FINDING MALLORY
Chapter One
Chapter One
“I’ve already explained why I’m doing this, Michael.” He whines, but I cut him off. Because I can. “Looks like I’m almost to Boise, and I need to hang up. There’s road construction ahead and traffic’s piling up. I’ll call you tonight,” I lie in my best Barbie-pink voice.
Click.
Good riddance, asshole.
After tossing my cell onto the passenger seat, I focus on the green highway signs. Where in the hell is the exit to Highway 22? Despite my coffee-addled nerves and the thick flow of traffic around me, I eventually find the exit.
Okay. Nearly there.
I guide my baby, a classic red Mustang I paid for myself, thank you very much, toward the Oregon Coastal Range. Which happens to be nowhere near Boise, Idaho. Suck on that, Michael Sullivan.
My right foot, sensing the urgency racing through my blood, presses the gas pedal closer to the floor. I welcome the speed. I need to be moving. And I need distance. Distance will definitely help. I only hope it’s far enough.
I hate him, but he’s always there, somewhere in my mind. Around every corner of every thought, his beautiful face looms and I then I hate him even more.
“I don’t understand why you are doing this,” he’d said much earlier this morning, his rage simmering below the surface. “My job is here. I’m a doctor, I can’t leave. They chose me over two hundred other applicants! And what about the condo I’m buying downtown?” He’d hurled his hands in the air. The beeping of his phone alerting him to a text tossed a pause in his tirade as he checked his message.
It had been just past six in the morning, when the air was sticky and night shadows lingered; a late July moon peeking through the window. Rosemary had been sitting on the kitchen table, occasionally licking her paw, unimpressed with her least favorite human. After he’d sent a text to whomever, he picked up his tantrum again.
I’d tried to keep an even pace to my actions, to appear as if I were packing for a regular road trip like we used to take, but it had been impossible with my shaking hands. My only salvation was he’d been too distracted to notice.
“It’s a great opportunity for me, Michael. This summer internship will look great on my resume.” My mind had raced with thoughts unsaid. I’ll need another bag. This won’t fit in one paper sack. Crap. Fuck it. I need to leave. I just need to go. I’d slid the full bag onto the chair next to me.
“You seriously couldn’t find an internship here? We live in California, for Christ’s sake.” He’d moved his arms in a wide arc. “There are schools here.”
“It’s just a few weeks, Michael.” I’d smiled at him, lied some more to him.
He’d growled and stomped away.
I remember getting out another bag as casually as I could and humming, futzing, and casting sly glances at the clock. Road trip, just a little road trip. Nothing to see here. The room had been stifling, sweat had been rolling down my back. I knew his schedule, he should have been getting ready for his shift. He should have already been in the shower. He’s never late to anything. But it wouldn’t be his fault, would it? Michael’s super power was to twist any situation, fling it around, and put the blame on me. What a dickhead. His ass was already on the line six ways from Sunday at that hospital. That’s what happens when you’re a resident who likes to distract the pretty nurses.
Just keep moving, Mallory.
Click.
Good riddance, asshole.
After tossing my cell onto the passenger seat, I focus on the green highway signs. Where in the hell is the exit to Highway 22? Despite my coffee-addled nerves and the thick flow of traffic around me, I eventually find the exit.
Okay. Nearly there.
I guide my baby, a classic red Mustang I paid for myself, thank you very much, toward the Oregon Coastal Range. Which happens to be nowhere near Boise, Idaho. Suck on that, Michael Sullivan.
My right foot, sensing the urgency racing through my blood, presses the gas pedal closer to the floor. I welcome the speed. I need to be moving. And I need distance. Distance will definitely help. I only hope it’s far enough.
I hate him, but he’s always there, somewhere in my mind. Around every corner of every thought, his beautiful face looms and I then I hate him even more.
“I don’t understand why you are doing this,” he’d said much earlier this morning, his rage simmering below the surface. “My job is here. I’m a doctor, I can’t leave. They chose me over two hundred other applicants! And what about the condo I’m buying downtown?” He’d hurled his hands in the air. The beeping of his phone alerting him to a text tossed a pause in his tirade as he checked his message.
It had been just past six in the morning, when the air was sticky and night shadows lingered; a late July moon peeking through the window. Rosemary had been sitting on the kitchen table, occasionally licking her paw, unimpressed with her least favorite human. After he’d sent a text to whomever, he picked up his tantrum again.
I’d tried to keep an even pace to my actions, to appear as if I were packing for a regular road trip like we used to take, but it had been impossible with my shaking hands. My only salvation was he’d been too distracted to notice.
“It’s a great opportunity for me, Michael. This summer internship will look great on my resume.” My mind had raced with thoughts unsaid. I’ll need another bag. This won’t fit in one paper sack. Crap. Fuck it. I need to leave. I just need to go. I’d slid the full bag onto the chair next to me.
“You seriously couldn’t find an internship here? We live in California, for Christ’s sake.” He’d moved his arms in a wide arc. “There are schools here.”
“It’s just a few weeks, Michael.” I’d smiled at him, lied some more to him.
He’d growled and stomped away.
I remember getting out another bag as casually as I could and humming, futzing, and casting sly glances at the clock. Road trip, just a little road trip. Nothing to see here. The room had been stifling, sweat had been rolling down my back. I knew his schedule, he should have been getting ready for his shift. He should have already been in the shower. He’s never late to anything. But it wouldn’t be his fault, would it? Michael’s super power was to twist any situation, fling it around, and put the blame on me. What a dickhead. His ass was already on the line six ways from Sunday at that hospital. That’s what happens when you’re a resident who likes to distract the pretty nurses.
Just keep moving, Mallory.