My dad calls my cell phone seven times before I make it to the Greyhound station. Seven times that I let it go to voicemail, utterly sick at the notion of listening to whatever explanations and excuses he'd come up with.
I've never let my dad's calls go to voicemail.
I've never been so angry at him.
It's impossible to drive that woman's stupid, beautiful face out of my mind. The fact that she was sucking face with my father in our restaurant – where I would play on the greasy floors before I even knew how to walk, where my mother worked part-time as a waitress when she wasn't at auditions, where we were happy – makes the betrayal even harder to bear.
"Next," the very unhappy ticket attendant yells into the microphone. My head snaps up as my phone vibrates in my pocket with call number eight. "You're holding up the line, miss."
"Oh. Sorry." I rush up to the window, eyes scanning the flashing departure cities and times. Philadelphia, Albany, Atlanta, Hartford...
"Where you headed?"
"Uh..." It's hard to think straight as it is, but with every second that the teller stares me down I feel like my window of opportunity is narrowing. Why am I here? I know precisely what I'm running from, but what am I running to?
When the teller narrows her eyes and opens her mouth, probably to suggest that I step out of line, I see a new destination flash across the board: NEW YORK, NY TO BOSTON, MA - DEPARTING 10:27AM, ARRIVING 1:17PM.
"I need a ticket for that bus," I say without thinking as I point at the glowing sign.
"I don't have eyes in the back of my head."
"Oh, sorry. I need a ticket for the 10:27 bus to Boston."
"One ticket for Boston it is." The teller swipes my credit card and hands me the ticket, and I do my best not to dwell upon the pathetic state of my checking account as I head towards the correct terminal. Money. Yet another thing that I haven't thought through.
Boston itself has never particularly excited me – not any more than New York has – but I remember taking a train ride there with my family when I was a little girl. It was early-October, just like it is now, and my vision exploded with fall foliage and cozy towns nestled into the forest. My mother would point out deer that hid amongst the leaves, and my father would hold my hand as I leaned over the rail for a closer look. Life had felt like one grand adventure back then, far before our lives had been ruined by...My throat tightens at the memory as my pocket vibrates with call number nine.
Sure, sightseeing won't solve all of my problems; not even close. But maybe getting away is precisely what I need to clear my head, to disengage from my old life. New York is my home, but it's also a collection of my worst memories and experiences. Staying there any longer would be akin to signing up for torture, and clearly I can't count on my dad to alleviate that stress.
As I stand there waiting for the bus to arrive, I try to make sense of it. My dad, with another woman inside of our restaurant, when some of Mom's things are still sitting in the apartment that's literally a staircase away. He never, ever mentioned wanting to meet someone else. He'd hardly been able to talk about Mom, and now I'm supposed to make room for a total stranger? I'm supposed to take this as anything other than careless infidelity?
When passengers finally start loading onto the bus bound for Massachusetts, I grip my duffel bag and squeeze into the tiny aisle, positively fuming. It smells like sweat and stale french fries, and suddenly all I can imagine are thousands of unknown pathogens floating through the air that probably can't even be replicated in a lab. I walk as far as I can to the back of the bus and choose a seat against the window, trying to make my expression so inhospitable that no one dares sit next to me. For a while, it seems to be working. But just as the final passenger boards, a middle-aged woman with shockingly red lipstick and a tiny dog clutched under her arm, she makes a beeline for the seat beside me. Of course. I groan internally, and it probably spills out of my lips a little too.
"You don't mind if I sit here, do you? Fluffers gets nervous if he's not next to the aisle." She seems so damn sweet and flustered that I have no choice but to scoot over. I force myself to smile and shake my head.
"No problem at all."
The woman fusses with her dog, Fluffers, and I draw my duffel bag closer to my chest like it's one of those comfort pillows for lonely people. As the bus starts to move, I find myself waiting for my phone to buzz with another call from Dad. Even after thirty minutes of jostling silence, it still doesn't come. The psychotic part of me wonders, Is that all I'm good for? Nine calls? I'd have thought at least twenty...
I sigh and pull out my phone. I have a million unanswered texts from Analia, a message that I'm pretending I never received from Eric, and nine missed calls from my father: each punctuated with a voicemail. I sigh again, and the dog lady snoops over my shoulder.
"That's a lot of messages, dear. It seems that many people are trying to get a hold of you."
"I've been very busy lately. Everything's fine," I grumble, and I feel like that meme of the dog whose house is going up in flames. Why do I have to justify myself to this stranger? Who brings their pet on a public bus, anyway? A crazy person, that's who.
"You should probably answer some of those messages," she continues sagely, as if I'd gotten on my knees and begged her to tell me something obvious. "Those people might be worried about you if you don't respond."
"Thanks for the input."
"You know, I have a daughter slightly younger than you. Every time her texts and calls go unanswered, it scares me to death. Behind every daughter is a mother that's scared to death, you know."
"Well, my mother's already dead, so I highly doubt she's worrying about my cell phone usage," I snap.
