INTRODUCTION
Why do all sad poems, movies, and songs focus on first loves? They never mention the second love, which can be infinitely worse.
I drifted between crappy sleep and waking until the drone of interstate tires finally dragged me under. A blur of winter trees flashed past before my eyes shut. Seconds later, a high-pitched squeal forced them open again.
I shot up, disoriented, heart racing. An empty can crunched under my foot. No spastic over-correction of the steering wheel. We weren’t being tossed about in an unfolding accident. No screeching tires, no desperate braking. Nothing greeted me except the wrinkled nose and excited smile of my best friend, Britt.
I squinted at her through cry-swollen eyes. She sat straight up, hands gripping the wheel. I dragged my gaze to the windshield. We were approaching the sign. I mustered a weak smile. Her enthusiasm melted.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. You were asleep? Ugh, I’m so—”
I shook my head. “Britt, it’s fine. I mean, the heart attack wasn’t, but I’m glad you woke me up.”
A total lie, and she knew it.
I should be smiling. I should be grinning, snapping a cheesy pic of the “Welcome to Nashville” sign. This had been the exact plan for a decade. Now, that dream stretched out across the asphalt right in front of me.
I knew better. Every fractured piece of my personal history held a sharp reminder that men came with expiration dates. The moment the charm wore off. The moment things got too difficult. The moment you uncovered the truth they tried to hide.
We were driving away, but every mile marker we passed only amplified the terrifying fear that leaving him behind was the worst mistake of my life
