What's a Girl to Do?

Chapter Six: Off the Rails

I drove all night, not having this much energy since I'd pulled all-nighters in preparation for student court trials in college. When I reached the border, I didn't think twice as I got in line, the desert around me warm and dry, and I found I wanted more of that in my life. I provided my ID and passport to the border patrol, and they let me pass without a second glance. Fucking Trump's America, I thought to myself as I continued along the long stretch of highway. Trusting white people just because of the color of their skin...

As I drove, I took a cursory glance at my cell phone, lying in its charging compartment, where it had been since I put it there the afternoon before. It lit up again—Ian was calling for the millionth time—and I couldn't bear it. This time, out of frustration, I ignored the phone call and kept right on driving. The stretch of road continued for as far as the eye could see, and after putting about an hour between myself and the border patrol, I pulled off at the first bar I saw. It was a tequila bar, but I was fully prepared to accept whatever consequences came my way from the moment the foreign drink came to my lips.

I got out of my car, pocketing my keys, ID, and passport in case the bar had a thing about giving alcoholic beverages to foreigners without proper identification. Stepping inside the rural-looking brick building, I caught a whiff of home cooking from the back, but found I did not want to eat, despite not doing so for nearly twenty-four hours by that point. I stepped up to the bar, ordering a tequila sunrise, and the bartender eyed me for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and mixing the drink for me. I sat there, ridged upon the barstool, hoping that nobody in the bar would speak to me. All I wanted to do, in that moment, was temporarily drown out my sorrows in a foreign country—and even though Canada was closer, I didn't care.

"Where you from?"

Shit, I thought to myself as the bartender placed my drink in front of me. The damned customers can't keep to themselves, even here... "South Side," I replied, not wanting to get too technical about my identity as I brought my drink to my lips.

"Of Chicago?"

I cleared my throat at the interrogation, the taste of the drink alien to me as I fought to keep my wits about me. "Yeah," I replied.

"Like it there?"

I shrugged. "I was shipped off to Seattle at three months—adopted," I say, putting as little emphasis into my words as possible. "Just moved back."

"Why?"

"Got a job," I said.

"Doing what?"

"I'm a fucking attorney, okay?!" I say, turning to look at the person speaking for the first time. I looked him up and down—slicked back black hair, silver eyes... Looked like one of the most normal, white-bread people out there. "What?!" I demanded as he looked at me then, as if he'd seen a ghost. "What's your deal?!"

The guy sitting next to me shakes his head, turning to look at the beer in front of him. "Fuck," he said, pushing it away from them. "I spend way too much time here..."

"Alcoholic?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "If you drink to forget."

I scoff then, picking up my drink and downing another sip, my senses already starting to swim out of control. "Oh, yeah?" I asked. "What could you possibly have to forget?"

"A lot of shit."

"Huh," I said, shrugging my shoulders like I didn't care.

"What's your name?"

I rolled my eyes, hating my moniker now. "Scarlett Davies."

"Nice," he replied. "Do you have anything to forget?"