He had always mistaken the phrase "When the going gets tough, the tough get going" to mean that the tough ran away instead of the more traditional view that they got pumped up, ready to fight. Maybe that was why he was always leaving, always running. Away from New York. Away from the accident. Away from his future. Away from his past. And most of all, away from her.
The school shrink would say that it was "self-destructive" behavior and that he did it because he was afraid to be happy or some bullshit like that. Whatever. He didn't need to know why he did it, just how to stop. Because, like a drug, he found it impossible to stop.
Every time he finally felt happy, finally felt like he had gotten over his addiction, something would happen and he would find himself on a bus, with a suitcase and another regret almost without even knowing how he had gotten there.
The situation was always different, but the people were almost always the same. Business men, with their neat suits, college students on the way home, and the wandering Jack Kerouac types, the ones with their backpacks and looks on their faces that seemed to give a sense that they had done this before. These were the types he usually watched. But one night, on the way from one forgettable town to another, he saw a young girl get on the bus. And for a second, he thought it was her. Then he realized that mystery girl was about fifty pounds heavier than her and had blonde hair. But, in just that one second, he realized something. He was tired of running. He just wanted to walk awhile.