I walked out of the train station, finding myself in a small, dingy town whose economy hadn’t boomed since somewhere around the Revolutionary War, when saloons and muskets were the hot topics. It was very early morning, drizzling but not cold. The final days of an Indian summer, giving way to fall. I sat in a coffee shop and drank black, bitter coffee until the stores opened. I went into the first store I found that sold clothes and bought a pair of jeans, a pair of sneakers, a t-shirt, a navy sweatshirt and a raincoat.
I left my wedding dress in the changing room.
The road was long – around seven miles or so – and I thought of getting a cab. Instead, I decided to walk. The bag I had with me was small, made of soft leather with a wide strap so it wouldn’t be hard to carry. All I had in it was my wallet, my phone, some sexy lingerie (for the wedding night) and a six-thousand-dollar white Ralph Lauren wrap dress (for the day after). I let the hot tears fall and cool in the misty morning as I walked.
I knew these roads. They were mapped into my soul. I’d walked them as a child. I knew these backwoods paths. I’d used them to hide, and to run.
And I knew where I was going.