Stripped by Jasinda Wilder Read Free Book Online Page B

burning. “He won’t accept what I want to do, and I ain’t—I’m not gonna let him run my life anymore.”
    The tears come then. I can’t help it. Just a few trickling down, and I don’t bother wiping them away. I don’t care if my makeup is running.  
    “So now what?” Devin asks.
    I shrug. “Now? I move to L.A.”
    “Alone?”
    I nod. “I guess so.”
    The rest of the drive to Devin’s house is quiet. She doesn’t know what to say, and neither do I.  

    *   *   *

    Devin walks me to the security gate at the airport. Everything I own fits in a suitcase and a duffel bag, which have been checked in. I’ve only flown once before, two years ago for my sweet sixteen New York trip with Mama. She had helped me through the process. I hug Devin, tell her goodbye. I’m alone now.  
    I turn and wave one last time to Devin, and then focus on the security checkpoint. An older man with thick glasses sits at a desk, his uniform shirt bright blue. In my hand I have the boarding pass Devin’s dad printed out for me.  
    “Driver’s license?” he says without looking at me.
    I dig through my purse, find my license, and show it to him. He glances at me, at the ID, scribbles something onto my boarding pass, and then waves me through. Around me, people seem to know what they’re doing. I don’t. I watch the woman ahead of me step out of her heels, pull a thick black laptop from her carry-on bag and place that in a white container. In a separate one goes her purse, license, boarding pass, and shoes. I follow her lead, stepping out of my dance flats and putting them in a container with my other belongings. I wait my turn to step into a thing that looks like something from Star Trek, a spinning wall in a circular glass enclosure. I’m told to lift my arms over my head, and the machine spins around me.  
    What if they want to search me? I don’t have anything to hide, but I’m anxious anyway. They pass me through without a second glance, and I retrieve my things. The whole process seems…embarrassing, strangely intimate. Businessmen in suits traipsing around in dress socks, women in bare feet, juggling their belongings and trying to keep out each other’s way, and all the while the blue-shirted TSA men and women watch apathetically, shouting instructions and looking stern.  
    I find my gate after passing bookstores, duty-free shops, restaurants, and groups of travelers with backpacks and headphones, rolling carry-on bags with extended handles. Everyone is with someone else. I see one other solo traveler at my gate, a man in his thirties with a carefully trimmed goatee and an expensive-looking briefcase. He has three cellphones on his belt and a suit coat draped over his arm, and is reading a precisely folded New York Times . He glances at me, looks me over, and dismisses me. No one else even seems to see me.  
    I’ve never in my whole life felt so alone. I have my iPod and a paperback copy of Breath, Eyes, Memory that Devin gave me. I’m not sure why she thought I needed this book, but it’s something to pass the time. For the hour that I wait, I set aside my own life and lose myself in the struggles of other people.  
    The flight is long and boring. I finish the book halfway through and then I’m stuck with nothing to do but listen to my iPod on “repeat.” I leaf through a Skymall catalogue. The landing is rough and jouncing, and the airport in L.A. huge and confusing. It still feels like this could be a dream, like I can wake up in my bed at home, and Mama will be there, alive, and she’ll make me lunch. Eventually, I find the luggage claim and wait for my bags. There’s a new rip in the side of my duffel bag.  
    I follow the signs to the exit, and when the glass doors slide open, I’m assaulted by a wave of dry heat. Suddenly, it all seems more real. I have four hundred dollars in my purse; half of that is mine, saved from my allowance. The rest is a gift from Devin’s parents. It’s all I have.