We were dressed, packed and in the Jeep before ten. We drove around the small town until we found a Denny's. I hate breakfast food, so I ordered a hamburger and fries with a Diet Coke. Rick got an omelet and bacon. As he sipped his coffee, he watched me intently. I fiddled with the sugar packs, pretending to be intensely interested in putting them in color order.

We got our food and began eating before I broke the silence. "How long have you been following me?"

Rick wasn't surprised by the question. Or, if he was, he didn't show it. "Three weeks."

I was shocked. How could he follow me for that long without my noticing? "When did you start stalking me?"

He smiled for a moment, but then suddenly went serious. "Saturday night, you were at a party I was at."

I remember the party. It was held at Sarah Goodman's house. She was partier and her dad was always away on business. Her mom left her and her older brother, who bought the booze for us that night.

"I was at the party. I'm friends with Nick and he invited me to the party. I wasn't drinking that night because I drove and a couple of friend who were already completely wasted came in my car."

"Responsible," I commented, grinning.

"I was, but when I caught sight of you, I saw that you weren't."

My grin faded. That night at the party, I was too drunk to remember anything that happened the next morning. All I remember is going to the party and then waking up in my bed in the morning.

"How bad was I?" I asked shyly.

Rick continued to smile. "Let's just say you'd have played a great role in Coyote Ugly."

I brought my head into my hands. "That bad, eh?" I shook my head slowly. "How'd I get home?"

"I took you home," Rick said simply.

I looked up at him then. I straightened in my seat and eyed him carefully. "How'd you know where I lived?"

"You told me." Rick's grin became bigger. "It was rather funny. I asked you where you lived and you told me the address. I asked you for your name and you told me to fuck off because I wasn't the type you like to screw." Rick shrugged. "Guess, in the end I was."

I tried not to smile and throw my plate at him at the same time. "And you followed me ever since?"

Rick nodded as he chewed some of his bacon. His eyes glazed over in thoughtfulness. "You don't know how hard it was."

I cocked me head. "How hard what was?"

"Not to bust down your front door when I heard you cry at night. Not to pull your father behind the bushes to beat the living shit out of him, like he did to you that one Tuesday evening." Rick's knuckled went white from holding the silverware too desperately.

I reached over instinctively and put my hand over his. "Don't worry. I'm out of that horror house now. I'm with you. I won't be returning to him—ever."

Rick nodded again, but more sharply this time. "I won't let you even if you wanted to."

I leaned back in my chair, removing my hand from his in the process. I just blankly stared at him with examining eyes. He didn't flinch, cringe or twitch under my gaze. "I kinda like your possessive side, Rick. Makes you sound . . ." I struggled for the words. "I don't even know the word for it."

Rick smiled. "Then I'll just assume it's a compliment."

I smiled. "Definitely a compliment."

We finished our breakfast, paid and were out of there within a half hour. As he drove, I tried to fiddle with the radio, trying to find a good station. When I finally found one, it played nothing but country, which I was just fine with. Billy Currington's "People Are Crazy" just finished and Carrie Underwood's "Cowboy Casanova" began right after it.

We listened in silence and I rustled through my bag to find my sunglasses. The afternoon sun was beginning to burn my face and neck. I found them buried in my side pocket next to the pair of Kodak disposables. You never know what could happen, right? You might want to take a picture of the most beautiful mountain you've ever seen, right?

I slid my fake Gucci Aviator sunglasses I bought for fifteen bucks at the mall. Rick looked over at me and I made a mock model pose for him. He laughed and reached for my thigh, which I giddily allowed. We drove in silence for a few miles before I noticed a sign that said Interstate 80 for Nevada.

"Nevada?" I asked. "I thought we'd be heading into Oregon then head South."

"And waste at least one more day and another tank full of gas? No." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I just shrugged. "All right. You're the driver."

I didn't care how we got there; I just cared that we got there at all. I couldn't wait to see Alex for the first time in many years. I looked out the window and watched the empty plains fly by, wondering if she remembers me or if she misses me as much as I missed her.

. . . .

Alex

"Hey, Mom." I was on my phone's Bluetooth, leaving a message for my mom. "I left late, so I'll be there for dinner, hopefully. If not, don't wait up. I love you."

After hanging up, I couldn't help but think back to our previous conversation. The feeling wouldn't leave, even after Mom told me that Aly wasn't writing back. I was on the verge of tears when I read the letter Dad sent saying Aly didn't want to talk to me and all that bullshit about God. What a prick! It's his own damn fault for making Mom leave and allowing the judge to have a kid to each parent. Alcohol ruins even the best of marriages.

I weaved my way through traffic. It was only six hours from school to home, but construction held me back for an hour and then an accident was up ahead from all the lights of ambulances and fire trucks. In my mind I hoped that nobody was hurt too badly and no one was killed. That would just make my day even more depressing.

My mind flashed back to Mr. Johnson, my old therapist after the divorce. He was different from most shrinks in California. He had the way about him that said he was cool and understanding, but had many medals and plaques at being able to break crazy, depressed people down and make even a mature adult spill their guts. But, I was an exception. I was different from most of his other patients, as he's told me many times before. I was closed tighter than a clam when it came to talking about my sister and my mother and my estranged father. My mouth was sealed for at least four months until I finally said that I thought this was stupid. I thought he was stupid. I thought Mom was stupid. I thought the world was stupid. When he asked me why, I blew up and told him my life story. In the end, he gave me a grin and said, "Now, we're getting somewhere."

In the end he gave me a composition notebook and told me to write in it every Saturday. He specifically told me not to write every day; only on Saturday. He said that it will help with my stress patterns and allow me to vent on my week. My entries for the weekend were nearly three pages each. Once I had gone through three composition notebooks and a few years of therapy, he proclaimed me usual. His didn't say normal or cure. Usual—as in feelings and mind; my mind and body were in the right place for me to be at my age. I started to write about boys and fashion toward the end of my entries.

But at the end of every entry, I always wrote the same thing—my other half is coming.

. . . .

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