Page 254 of A Taste of Vanilla

I’m somewhere in Virginia when the car gives its first shudder. It’s not a dramatic one. It could have been written off. Everything is fine!

I glance at the dashboard. Fifty-six miles until empty.

Everything should be fine!

Another shudder.

“No,” I say out loud.

The car does it again.

The road is unfamiliar. Trees press close on both sides of the road, and a green exit sign appears ahead, half-blurred by rain, promising fuel, food, and hotels.

“Do not do this to me,” I whisper as I take the exit.

The dashboard dings.

Fifty-four miles to empty.

The engine coughs.

Liar.

“You lying little traitor.”

The car loses power as I exit the ramp.

For a few seconds, the only things I think about are my hands. My hands on the wheel. My hands gripping it too tightly. My hands correcting the skid when I drive through a deep puddle. My hands guiding the car over to the first turnoff I see while the rain hammers on the roof.

My hazard lights are blinking and I can barely breathe, my heart thudding far too loudly in my chest.

There’s no gas station.

There’s only a two-lane road, a farm stand with a sagging green awning, and the gravel lot I pull into.

PEACHES! TOMATOES! LOCAL HONEY!

BETRAYAL is more like it. They should really update the seasonal offerings.

The car rolls to a stop right in front of the stand, sputtering before the engine cuts out.

For a second, I just sit here, watching the rain pour off the awning in sheets.

The dashboard flashes and turns off.

I stare at it.

And then I start laughing.

Two months ago, I tried to outrun my life and ended up stranded with an empty gas tank. I did it again.

Different storm, different road, but the same woman.

My phone rings from the passenger seat.

Marley.

This time, I answer it with shaking hands.