The woman's mouth freezes in a perfect "O" shape before her chin dips to fiddle with something that she can't seem to find in her purse.
She gets off at the very next stop.
***
My stare-off with Dreamy McPerfectface is not going very well.
About three hours into the bus ride, I noticed him staring at me, taunting, from the "Visit the Bahamas" ad haphazardly plastered over one of the overhead luggage holds. He sits with a lovely-looking woman at a table covered in white linen, enjoying a candlelit dinner at some swanky beach resort. He wears a dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves that expose his devastating forearms and a smile that could stop traffic. The woman cradles his cheek with her hand, her fingers tangled in his dark, wind-blown hair. Rockstar hair.
He's my dream man in every way. I can't stop staring at him.
I hate him.
His half-lidded eyes bore into my own, as if to say, See what you could have had if you weren't shit at relationships? Now answer Eric's text. He left some of his stuff at your apartment.
The apartment that I can no longer afford, because I can no longer receive student loans, because I am no longer a student. The apartment that, at one point, we had very happily shared. Until I messed everything up.
Damn you, Dreamy McPerfectface. I drop my eyes from the ad and try to let the foliage rolling past the bus lighten my spirits. I can't lie; it does make me feel a little better to see that I'm clearly no longer in the land of smog and car horns. As far as I can see, the sky is blue and cloudless. Rolling fields dissected by snake-like rivers are covered with red, orange, and yellow leaves like Bob Ross's autumnal wet dream. And for one moment, I feel like a child again, filled with wonder at the beauty and solitude of nature.
Three small children play outside of one of the houses we pass, and I feel a deep, grieving ache for something I've never known. A family. Children. True love. All things that are no longer in the cards for me, things that I'm not sure even exist anymore. But when you choose to give up on life, you can only ever do it one way: completely, and all at once. So I tamp down those stirring feelings and gaze coldly at the passing scenery.
All the while, Dreamy McPerfectface gazes down, continuing to judge me. I'm sure that my old English professor would have latched onto some sort of "eyes of God" metaphor. I knew there was a reason I never much liked Gatsby.
The bus continues to move through the forest until it slows and turns onto a back road. We pass a hand-made wooden sign that boasts "Welcome to Neverton, Massachusetts!" I have to narrow my eyes to fully make out the detailed etchings in the wood that elegantly depict pumpkin patches, cranberry pies, and...gravestones? My mouth goes dry.
What kind of a town invites visitors with the promise of cemeteries? And why have I never heard of Neverton, Massachusetts in my entire life?
My intrigue only grows as we move farther into the community. It's like a small town on steroids, the kind of perfect place you see on TV and know without a doubt doesn't exist beyond a film set. Or it could be like The Truman Show, crafted for the purpose of luring residents into the suburban American dream before they realize that it's all a facade. The wide-set streets are perfectly paved beneath leafy autumn canopies. Beautiful, historical homes can be found on every corner beside newly-built ones, and my interior designer brain starts to fire on all cylinders. Just look at those gabled roofs!
When we turn onto the main square, it becomes increasingly evident why the sign had included an etching of a cemetery. These people aren't just fans of Halloween; they are obsessed with it. Every storefront or rail or banister looks like a Halloween Express has thrown up on it - but in a tasteful way. I can barely make out the cozy-looking coffee shop behind a giant spider's web, and suddenly it feels as though I've entered another dimension, one in which people actually seem to care about aesthetics and community. So, the opposite of what I'm used to. For a split second, I start to wonder if I've actually stumbled into an alternate universe by accident.
And then, for the first time in years, I feel something sharp and addictive spark in my chest: curiosity.
"Anybody stopping in Neverton?" The bus driver asks, clearly about to blow past the bus stop. I stand so suddenly that I nearly get flung through the windshield. Why am I standing up?
"Me!" I shout, clearing my throat, and the bus driver pulls off to the sidewalk. Oh God. Why am I doing this? Why am I drawn to this weird, holiday-obsessed town? My hands shake as I disembark and the bus pulls away. I face the street clogged with decorated storefronts and smiling people. Panic officially starts to set in, because why am I here?
I hadn't thought this through. I was just going to ride to Boston, maybe stay a few nights at a motel, then catch another bus back home once I figured out how to confront my father. That would have been the rational option. I've never heard of this place in my life. Hell, it's so small they might not even have a place for me to stay tonight.
I suddenly have a vision of myself, bedraggled and sleeping on a park bench while squirrels nest in my hair. I need to leave. I need to catch another ride straight to Boston. I start to walk, searching for someone that can help me, but none of the pedestrians seem to take notice of me.
Increasingly more anxious thoughts continue to flit through my brain until they are very suddenly interrupted by the delicious scent of roasting coffee. It floats out from the cafe, a place called The Neverton Nest, like a crooked finger crooning Come here, my sweet. You look like you need some caffeine. It smells of dark chocolate and firewood and cinnamon, and something else that feels too familiar to name.
I pick up my duffel bag. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to stay just a little bit longer.