Running Away

chapter two: stupid, conniving, hippie bastards

Edited. 

T W O : STUPID, CONNIVING, HIPPIE BASTARDS.

- Taylor -

The duffel bag I had packed to the point of bursting with my stuff was hidden in the back of my closet. I kept glancing at it as I paced back and forth, as if it would sprout legs and walk away if I didn't constantly supervise it. But the amount of excitement I'd felt when the idea of running away had come to mind, was now matched with an equal amount of dread.

I had literally nowhere to go. If I stayed in the city of Seattle, I'd get caught in less than a day. But going out of the state of Washington didn't seem like a much better option. Sure, I had relatives all over the country—the only problem was, they didn't know who I was, and if a mysterious girl who claimed to be Paul and Janelle O'Donnell's second daughter showed up at their doorstep... well, let's just say that I would be locked up in an actual jail cell for the rest of my life.

Snatching my phone up from my desk, I flipped through the contacts for the tenth time. I didn't have many, but I kept hoping that a random number would pop up that I could call. But again, as I scrolled through my minimal contact list, the same names appeared on the screen; Andrew, Devon, Is, Janelle, Paul.

Andrew, Devon, Is, Janelle, Paul.

Andrew, Devon, Is, Janelle, Paul.

Devon.

Collapsing onto my mattress, I smothered a laugh between gritted teeth as my thumb hovered over the call button. Devon Blythe was my mother's sister's son, the only one of my cousins who knew that I existed. And he was a sophomore in college, who lived in an apartment by himself in San Francisco. It was the perfect plan.

I lifted the phone to my ear as soon as I hit send, almost bouncing around from excitement. I listened as it rang once, twice, three times. I was about to cut the line when a groggy voice answered.

"This is Devon."

I squeaked when I heard him speak, covering my mouth with my fist immediately. It was a quarter past one in the morning, which meant no one else in the house was awake. Sucking a collective breath in through purposely clenched teeth, I whispered, "It's Taylor."

"Oh, Taylor," he yawned, and I felt guilt wash over me when I realized that I'd woken him up. "Is something wrong? You know it's like two a.m., right?"

"Sorry," I apologized. Gathering my racing thoughts, I continued, "I—um—I need a favor."

"Okay, shoot," Devon said, without a hint of hesitation in his response.

A slight smile curled around my mouth at his sincerity, but it didn't untwist the knot that was already formed in my stomach. Falling back onto my mattress, I ran through the possible explanations through my head, trying to pick the one that sounded the least alarming. But, unfortunately, there was just no pleasant way of saying it.

So, bracing myself for the possible rejection, I muttered, "I... I need somewhere to stay. I'm—uh—I'm leaving—um, leaving on Friday."

"Taylor," Devon mused, and I could recognize the hint of amusement in his voice. "I can't hear a word you're saying. Speak up." Someone else grumbled something in the background, and I identified Devon's shout echoing through the speaker. It was apparent that he was arguing with a third person.

"I'm running away from home." I stated, feeling a weight drop down onto my chest as I said it aloud.

"What?" He screeched, and the unknown individual on his side of the line groaned again. "Why would you—what do you—hold on, you're—why are you—" When he couldn't complete a single one of his sentences, Devon just stopped talking, and I felt the pressure of his silence urging me to elaborate.