That Girl (That Girl, #1)(12)
“No going back after this. Are you ready?” Sledge asks.
I nod, and then feel Jeremiah take my hand.
“Squeeze if you need to.”
Sledge picks up the tattoo gun. “Here we go.”
The buzzing sound fills the room, the ink soaks into me, and I feel each tiny bit of my old flesh rip and tear, as my very first piece of beautiful artwork begins to fill my foot. It takes about ten minutes before my body adjusts to the pain and I can relax a little.
Bending down, Jeremiah whispers in my ear, “You’re going to run. I can tell. Take care of yourself.” I don’t tell him he’s wrong.
Jeremiah holds my hand the rest of the time and lets me go my own way after paying for the tattoo.
Goodbye, Michelle.
Chapter 5
1,035 Miles Gone
Lost in downtown Denver, Colorado. Nothing new. About three months ago, I finally decided on ending up in Colorado and looked up a larger city where I could hide out. Denver seemed to be the best answer, but after weeks of losing all sense of direction, I’ve given up. I’m calling it quits on the city. Maybe I’m destined to be a small town girl.
“Jacey, when you’re finished filling the sugars, I need you to take the trash out, please.”
I hate taking the trash out not because of the smell or nasty liquids oozing from the bag, but the sharp pain it causes in my wrist. Looking back, I should’ve gone to the hospital and somehow avoided showing my ID, because it never healed correctly, and any lifting brings me to my knees.
I ended up purchasing a brace at the grocery store and wrapping it up as tight as I possibly could. Thank goodness it’s my left hand, making all my duties at my jobs doable. The only proof of the embarrassing fall is an odd lump on the inside of my wrist, and I actually love looking at it and remembering my birthday.
I left that sleepy little town six months after my birthday. I can honestly say it was the best birthday of my life. I felt extremely guilty when preparing to leave, so I walked down to the bakery to thank Alice one more time. I’d never used that route again after leaving Jeremiah at the tattoo shop. It was too painful because my heart was pleading for a best friend, but my brain won the war. I never walked it until the night before I had to catch the Greyhound.
My heart sank when I noticed the sign that read, “CLOSED.” Upon closer inspection, I noticed the dead flowers in the hanging baskets, the dark store, and debris littering the sidewalk. Stepping closer, I peered in with both hands by the sides of my eyes, and everything was gone. On the door, two newspaper articles were taped from the inside. One read, “Hometown Solider Killed in Line of Duty” with a picture of Jeremiah’s face. The other article right next to it was Alice’s obituary. The last few lines read, “Alice, known as Gram to all, died of a broken heart after hearing of her grandson’s death. She passed three weeks following the news. The two are surely in heaven, cussing and arguing over food.”
That night, I didn’t sleep in my empty apartment with my grocery bag full of belongings. I sat in front of the bakery staring at the articles in disbelief. I’d never lost a loved one to death, but I’d heard the saying about feeling numb and being in shock. I sat there all night experiencing those two feelings on repeat.
So every time I see the knot on my wrist, I imagine the two in heaven name-calling and arguing over food, and I’d still bet Alice could take Jeremiah in a heartbeat.
“Jacey, are you in there somewhere?”
Snapping back to reality, I say, “Yes, Isha, I heard you. Sorry. Trash, got it.”
Denver sucks, but this little diner is amazing. Isha is the owner, loves me, and lets me work my ass off for her. It’s open twenty-four hours, and nobody likes the night shift. I do. Work all night, sleep until about one o’clock, come back in around three to help Isha prep food, and then throw on my waitressing apron. Between the tips and hourly pay, it pays the same as two and half jobs, and the greatest perk is it leaves no time for memories to haunt me. This is the one thing that will make leaving Denver difficult.
“I need to talk to you about something when you have time, Isha,” I throw out as I head for the alley.
“You know where to find me, kid.” She picks up a bin of dirty glasses and turns to the sink.
I love the nickname ‘kid.’ At first, I thought she called everyone that, but after listening to her, I realized she didn’t. She typically uses *, scumbag, or hey you for others in the diner. Isha and I’ve had several deep conversations over the last few months while chopping veggies for the salad bar. Quickly I learn her motto, “You gotta be a cranky ass to keep the flakes out of your life. Be strong, kid, and always stand up for yourself.”
Walking back into the kitchen, my palms start to sweat, a sign of my nerves.
Isha says, without looking at me, “You’re leaving, right?”
“How did you know? How does everyone know I’m leaving?”
“You’re a runner, kid. Have nothing holding you down.”
“But still,” I say, sitting next to her. Grabbing a knife, I begin to chop olives with her in unison. I sigh. “I don’t want to leave you, but I hate Denver.”
“Hell, I know it’s not me,” she snorts. “How could anyone walk away from me and this shithole?”