Lost Years: Prequel to Back Home

Year 1: Chapter 1

The cab drive home is spent in silence, deafening silence. My ears are still ringing from the deafening wedding reception music. I watch as we crawl through Winter River, getting closer and closer to the house. I should be nervous. It would make sense to be nervous, to have second thoughts, but I've made up my mind. I can't take it in that house anymore, Dad forgetting our deal that we could talk about Mom whenever I wanted and then still marrying Delia even though barely a year has passed since we even met her. It was too much. The cab crawls up the driveway and parks.

"I'll be right back," I mumble to the driver, taking note that the meter was well over a hundred dollars at this point. I feel hot whips of panic that I'll run out of money before I can even get to New York. Despite being mid-May, the air was chilly tonight, and I hugged the tux jacket closer to me as I crept up to the front door. I grab the spare key from the top of the porch light, standing on my tip-toes to reach it. I'm glad that Winter River is a small, safe town where Dad and Delia feel safe leaving a key there. I'm hoping they'll continue to do that so that I can come home one day.

I open the door as silently as possible, only opening it enough for me to slip inside. It creaks as I close it, and I can feel my breath hitch in my throat. I stand and wait in silence. There isn't a sound. I'm in the clear. The door shuts fully with a click and I take off my dress shoes, tucking them into a cubby by the door. I sneak up the stairs, avoiding every board that creaks and not putting any weight on the railing. I left my bedroom door open this morning and it's still open. I reach under my bed and grab the suitcase I had stashed there, popping it open to double-check that I have everything I need and to grab the wad of cash sitting on top of all my clothes. Most of it was all stolen from Dad and Delia, especially Delia. She was never good at keeping track of her money. And Dad was stupid enough to trust me with the passcode for his lockbox where he kept a stash of emergency bills. I flick through the cash and grab my wallet from my jacket. Combined I have a few thousand. I shove the money back into my wallet which I toss on my bed.

I quickly shuck off the tux and change into the clothes I left sitting on the dresser. Jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. Old clothes, good for travel and blending in. I leave the tux on the bed, close my suitcase and leave the room. I quickly shove my feet into a pair of sneakers by the door and grab my purse. I shove my wallet into the purse as I reach the cab. The cab driver looks annoyed at me taking longer than I had said, but he says nothing. He's getting paid for the time I took in the house. The second I buckle my seatbelt, the car starts backing out of the driveway. I cast one last look at the house, my home, and feel tears sting my eyes. Even though I want to leave, want to get out, I am going to miss my family. I didn't even get to say goodbye to Adam and Barbara. I didn't say goodbye to anyone.

The bus pulls into the station and stops. I untuck my knees from my chest and stretch as I stand. My back hurts. My legs hurt. My ass hurts. I had to transfer from a cab to a bus back in Hartford, and I wish I could've taken another cab. I smell like bus, stale air, musty seats, and body odor. I clutch my suitcase with both hands as I carry it off the bus, thanking the driver as I step out of the door. The station smells like exhaust and my stomach lurches uncomfortably. If I had eaten in less than twelve hours, I might have retched. Instead, I tuck my face into the collar of my sweatshirt and walk further into the station, looking for an information desk. It takes a few minutes to spot it amongst the food and souvenir kiosks, but I find it nonetheless. I walk towards the desk and ask for information on nearby, cheap hotels. The lady behind the desk gives me a disapproving, skeptical look.

"How old are you, Miss?" She asks me with a cocked eyebrow.

"Old enough to travel by myself," I respond with ease, matching her tone of distrust. I know the laws, I know what I can and can't do. She can't withhold information from me just because I'm young. The receptionist presses her lips into a thin line and passes me a pamphlet. On the first three pages, it lists nearby hotels, and it folds open into a map. Killing two birds with one stone. I walk out of the bus station, unfolding the map and trying to orient myself. I have no idea what hotel will be the cheapest, but if New York is anything like it was before I moved, I know some neighborhoods that would make the hotels have lower prices.