way to the bar, which is just as worn down as the door.
The woman behind the counter knows I’m not of age by how she’s looking at me, but she doesn’t say a word. She studies the bruises, the busted lip, the marks on my arms, everywhere. My entire body still hurts from that fight, but I have to keep moving along. I have to get to Isaac.
“You look like you’ve been through it, darlin’,” she says, drying off a pint glass in her hand with a white rag.
“Yeah, it’s been a rough few days.”
She leans over, and her lowcut shirt plunges to the middle of her bra, showing a lot of tan, wrinkled cleavage. She’s pretty. Has all her teeth. Her long brown hair is a bit dry, and she’s been out in the sun too much. She has on red lipstick and mascara, making her blue eyes pop. They aren’t innocent eyes. By the way she’s looking at me, I bet she has seen a lot of shit in her life. “What do you want to drink, darlin’?” her Southern accents drawls on.
“I’ll take anything you have on tap.”
“Sweetie, I might have been born, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Let me see some I.D.” Her fake red nails cut through the air as she turns her hand over, palm up, waiting for me to give her my license.
“Sure. I get that all the time.” I slug off my backpack and set it on the barstool next to me. I unzip the top pocket where I keep my fake I.D. and hand it to her. I only have it because Trevor and Mom get too fucked up to go get booze themselves half the time, so Trevor got me this I.D. It’s a good one too. No one has ever denied it.
She studies it, flashing her gaze from me to the license. It’s says that my name is Crystal Montgomery from Maine, born July 23rd, 1997. She hands the card back to me and then slaps her hand on the counter. “Damn, I wish I had your youth. I’d look like I was in my twenties instead of my damn fifties. Sorry bout that, little lady. I’ll get that draft to you right now. Do you want a menu?”