4. 4
Road Runner - Lainey Wilson
T he nerve of that cocky bastard.
Rolling his eyes at me like I’m the inconvenience, flashing that smug grin as if he didn’t just take his sweet time getting my car sorted. And the way he said freckles—like he’d already decided I was some kind of running joke.
If I can get through the rest of my life without laying eyes on that man again, it still won’t be long enough.
Now I’m tearing down the bloody A1, the speedometer edging higher than it should, my car rumbling beneath me. At least it’s not belching smoke anymore. Small mercies.
Because, of course, something had to go wrong today—first the car, then the cocky mechanic, and the universe piling on for sport. Lucky for me, the auto shop was not far from where I was.
By now, my parents will know. Liam wouldn’t have wasted a second before ringing them, pouring on the charm while spinning some pitiful version of events where he’s the wounded hero and I’m the ungrateful villain. And, right on cue, they’ll lap it up. Every bloody word.
Standing up for their daughter? Not their style.
Mum’ll be too busy clutching her pearls over what the neighbours might think.
Coming back here was always going to be a nightmare.
This town runs on gossip, and news spreads faster than a bushfire in summer.
One whisper and the whole place will know I’m back.
Fine. Let them. I’m not here to make friends or explain myself.
This isn’t forever. I just need time. Space to breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like Liam’s lies and betrayal.
Somewhere I can reset. But even with all that swirling in my head, another thought keeps slipping in.
A face. A pair of rough, oil-stained hands.
The mechanic—Mike? Mikey? I didn’t even bother to catch his full name, but somehow, it’s stuck with me.
And those hands… steady, capable, the kind that know exactly what they’re doing—whether it’s under the hood of a ute or… somewhere else.
I blink hard, gripping the steering wheel tighter. What the fuck, Zoe? You’ve just walked away from your marriage—hell, the paperwork isn’t even drawn up yet—and you’re already thinking about another man’s hands on you? Get your shit together. Snap out of it.
The thought creeps in, uninvited, and I shove it right back the fuck out. I’ve got bigger problems than wondering if the small-town mechanic could handle more than a spanner. Needing a distraction, I call out, “Hey, Siri. Call Jeff Stanton.”
Jeff’s not just my best friend—he’s also a lawyer. The one person who can cut through this mess and actually make sense of it. We’ve known each other for years, and if there’s anyone I trust to steer me through Liam’s bullshit, it’s him.
The line rings three times before he answers.
“Zoe, darling. What’s up?” His voice is calm and achingly familiar. The exact anchor I need right now.
I blow out a sharp breath, my chest tightening as an ache rises behind my eyes—the first sign of tears since I left.
I didn’t cry when I caught Liam with Amanda.
Didn’t cry when I stuffed my life into a suitcase.
Didn’t cry during the endless drive. But now, with Jeff on the line, my body tries to betray me, the emotion clawing upward.
“Zoe? Are you alright?” Jeff’s voice pulls me back.
I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “Where do I even begin?”
“Oh no. That tone never means anything good. You’d better start talking.”
Parked down the street from my old family home, I glance at my phone. Of course. A barrage of missed calls from my parents and Liam.
I grip the steering wheel for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath.
“You’ve got this,” I murmur to myself, the words feeling flimsy against the weight of what’s ahead.
After a moment, I shove my phone into my bag, step out of the car, and slam the door shut with more force than necessary.
I’m halfway up the driveway when my phone rings again, the screen lighting up with Mum. Perfect timing.
With a resigned sigh, I answer, already bracing for the onslaught.
“Zoe, where the bloody hell are you?” she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Your father and I have been beside ourselves with worry! And Liam—oh, Liam—he’s been calling nonstop, absolutely frantic! You need to—”
I hold the phone away from my ear, rolling my eyes as her voice drones on. It’s muffled now, but no less irritating. Typical. Everyone’s worried about Liam. Poor fucking Liam.
“You can’t just walk out on your marriage, Zoe,” she continues, her tone escalating into that high-pitched panic I know too well. “This is your life. Your responsibility. You owe it to Liam to—” I’ve heard enough.
“Mum!” I stop her from continuing.
“Your father has been pacing the house, worried sick! You need to go home. Poor Liam—”
“I can’t,” I interrupt again, this time with more force.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I can’t…” I say slowly, “because I’m standing outside your house.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a muffled exclamation. Through the front window, I see the curtains twitch, and then there she is—my mum, phone pressed to her ear, staring at me like I’ve just risen from the dead.
“Oh my God,” she whispers into the phone. I hear my dad in the background, calling out, “Lorelai, what’s going on?”
“Surprise,” I say flatly, lifting my hand in a sarcastic little wave.
Mum’s mouth falls open as Dad appears behind her, confusion etched across his face.
“What do you mean? I thought things were going well. What happened?” My mother’s voice drips with concern.
