California Love Page 2

  “Hello,” I mutter, disheartened after finally picking up.

  “Quen!” she squeals with glee. “What’s my favorite bookworm doing in Troutdale?”

  “Same ol’, same ol’,” I mumble.

  “By the way, I finally saw the pic of that beach bum and his brand new floozy on Facebook. What a total downgrade,” she sighs.

  “Oh, I’m certain she’s a nice girl,” I say, insincere.

  “Yeah, right,” she snarls. “Well, the invitation to my dad’s beach house still stands. Jake’s already moved on and so should you. It’ll just be you and me there since my dad will be in Europe working until early August, giving us plenty of time to find a summer fling or two,” she says in a cheery voice.

  I roll my eyes at the thought.

  I’ve told her time and time again that I am done with men.

  “Lest we forget, Jake is also in California at the moment, which does not make your offer the least bit tempting,” I counter.

  Blair sighs. “Look, Grouchy… Barker’s in southern California, while my dad’s place is in Carmel-by-the-Sea. That’s in northern California, Missy, and seven hours away. California is huge! Carmel Beach is practically in a whole other state from where Jake is in San Diego, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Blair has a cunning way of putting things into perspective. Still, I’m not ready to decide on leaving just yet. I’ve been having fun back home in Troutdale doing…well…

  Okay—if I’m being totally honest with myself, I haven’t done a damn thing since I’ve been back. Other than working at Lenny’s, I’ve been busy turning down camping trips with Dad, then reading and sulking, sulking and reading.

  “I’ll think about it,” I finally say.

  “Fine,” she concedes. “I’ll give you a few days to think about it since I’ll be stuck here in Bend with my mom for the next three days.”

  Blair’s folks are divorced and live in two completely different states. Her mom lives in Bend, while her dad is just about everywhere but Oregon. While her mom doesn’t work, her father is a big-time owner of an international trucking company.

  “Why do you say you’re stuck?” I chuckle.

  “You know how insane my mom is. Every time I’m ready to leave Bend, she starts bitching and moaning about how I spend more time with Dad than I do with her since the divorce. I’m much closer in proximity to her and hardly ever get to see Dad. Yet, the moment she finds out that I’m planning on spending time with him, she commences with the guilt tripping. She’s famous for it. It’s why Dad left her ass in the first place.”

  Ouch. As I listen to my best friend vent about her parents, I realize she isn’t immune to drama this summer like I originally thought. She has her own unique brand of it, even in beautiful Bend. After thirty minutes or so, I tell Blair that I need to finally crawl out of bed and start my day.

  “Okay,” Blair sadly acquiesces. “Oh…and think about what I said. I’m going to keep emailing you pictures of the breathtaking view outside of the beach house until you decide to go. I’ll even pay for your fli…”

  “Stop,” I say, interrupting her. “If I decide to go, you are not paying for my flight.”

  “Fine,” she grunts, displeased. “I just want you there with me. And by the way, stay off of Jake’s Facebook page. It’ll only make you feel worse.”

  She’s right.

  If Blair were here right now, I’d give her a big hug for being such a tower of strength for me during such a heartbreaking time.

  The very next day, I find myself holding my cell in one hand and a glob of tissues in the other. I’ve been crying all morning ever since I tortured myself by going on Facebook.

  There it was: A newly uploaded photo of Jake and Bianca passionately kissing on a boat as the sun sets behind them. I completely fell apart.

  “Hey, girlie,” Blair sings.

  “Hey.” I sniffle.

  “I fucking knew it!” she growls. “You went on Facebook after I told you not to, and you saw the new pic, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I pout like a young child.

  “I told you to stay away from there,” she chastises.

  “I’m coming to the beach house,” I say, the words tumbling out of me.

  “Yay! Thank goodness for Facebook,” she exhales in utter relief.

  “I’ll start packing in a minute.” I sniffle.

  “Did you book your flight?”

  “No, I want to drive,” I tell her.

  “What?!” she squawks. “Quen, that’s a long ass drive!”

  “I know, but I want to do it. I can drive twelve straight hours without stopping, no problem.”

  “Geez, Quen, I don’t know…”

  “I think I need the time alone on the road to put my life in perspective. A road trip is exactly what I need.”

  Blair sits in silence for a beat. “Alright, but be careful. I’ll probably end up beating you there. Just let me know when you’re halfway.”

  “I will.”

  An hour later, I’m in the living room telling my father a bold faced lie. I tell him I plan on heading back to Eugene for two weeks to meet Blair, who’s on her way there from Bend. I also mention that it’ll probably be the last time I get to hang out with her before she arrives in Portland to start her new job. In reality, Blair doesn’t start her job until late-August, and she’ll be hanging out at the beach house until then.

  Why lie? Because Dad would never let me drive all the way to California all by myself. I’m a fucking adult, for crying out loud. I drove eight hours from Eugene to Vancouver, Canada for a class outing with no issue whatsoever.

  What’s another four hours?

  I’ll have no problem making that trip to Carmel-by-the-Sea.

  Famous last words.

  Quen

  “Fuck.” I groan out loud.

  Just outside of Douglas County, in the middle of freaking nowhere, I stare into the open hood in despair as my engine emits more smoke than an industrial barbecue pit. I pulled off of I-5 just in the nick of time before my busted-up Dodge Neon, affectionately known as Peggy Sue, would have stalled out in the middle of the freeway, causing a whole different set of problems, including my potential death.

  I’m shocked Peg even lasted this long. Still, I thought my trusty girl had at least twenty-five good hours left in her. All I needed was for her to get me to the beach house, then back home again. Instead, Peggy Sue barely made it three hours from home. I’m devastated.

