Chapter Two
It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection.
Twenty minutes later, after changing my clothes, packing up all my stuff, and saying a tearful goodbye to Betty, I find Reed standing by my car, arms crossed over his chest. “What are you doing, Janey?”
His words snap me fully into the moment. I see myself as from the outside: Jane Wreck in cutoff shorts and mud-splattered boots, keys in hand, trying to blow out of Kentucky with three boxes of clutter and nowhere to go. I almost expect Reed to block the car like a crossing guard.
“Just heading out for a bit,” I say, flipping my keys in the air.
He takes in the overstuffed trunk and my hasty outfit change. “For a bit, huh? Then why’d you pack up all your stuff? Bet you set the world record for the most art museum T-shirts ordered online, and here they are, all shoved into that dusty old duffel bag.”
His sarcasm is supposed to be affectionate, but it lands prickly, the way all Reed’s jokes do.
“You went through my stuff?”
“I was curious. What’s going on, Janey?”
I hate when he calls me Janey, as if I’m still twelve and he always knows better than me. “I’m not cut out for any of this. You know that.”
Reed leans against the trunk, arms folded. “So you’re running away without even saying goodbye?”
“I’ll call Mom and Dad from the road and explain.”
“What about Jackson?” Reed’s eyes narrow. “Did you two have a lovers’ quarrel?”
There are two routes I could take here: drop a truth bomb and try to escape amidst the rubble, or evade and make a quick exit. While route one is noble, now that I’ve decided to leave, route two is far more attractive.
“Jackson and I aren’t right for each other,” I say. “Deep down, I’ve known this for a while.”
Reed grins. “That right there sounds like the start of one of your sad little stories.” He squints at me, playful and mean all at once. “Hold on to Jackson—you don’t have what it takes to make it on your own.”
Have Reed and Melissa talked about this before, or did they just magically come to the same conclusion? I suck in a labored breath of moist, heavy air. “We’ll see about that, Reed. There’s only one way to find out.”
Stepping around him, I climb into my ancient Honda Accord, which Dad bought used when I was sixteen. The windshield is already splattered with crusted bug guts from my last run to Keeneland, and the A/C doesn’t quite work unless you bang the dash three times.
After cranking the engine, I roll down the window. “Take care of yourself, Reed. And watch out for that wife of yours. She’s a viper!”
His face wears a mixture of shock and confusion. As I pull out of the driveway, I watch him and the house shrink in the rearview mirror.
My car doesn’t have Bluetooth, so I flip on the radio. Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” comes on. That’s gotta be a sign. Don’t know where I’m going, not exactly, but I may as well head west, toward horse ranches and hiking terrain like in Escape from the Springs.
I get onto I-70. My phone, which sits on the passenger seat, rings. I glance at its screen. Mom. I let it go to voicemail.
Mom’s next three calls go ignored, then one from Dad.
By mile marker 176, I’m eating glove compartment peanut M&Ms, and the seat’s worn upholstery makes my skin itch.
Sometimes I get radio reception, but it’s usually either the Bible station or classic rock—some rotation of Led Zeppelin, Queen, The Eagles, and AC/DC.
What I wouldn’t give to hear some Taylor Swift or The Chicks.
Instead, I settle for the sound of my own brain, gnawing at today’s events and fighting against acid reflux.
By sunset, I cross the Mississippi and pull over in Belleville, Missouri, the outskirts of which are a flat patch of chain motels and truck stops. After checking into a Holiday Inn, I call Bront?.
She answers within seconds. “Hi! How was the engagement party?”
It makes something swell in my chest, hearing her voice. “I skipped out.”
There’s a pause. “Skipped out . . . how?”
Collapsing against the sagging mattress, with its awful brown-and-tan polyester bedspread, I stare at the ceiling. “Skipped out big-time. After I caught Jackson and Melissa having sex. Right now, I’m in a hotel in Belleville, Missouri. But I’m Colorado bound.”
She gasps. “Holy shit. Back up. I need details.”
Bront? works in Atlanta for an environmental non-profit, her dream job.
We’ve been BFFs since eighth grade, when we bonded over our boycott of the middle school’s cafeteria lunches, furious that they didn’t offer vegetarian options.
When she left Kentucky, we both cried alligator tears, promising each other that we’d still talk every day.
“So what’s the plan?” she asks after I’m done telling her the whole story. “Is this like The Chicks’ song, ‘Wide Open Spaces’?”
“No. In that song, the parents hug their daughter and give her their blessing. But I’ve gone rogue and I have no plan.”
“Oh, you have a plan,” Bront? says. “You always have a plan. You just haven’t acknowledged it yet.”
I twirl a lock of my hair. “Do you think I could get work at a ranch out west? Like, walk up and say, ‘Hi, my background’s in thoroughbreds, but when it comes to reading a horse, I’m like a savant’?”
“Why not?” she says. “May as well try. What have you got to lose?”
“Only everything. Right now, I could turn around and beg my family’s forgiveness. I could probably even get Jackson back. But I don’t want him back.”
“Of course you don’t. That’s why you called me and not your mom.”
Bront? understands me so well.
***
In the morning, I drive west, stopping only when my bladder’s going crazy or the need for caffeine takes over. I cross into Kansas, where the fields go on so far that the horizon just stops meaning anything. By noon, the phone vibrates again, but this time I click Accept before I can overthink.
“Jane,” Mom says. Her voice is brittle, slicked with bright determination. “Your father and I are worried sick. Explain yourself, please!”
“Sorry, Mom.” If I had any idea what else to say, I’d say it. Seems my verbal skills have just gone stagnant in my brain.
“Look,” she says, “I understand getting scared. Marriage is a big step. But Jackson is a good man. Be grateful that he’ll overlook your . . .” she inhales, seemingly struggling for the right word ”. . . hang-ups.”
I rub my forehead, confused. “What now?”
“Sex is a natural part of an adult relationship, Jane. Jackson’s been patient far longer than most men would be. Don’t blame him for wanting to get to second base. It’s to be expected—”
“Mom! Stop!”
Neither of us speaks, and the silence between us swings like an anvil. I grip the steering wheel, staring straight ahead as cows, wheat fields, and barns blur in my periphery. “What did Jackson tell you?”
There’s a sharp intake of breath. “Just that he asked you to finally be intimate with him, and you panicked and left.”
It takes a minute for me to process what she just said. Of course Jackson lied.
Laughter bubbles out of me. “Mom, I gotta go. I’ll call you when I’m settled.”
“Wait,” she cries. “When are you coming home?”
“Not for a long, long time.”
***
Once I’m in Colorado, I visit every horse ranch I can find. First in Walsenburg, then in La Veta, Fort Garland, Alamosa, and Monte Vista. At each place I ask if they’re hiring, but I’m met with a series of nos.
Then I get to Sugar Pine Springs. It’s an adorable town that sits in the shadow of a mountain.
There’s a park in the town square that’s full of trees, and a main street lined with two bookstores, restaurants and bars with patios, and a two-story outdoor equipment store called Alpine Adventures.
It’s also the home of Marigold Sanders, author of Escape from the Springs.
I stop in the diner for a bite to eat and ask the waitress, “Are there any horse ranches in the area?”She bites the corner of her lip.
“Only one. It’s private, for retired horses, mistreated horses, that sort of thing.
Called Resilience Ranch. But it’s not open to the public. ”
My heart rate increases. “Can you tell me how to get there?”