Chapter 4: The Road to Nowhere
967 Words
The further he drove, the quieter the world became.
New Jersey receded behind him before the sun even had the courage to rise. Somewhere around Allentown, he turned off the GPS. No detours now. No roads to recalculating. Just a broad sweep of road bleeding into the horizon, against early autumn's rust and gold.
He had no destination in mind. Only that he wasn't going back.
The Bentley hummed beneath him, as smooth as it navigated the asphalt. No music album. No report on the news. Just the endless throb of tires and the gentle rustle of wind teasing across the glass. He did not need music to be alone. Silence had been a companion for a long time. A trusted friend in boardrooms, in hotel rooms, in four too-silent homes that he abandoned four wives, each of whom had claimed a part of him when they left.
His fingers wrapped tighter around the steering wheel. One ring fewer. One soul diminished.
He had traveled light. One bag in the backseat—one with clothes, a toothbrush, a batch of unmailed letters to nobody. The copy of his last letter lay sealed in the glove compartment. Insurance, just in case the first did not materialize.
But he was not going to materialize.
He passed a road sign:
MILE 94 — SCRANTON EXIT 2 MILES.
He still didn't turn.
Nowhere to go. No map.
Just a mission.
To be gone.
A memory, if that.
The further away he was from Manhattan, the farther his head broke off in shreds like spent wallpaper. Memories leaked in: Monique scribbling down notes on the back of a Berlin napkin; Jada asking about his morals over their dinner table; Heather sleeping in an art gallery, paint streaks across her temple; Celeste rehearsing speeches in the mirror, already halfway to the Capitol.
Each had left not out of malice—but because, in the end, they were no longer needed. Or worse, never actually looked at all.
He remembered Heather's words on their last fight. "You don't build relationships, Ethan. You build cages and call them castles."
He'd said nothing then. Just let her go.
Now, the weight of those words jammed deep behind his lungs.
Something flashed on the dashboard.
Warning: Engine Cooling System Failure.
He scowled. A tendril of smoke issued from beneath the hood. He slammed the brakes and steered the Bentley to the side of a tree-lined backroad, past a curve.
The engine groaned one last time and died.
Ethan stayed where he was.
Then he got out and entered the mist.
It smelled of pine cones, wet rocks, and the lingering breath of the departed storm. He threw up the hood and peered into the chugging pile of machinery, praying—lying—he'd catch a glimpse of something loose or glaring.
He didn't see anything.
He wasn't a mechanic. He didn't even have his oil changed on schedule. The Bentley had just. worked.
Like his life.
Until it hadn't.
He reached for his phone. One bar. No signal. No service. A cosmic joke.
Slumped against the car, he let the quiet of the woods surround him. The highway was empty, save for mist winding between trees like a lost, nameless specter.
Deep inside, a peace started to creep in.
Maybe this had been the catalyst he'd needed. The final shove. A quiet passing in a quiet place. No press. No death notices.
Just a man and the quiet he'd worked for.
He heard the sound belatedly—a low growl collecting behind him. Wheels on pebbles. Headlights piercing fog.
The vehicle slowed to a stop. A black, sleek SUV.
It stopped behind the Bentley.
The driver's side door opened and a woman stepped out.
Tall. Brown-skinned. Confidence. Her hair was wrapped in a silk scarf, curls escaping to kiss the wind. She wore a belted trench, wide-legged pants, and boots that didn’t flinch at damp gravel.
In one hand, she held jumper cables. In the other, a dead phone.
“Looks like I’m not the only one broken down,” she said, her voice smooth but firm, touched with an accent Ethan couldn’t immediately place—Caribbean? Latinx?
He blinked. "Apparently not."
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you heading west?"
"Approximately."
"Good," she said. "Because I'm not standing here holding my breath waiting for some frazzled tow truck to come find me in this fog."
He scowled at her, weighing whether to laugh or applaud her audacity. She was standing in front of his Bentley as if he were to open the door immediately.
"Is that how you get rides all the time?" Approach strange men on remote roads?
“Only if I’ve read their faces and decided they’re not murderers,” she said flatly. “You’re more tired than dangerous. That’s a risk I’ll take.”
Her phone lifted in a helpless shrug. “No service. No charger. And your car looks better than mine.”
His instinct was to say no. To send her away and return to his solitude. But something—curiosity, or maybe fatigue—paused him.
She wasn't whining. She wasn't batting her eyes or faking weakness. She was. direct.
Silently, he opened the car.
She nodded curtly, matter-of-factly, and climbed in.
As she settled into the leather, she gave him a sidelong look. "Thanks, by the way."
He settled into the driver's seat, closed the door, and drove off.
The silence between them was thick, punctuated only by the rhythmic beat of tires and the occasional soft buzz of her phone attempting—and failing—to connect.
He didn’t ask her name.
She didn’t ask where he was going.
And yet, something began in that quiet. Something small. Unspoken.
The road to nowhere had just made a detour.
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- Writer
