Imprint of Mate

I was ready. My foot pressed the accelerator with more force. My fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles were white. It was over. I would never go back to him. Never. —That's it—, I ordered myself. Again, I looked in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the red cherry convertible Jhon was driving behind me. There was still a part of me that half-wished he was. Shame and humiliation had been constant companions. It was just me and my old runner on an unfamiliar road. I had bought it as part of a deal to replace the elegant black Mercedes Jhon had given me. He had bought me so many things that, eventually, I felt my entire existence was bought. The diamond earrings in the ashtray? Anniversary gift. The Chanel bag? Birthday gift. Even the French manicure and my too-expensive blonde hair were on his credit card. The reminder that I needed gas soon pecked at my chest. Panic nibbled at my neck. My fingers beat on the steering wheel. I was too low on supplies and too close to the Canadian border. I needed to stock up before crossing. I found a Texaco at the next exit, but beyond that, my only option was a massive Walmart two miles away. That was good. Jhon knew I preferred Target. If he was chasing me, he probably wouldn't have seen here. Still, I parked close to the exit, close enough to quickly return to my truck if needed. Surprisingly, it was quite busy inside for being eight o'clock at night in Washington state. Ordinary people buy things with ordinary looks. It wasn't hard to blend in with the crowd, but even without the split lip and the black eye, I would have stood out like a sore thumb. I put on a hoodie and kept my head down as I threw new clothes into my cart: practical leggings and a few long-sleeved shirts. Sweatshirt. Rain jacket. I grabbed the cheapest underwear I could find, comfortable cotton briefs and some simple flesh-colored bras. It was liberating to leave lace behind. Jhon always liked lace. My mind kept wandering back to him too much today. To the sweet memories that flowed smoothly like a fine whiskey instead of the ones that choked me. He liked it rough, but too many nights left me with bruises on my neck to feel the same. When I passed by a mirror in a corner of the women's section, I forced myself to look at the black and blue map on my face that he had left. The cut on my cheek, red and swollen, would probably take longer to heal. I stepped away and quickly made my way to find hair dye. Dozens of options spread out before me, but I had to think of one that wouldn't turn too orange. So, I opted for my natural color, a dark chestnut, almost black, that I inherited from my mother. The self-checkout was so crowded that I thought about leaving my cart and running. I couldn't risk someone seeing my face. I was already scared of the trace I was leaving. Terrified that the cash I had taken from Jhon's wallet at three in the morning wouldn't take me all the way to Canada. I couldn't let him find me, but I also couldn't stand that I still wore clothes he had bought. Every inch of my body felt like a transaction happening three states away. So, I waited in line and ignored the worried cashier who tried to get my attention. Fifteen minutes filled with anxiety and $143.87 later, I was back on the road, debating with myself if I should find a rest area to spend the night or just keep driving until I couldn't anymore. I had been on the road for sixteen hours, leaving Malibu, and technically hadn't slept in two days, but I refused to even consider sleeping until I reached Canada. I had stolen Jhon's passport before leaving and threw it, along with my pink iPhone, into the Pacific Ocean on the way to town. When I reached the border, I knew I couldn't go much further. I could feel how red my eyes were with every blink. The border guard looked at my passport and asked me to take off my hoodie. His expression went from suspicious to alarmed in half a second. —Ma'am, are you okay?— he said, handing me back my passport. —I'm fine, thanks.— —You're not in any kind of trouble, right?— —No, sir. Absolutely not.— I smiled, feeling the cut on my lip open a little. —Is there a rest area nearby?— —Yes, ma'am. One about a mile from here and another about thirty minutes ahead.— —Thank you.— He nodded. —Be careful out there, ma'am.— I left the booth, wondering if I should have brought Jhon's passport with me. The Pacific was deep, but not that deep. The water in the bathroom of the rest area thirty minutes from the Canadian border was warm at least. I scrubbed and rubbed until my skin was raw. It took me two days to drive along the coast of Canada. Two days of junk food bought at service stations with Canadian money that a kind man in a town called Quesnel exchanged for a couple of hundred-dollar bills. I didn't know if I was being ripped off, but it didn't matter the exchange rate, because I was here. In Canada. And I was starving for s**t. I had too much time to think about the journey to get here. My mind dived into the things that had happened to bring me here, and it was all my fault. I should never have spoken to him. I should never have gotten so deeply involved. I should never have sacrificed my life for him. I should never have taken so long to leave. Tears fell on my face again. My body wasn't going to forget that last beating for a long time. And I didn't want it to. The pain reminded me of that last horrible night. He chased me to the guest bathroom of our condo, and our maid, Eloise, found me on the floor hours later. I needed to remember what she said, how she rushed me out of the house, to keep my foot on the accelerator.