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 asshole, 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?”
“It’s not a shithole. You’ve been the one person I’ve opened up to here, and it kills me to walk away, but I’m scared here. Scared like I was back home. I’m always getting lost and wandering into questionable places. I need something a little smaller.”
“Understood,” she says.
“Suggestions?”
“Head toward Fort Collins. Smaller-ish and has some outlying towns you can nestle into.”
I nod, considering. “Thanks.”
“I’m not happy about this shit, kid,” she says, meeting my gaze.
“I know,” I mumble.
“Last day today?”
“If that’s okay?”
She lets out a short, resigned chuckle, “You’re a runner, and you’re seriously asking if it’s okay? Didn’t I teach you shit, kid?”
Goodbye, Jacey.
***
-28 Miles Gone
Isha set me up with an old buddy of hers, Danielle. She owns a bakery and drive-thru coffee shop. She has me working in both. I love working in the coffee shop. It’s super-fast-paced and leaves no time to think. The pay isn’t as good, and the tips are poor compared to waitressing, but it keeps me on my toes.
Going from working through the nights to working from five in the morning to five at night has been a huge shock to the system. I prefer working nights and being with Isha, but I love Fort Collins. I found Danielle’s bakery before locating a place to live. Literally, if I could crash on the corner, I would. I’m so sick of walking, making routes, and stressing about getting to work safe and on time.
Thankfully, I found another old-style motel that’s in a very rundown state. Just up my alley.
Missy Tippens, Jean C. Gordon, Patricia Johns