A brittle facade barely masking the judgement underneath.
Because what she’s not saying—but I can hear loud and clear—is what did you do?
Of course, in her eyes, I’m always the one to blame. Always the problem.
My patience thins to a thread. I don’t want to talk about Liam or the life I’ve left indefinitely behind—not here, not now. “Have you told him I’m here?”
She hesitates, thrown by my bluntness. “No, but I was going to—”
“Don’t.” My tone is firm, daring her to argue.
“I’d rather he didn’t know. I don’t want him coming here.
I need space. Time to think.” A lie. I’ve made my decision, and there’s no going back.
Her lips purse, frustration flashing in her eyes, but she doesn’t push it.
Instead, she looks around the room, the air thick with tension.
Following her gaze, the familiar walls pull at memories I thought I’d buried.
Birthday parties in the lounge. Late-night arguments over curfews.
The comforting hum of the kettle boiling in the kitchen.
Nostalgia grips me, but it’s short-lived when my eyes land on Dad, seated in his usual spot, a walking stick propped against his chair.
My brow furrows. “What’s with the walking stick?”
Mum glances at him and sighs, exasperated. “He had a car accident two years ago. Some drunk driver hit him. If you’d been around, you’d know.” Her tone is loaded, each word a jab aimed straight at my chest.
My eyes widen. “A car accident? What happened?”
“It’s fine,” Dad says, waving it off like it’s no big deal. But I can see the weariness in his eyes. “I just haven’t been able to walk properly since. My knee took a hit, that’s all.”
Sadness swells, threatening to choke me. Dad’s always been this steady, quiet force in my life, the calm to Mum’s chaos. Seeing him like this—fragile—is a punch to the gut.
“You okay, love?” he asks gently, his calm voice a stark contrast to Mum’s bristling energy.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
“Fine?” Mum cuts in with a tsk. “You’ve turned up here unannounced, leaving your husband in a state, and you call that fine? You can’t just run away from your problems, Zoe!” she snaps. “You need to fix whatever’s happened.”
“I don’t have to do shit! He fucked up, not me.”
“Zoe, your mother and I are just concerned.”
“Concerned about what? Your only daughter? Or my marriage?”
“You’re a married woman now, Zoe,” Mum fires back. “You and Liam are supposed to work these things out.”
“Work things out? Like what? Let him screw another woman in our bed and call it a fucking mistake?” My voice breaks on the last word, but I push through. There’s so much they don’t know. So much I’m too terrified to say.
Dad’s eyes narrow, his face carefully blank, the way it always looks when he’s thinking.
That unreadable expression used to unsettle me as a kid, and it still does now.
His gaze drops, zeroing in on my arm. My fingers are absentmindedly rubbing at the dull ache there, where Liam’s grip left a bruise last night. I jerk my hand away, but it’s too late.
“Did something else happen?” His voice is low.
I shake my head. “No.” The lie burns all the way down, but I can’t give him the truth—not here, not now. I swallow hard. “He cheated on me, Dad. No… has been cheating on me. And I’m done.”
Mum’s hand ghosts her mouth. “Zoe, I-I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t,” I fire back before I can stop myself.
“Because I didn’t tell you. But you never check in, do you?
You never ask how I am. You just assume things—assume I’m the problem, that I’m the one who needs fixing.
Well, I’m not going back to him. I’m not fixing anything. He’s ruined it, and I’m done.”
“You can’t mean that,” she says weakly.
“I can, and I do.” The room is thick with tension, their voices overlapping—reasoning, lecturing, pleading. It’s all too much. My body feels heavy, my head pounding with exhaustion. I just need to sleep, to shut it all out, to breathe without their voices clawing at me.
“I’m done. I need to go,” I say over my shoulder as I grab my handbag and head for the front door.
“Zoe, wait,” Dad calls. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, but I can’t stay. Not here. Not with them. The air in this house feels stale, suffocating, like the walls are pressing in, trapping me in every judgemental glance and unspoken accusation. I need space—real space.
“Zoe!” Mum’s voice rings out behind me, her footsteps sharp, closing the distance. “Where are you going?”
“Someplace to sleep,” I say, my back still to them.
“Get back inside this house!” she snaps, the command echoing off the hallway walls.
“Where will you stay?” Dad calls out.
“I’ll figure it out.”
Mum calls out again, but this time I ignore her. She’s been giving orders my whole life, and I’ve obeyed more of them than I care to admit. Not this time. I’ll figure this out on my own. I always have. It’s what I do—pick up the pieces, patch the cracks, keep moving forward.
The thought settles, heavy in my chest. It isn’t a comfort, just a truth I’ve been carrying for years. Depending on anyone has only ever ended one way—hurt, disappointment, and the reminder that I was never built to fit the mould they wanted me in.
I’m done trying.