Page 71 of First in Line

“What?”

“Would you like us to start working on the money transfer, so that it’s ready when the divorce comes through?”

Right, there’s that as well. The ten-million-dollar settlement I insisted on. “Yes, get it sorted.”

“Alright, sir.”

I hang up and stare at the phone for longer than I should. That’s how my mom finds me when she walks into the living room. Slouched on the armchair, staring at my phone, the screen now black.

“Everything good, sweetie?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

But no, everything isn’t good. I’m boiling within. This is bullshit. How dare she walk back into my life, flip it upside down, and then pull this shit? I was doing fine. It took me years, but I healed. I learned how to live without her. How to give my life meaning, even if she wasn’t around anymore.

Seven years of introspection and hard work to get over her, gone down the fucking drain in a few hours spent by her side. I’ve spiraled back into my feelings, into these emotions that nearly drove me to the brink of insanity back then. I still remember waiting for her to return, convincing myself she would. Week after week, I told myself she only needed more time. She wouldn’t abandon me. Not when we were so fucking close to the finish line. It was right there within reach. Less than a year away.

But she never came back. She “couldn’t” come back for some fucking reason.

Seven years. It took her that fucking long to step into my life again. And it was to ask for a divorce.

Fucking bullshit.

My mom, oblivious to my foul mood, casually says, “Dinner will be ready in—”

“I’m going out for a drive,” I interrupt her, standing from the armchair.

“What? We’re about to have dinner. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I just need to drive.”

“But—”

“Eat without me. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Refusing to keep arguing about this, I step out of the room and grab my keys and wallet on my way to the front door. I hear my mom talking to my dad, her tone worried, so I rush outside before they both get on my case. I don’t want to be around people right now. I might bite someone’s head off otherwise.

I get into Winifred, start, and back up without putting on my seatbelt. Just as I’m done pulling out of my parents’ driveway, I see them come out onto the porch. I ignore their motions asking me to wait, and take off, tires screeching on the asphalt.

I’m not that familiar with this part of the Denver suburbs, but I have a general idea of the directions that’ll lead me out of them. I drive without a purpose, often too fast, eager to get away from everything and everyone.

When I get to the state highway, I stop holding back. I need to get out of my head, and the best way I know how is to drive fast. When I’m locked in, focused on every turn, every pass, there’s no room left for any emotions, any thoughts. Only the road, the pedals under my feet, and the wheel in my hands.

There aren’t that many cars on this highway, especially at this hour, but I get honked at a bunch, some even flash theirheadlights at me, and I’m pretty sure two speed cameras get my plates. But I couldn’t care less. I’m in perfect control of my car, and though those people out there might think I’m putting them in danger, I’m not. I drive a hundred miles an hour faster for a living. This is child’s play in comparison.

It’s beginning to work. I lose myself in the speed, the thrill. It feels good not to be thinking about her. About the divorce. About what happened the last time we were together.

I’m just starting to relax when red and blue lights flash behind me.

“Fuck,” I mutter, looking into my rearview mirror.

I could lose whoever that is. I’m pretty sure that cruiser doesn’t hold a light to Winnie. It would take barely any effort to get rid of it. But they have my plates thanks to the speed cameras, so they’d find me, regardless.

A couple of speeding tickets are one thing. Evading a cop chase is another. And my skin is too brown to pull this kind of shit and get away with it.

So, resigned, I slow down and wait for a suitable spot to stop. Once I’m in it, the cruiser parks thirty feet behind me, its lights flashing brightly into the surrounding night. With my hands on the wheel, I watch in my mirror as the state trooper, a man in his fifties with a thick mustache, gets out of his cruiser.

He eyes my car as he approaches, one hand tucked into his belt by his weapon. He taps on the window on my side, so I open it slowly before returning my hand to the wheel.