Between Hope & the Highway
Read Between Hope & the Highway Online
Authors: Charissa Stastny
Copyright © 2016 Charissa Stastny
All rights reserved
ASIN: B01KIQ0AGY
Dedicated to...
PART ONE
Shattered Hope
Happiness in the present is only shattered by comparison with the past.
Douglas Horton
Chapter 1
Liz
Sometimes life gets so messed up there’s no other option but to grab your boots and get the heck out of Dodge. I’d reached that point. Taking one last look at the framed photo in my hands, I clenched my teeth and slammed it on my desk.
No more tears!
Not when I could almost taste freedom.
Turning, I inadvertently knocked my white chair onto the hot pink rug Mom adored. She’d designed my room to look like Cupid barfed Pepto Bismol all over the floor, bed, and adjacent walls. Rubbing my knee, I set the chair aright and scanned my room for any overlooked items. A velvet box on the nightstand caused my eyelashes to spasm.
Dang it! No tears.
“Liz, honey,” Dad called from the hallway. “You need help, baby doll?”
Leaping over my bed, I hid the box behind my back as he peered around the edge of my door.
“Are you finished packing? I can take those down for you if you are.”
“That’d be great.” I slipped around the foot of the bed to unzip my pink luggage—another dreaded gift from Mom—enough to wedge the plush container inside without him noticing.
“Honey, are you sure about this?” He played with the handle of my prissy pink abominations. “It’s not too late to change your mind. Montana is so far away.”
“Nothing’s far anymore, Daddy.” I was way too old to still call him that, but he considered
Dad
too stiff and formal for his baby girl to use. “I can call and talk to you every night. We can even Skype.”
“You think they have reliable internet there? It sounded awfully remote from how you described it.”
“So maybe we won’t Skype.” I hoped not. Talking on the phone would be difficult enough. I expected my heavy work load to keep calls to a minimum.
As he trapped my face between his work-calloused hands, I squirmed and wondered where Viktorya was. She was late.
“Are you sure you’re not running from memories, baby doll?”
I knew without a doubt I was running, but since I hadn’t made any headway here, why not escape? The farther, the better. Memories could be weapons, and mine had become incoming missiles. In war, when the opposing side had superior fire power, you fled. It was called survival. For five months, I’d tried to participate in this thing called life. My heart still pumped blood, my lungs brought in oxygen, and my stomach digested food I forced down my throat. During the week, I answered phones at Ruthersford Construction for Dad and tried to act normal. But though I went through the motions, my heart was dead…and without a heart, I might as well have been one of those gross zombies shuffling around in movies with listless eyes and creepy outstretched arms, moaning for someone with a brain to put them out of their misery.
“Honey?”
I snapped back to the present and pulled his fingers off my face. “I’m sure, Daddy.” I glanced around, knowing I wouldn’t return until Thanksgiving. Eight months from now. It’d be the longest I’d ever been away from home. When the doorbell rang downstairs, I rubbed my hands together. “That’s her.”
Dad grabbed a suitcase in each hand. “If you want to come home, just call. Even if you’ve only been there a day, I’ll drive up and get you if you hate it.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He playfully tugged one of my wild curls. “You’re my baby girl. I can’t help worrying about you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
As he carried my luggage out, I grabbed my leather satchel and followed. He really was the best, even if he was a wee bit overprotective.
Mom waited at the bottom of the stairs. Clenching my teeth, I prepared for battle. She’d presented dozens of arguments against leaving. I wouldn’t know anyone and would be miles from civilization; I wouldn’t be in a wholesome, religious environment. School would be put on hold. The most important reason though was that I’d be getting older without any dating opportunities. She couldn’t bear to think of me as an old maid, but since I approached the ancient age of twenty, she believed I was at risk of that stigma.
At first, she gave me space to heal. Daddy forced her to. After a few months though, she declared a state of emergency and decided the answer to my grief was to date every man capable of walking. I can’t tell you how many people there are, besides Mom, who ache to make me happy, and feel their second cousin or friend’s son will do that for me. As if a heart could be mended so easily.
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this ridiculous scheme.” Mom’s bright pink lips quivered.
To hear her talk, one would think I was a rebellious, calloused soul, although in truth, I simply didn’t care for the same things she and my sister did. Her world had revolved around cheer camp and boys as a teenager, and she thought mine should too. When I turned into sort of a tomboy despite the pink, frilly room and dresses she forced upon me, it quite literally broke her heart.
I crossed my arms beneath my smallish chest—a deficit she’d bemoaned for years and hoped maturity would fix. It hadn’t. “I love you, Mom.” My words came out monotone.
“You’re not acting like it, leaving me like this…and for what? To hide away with a bunch of stinky animals in a place that doesn’t even garner a blip on a map?”
My muscles tensed. “Why can’t you be happy for me?”
“Because you’re throwing your life away.” She yanked me around and flicked at one of my curls. “When did you last condition this rat’s nest? You should have taken time to straighten your hair, Elizabeth.”
I dug my nails into my palms. Straightening my hair took over an hour and was tedious at best. But Mom loathed my untamed locks. She said I resembled Merida from Disney’s
Brave
. My hair wasn’t bright red like hers, nor was it as thick and unruly, but close enough. Mom hurled the name like a curse, but I took pride in being compared to the girl who broke the classic princess mold. Merida was wild, unsophisticated, brave, determined, and completely unconventional. Like me.