Missed Exit (Rocky Start Romance)

1. Greta

1

Greta

I Hope His Tailgate Falls Off

I shake my head to ward off the highway hypnosis. It happens so easily out here in the middle of nowhere, but I’m too close to my destination to stop now. And I’ve come too far to doze off at the wheel and wake up in the afterlife with some angel narrating the highlights of my life story—especially the last chapter.

Thanks, but no thanks. Been there. Done that. Have the emotional scars to prove it.

Another shake of my head and downing the dregs of my now very warm, watered-down cold brew wakes me back up. Whoa, that’s bitter. Me and my coffee: both bitter and past our prime.

Slipping back into self-pity-mode is exactly what I promised my therapist I wasn’t going to do . . . right after I promised her I wasn’t going to run away from my problems.

What does she know, anyway?

She wouldn’t answer when I asked the question—just gave me that astonished look she gives for a hundred and fifty bucks an hour—but I’m sure she never had a fiancé confess that he’s been fucking his brother’s wife the day after her wedding planner mailed their invitations. She and I are not the same.

And since she’s never been through it, she doesn’t actually have a clue what I’m dealing with.

It’s been six weeks since the bomb went off, and I still get messages every time someone new finds out the wedding is off. They all start off sympathetic and caring, but quickly slide right into the prying questions.

The bastard could’ve at least done me the favor of imploding our fairytale one day sooner.

Okay, maybe we weren’t exactly living a modern-day fairytale, but his timing added insult to injury.

It’s not like you can call back your mail from the US Postal Service. Don’t even ask. Begging won’t work either. And they’re immune to the tears of a broken-hearted public-school teacher.

As if we don’t have enough reason to cry every damn day without having our hearts shattered by an architect named Brick, who’s been extremely devoted to a very important project for going on six months now. So much overtime. So many out-of-town visits to the building site.

Yes, really. On both counts—his name and his behavior.

Clearly, I’m not so great with initial clues. Or apparently, any clues thereafter. Because I’m told there were additional clues. Did my friends bother to tell me when they saw those clues?

To be fair, Carter insists that she did, but I wasn’t ready to hear it.

So, I made excuses for him.

I vaguely recall a few conversations where that might have happened. A lot of my memories are vague right now, sort of like ruined watercolors where all you can make out are browns and grays and pukey greens all smeared together.

What’s done is done, though. And I’m done with my sad, ugly memories.

But I’m not running away; just hitting the reset button. Six months in Agate Ridge, Texas—miles and miles from Brick the Dick. That’s his name now. Anyway, this little break from crisis should be plenty of time to heal my heart and put me back on track.

One thing’s for sure: I won’t run into anyone I know. And that is exactly the way I want it. I’ll be a stranger in a strange place.

I won’t even bother to meet my neighbors. In fact, I’ll avoid them at all costs. This is my hermit era, and nobody is going to ruin it for me. I’ve earned this shit.

A new crop of cars appears in my rearview mirror. It’s been like this for the entire seven-hour drive. Clumps of traffic and then miles of near isolation. I prefer the latter, but I know we’re getting close to Agate Ridge. It’s the farthest west exit for a string of small towns right off I-10, the last populated patch before another long stretch of nothing.

I’ll be far from any bustling cities, but there’s enough of a population to warrant a small grocery store and emergency services. And those were just about my only requirements, so it’ll be perfect.

I watch as a bigger vehicle breaks away from the pack behind me. It’s coming up fast, so I move into the right lane. My exit shouldn’t be too far ahead, anyway.

Oh, not this asshole again!

This wannabe cowboy in his big, black pickup truck made my drive hell for nearly two hours. I thought he turned off miles ago. Right after I let my middle finger do the talking.

Shit. I’m not sure I want this guy to catch up to me again. Maybe he changed his mind about letting me get the last word, or in our case, the final gesture.

He could be crazy. He could be dangerous!

I floor it, but my car struggles with the command. The acceleration has been shit since about an hour this side of Austin, but she’s basically running fine once she’s up to speed. Just takes her a little while to get up and go, that’s all.

Why isn’t she getting up and going right now? Is she slowing down? She’s dying? No, no, no, no, no . . . not when I’ve got a raging psychopath on my ass!

Finally, my engine gets the message and the RPMs start to climb. Yes!

Not today, you revenge-seeking redneck!

I honk my horn as I blow past him. He immediately moves over into the right lane behind me. Is he going to follow me now? Uh-oh. Maybe I honked too soon.

Nope. I’m safe. He just moved over to exit again. Can’t make up his mind where he’s going, apparently. Or maybe he didn’t want to chance it. For all he knows, I could be the crazy one. I could be dangerous!

“Chicken!” I yell as I watch him in my passenger side mirror, cruising away from the interstate. “What’s the matter? Afraid of little ole me in my little red car? Not so big and bad after all, are you?” I laugh as he fades out of sight.

Ahhh, good times. Even during the darkest of days, there’s always something to laugh about.

That’s exactly the kind of bullshit I used to say to my middle schoolers, but sometimes, there’s a little truth buried in the bullshit.

And if I can laugh on my way to a rented duplex in the ass crack of west Texas with a broken engagement, no job to go back to when school starts, and my dignity in the gutter . . . well, sometimes all you can do is laugh.

Even when you realize every important choice you’ve ever made has been total bullshit.

But I’m done with that life. It’s firmly in my rearview mirror, and I’m forging ahead.

Fuuuuuuck!

The exit for Agate Ridge is literally in my rearview right now.

There is nothing ahead but wide-open road. For miles and miles . . .

I’m supposed to meet the moving truck in an hour, and that asshole took my exit!

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. There is no need to catastrophize the situation. I’ll just take the next exit and circle back around.

This is simply a minor delay, not a major complication. I’ve got this.

New, uncomplicated life, here I come!