St. LouisT
here was a note pinned to his motel room door the next morning. Becky regretted “acting like an ass” last night. She was sorry. And she was still using little hearts for punctuation. At least she’d let him sleep the night in peace. It wouldn’t be hard on him to see Mexico and all the associated memories in his rearview mirror. He ate a quick breakfast, gassed the truck, and swung southeast headed for St. Louis.
His plan—at least something that might pass cursory muster as a plan—was still way too vague even after all the time and miles since he’d left Texas. The experience in Mexico and at MMA had demonstrated that simply winging it involved too many emotional boobytraps. And, come to think of it, who the hell was he to impose on people, to force them back down memory lane? Pe