  What’s worse, I was in such a hurry to pack and leave, I ended up forgetting my phone charger in my bedroom. So, for the past three hours, I’ve been completely draining my battery using the GPS and simultaneously streaming Spotify until it killed my phone.

  I can’t even call for roadside assistance. Eventually, I’ll have to venture out into this weird town to locate a phone and get help. But after I make that call, what next? If I reach my father, I’d have to come up with a damn good excuse as to why I continued on an hour past Eugene. If I call Blair, she’d only tell me to go home and wait until she schedules me a flight to the beach, which I absolutely refuse to let her do. I may not have as much money as she does, but I have my pride.

  Just the thought of going back home and sulking over how much Jake is enjoying the summer and how much I’m not makes me more and more depressed. After some internal back and forth, I decide I can’t possibly turn back. I must press on.

  California or bust.

  I grab my shoulder bag from the passenger seat, yank my medium-sized roller bag out of the trunk and begin exercising my thumb each time a vehicle moves my way.

  Overwhelmed, I stare mindlessly at the enormous eighteen-wheeled semi-trailer truck with a sleeper.

  “Up here. Pass me your luggage.”

  After snapping out of my trance, I lift the roller bag up and over my head. The load is soon lightened as it is received at the other end. I proceed to make the steep climb up the truck, nearly tripping just before collapsing into the passenger seat.

  “Be careful,” the driver warns a little too late.

  I turn and look down to see where I nearly fell and shudder.

  Damn, that’s a long way down.

  I lean over to the side, and it takes superhero strength for me to pull the massive door shut. Exhausted from the long trip up and the effort it took to close the door, I sink into the seat.

  “Hey there, I’m Marjorie.”

  I turn my head and take in the large woman in a gray hoodie and jeans, who’s now back in the driver’s seat after stowing my roller bag behind the dingy black curtain. Two minutes ago, I could’ve sworn she was a man with long hair due to her frumpy posture.

  However, up close, she’s definitely all woman. I’m relieved. It’s not to say that this lady couldn’t skin me alive, but I much favor my chances of survival riding with her versus riding with a big scary man. Although I don’t know Marjorie’s age, she appears younger than sixty but older than forty.

  “I’m Quen,” I say, extending my hand to shake hers. She takes it firmly. “Thanks for the lift.” I then reach across for my seatbelt and fasten it.

  “Heading south?” she asks.

  “Yep. My car broke down on the way. It’s the Neon smoking up a storm right over there.” I point over yonder.

  “Yeah, I saw. It doesn’t look so good,” she quips, stating the obvious. Still, her confirmation reignites the sinking feeling in my stomach.

  I quickly brush it away with a dash of positivity. “I’ll handle it once I get to where I’m going.”

  “Where’re you headed in Cali?”

  “Carmel-by-the-Sea?” I say it with uncertainty, but I mean it more as a question for her concerning her familiarity with the location. It’s kinda important she knows where the hell I
’m going. She is the one driving, after all.

  “Where?” she reacts as perplexed as I predicted, shifting her head sideways. She’s obviously never heard of the place. Neither had I prior to Blair touting about it.

  “It’s about an hour south of San Jose,” I respond.

  Marjorie’s deep in thought while massaging her chin. “The furthest south I can take you is Sacramento. I’m delivering a load to a customer there, then picking up another one just before I head to Nevada.”

  Shit. The last thing on my mind, before climbing this woman’s Empire State Building of a truck, was hitching a string of rides all the way to my destination. The very thought of taking more rides from more strangers scares me shitless. I’m shocked I even took this ride, as opposed to calling my father and going back home.

  This woman could be Large Marge from Pee-wee’s Big Adventure for all I know. Hell, her name is Marjorie. The very idea has me pressing my bare knees together in order to keep them from shaking.

  “At least that gets you most of the way,” she mutters. “You’ll probably only have about a three-hour drive from Sac to where you need to go.”

  Hopefully, Blair will be in California by the time I arrive in Sacramento. From there, we can figure out how to get me to her dad’s beach house.

  “That’s perfectly fine. Again, thanks for the lift,” I say with sincere appreciation.

  “No problem,” she responds, buckling up.

  “If you don’t mind, could I use your phone to call my friend who’s expecting me? My phone died—and I don’t have my charging cord.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she sighs with deep disappointment. “I shit you not, I actually left my cell phone at the last truck stop back in Spokane, so all I have is this radio here,” she gestures to the unit placed above her head. “I doubt we can reach your friend that way.”

  I groan. Just my fucking luck. “And you don’t by chance have your charger? If so, is it compatible with a Samsung?”

  She chuckles. “I actually have an iPhone.”

  Of course, she does. I sigh to myself. Nothing can ever be that easy for me.

  “Actually, I had an older model Samsung until two months ago. My nieces and nephews teased me and kept begging me to ‘get with the times’,” she jokes.

  Once again, Lady Luck is a cruel, psychotic bitch.

  I purse my lips in twisted amusement. “Well, unfortunately, I’m old school like my father. I haven’t convinced myself to migrate over to the new iPhone. Why spend all that money on a brand-new phone when the old one still does the job, right?”

  Marjorie slowly nods. “Just like the old car, right?”

  Really? Was that a fucking dig? I frown.

  “Well, that…I’ll finally have to get a new one.”

  She chuckles. “I don’t blame you, girl. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” she philosophizes just before shifting her big rig into gear. “You need me to take you to a payphone somewhere? They still have those around in some places…but not many. Or perhaps someone at the gas station will let you borrow their phone.”

  “No—no need to stop now,” I insist. “I can wait until our first stop to make my call. I’m sure someone will let me use their phone.”

  “What an asshole,” Marjorie hisses through clenched teeth. I flatten my lips in a crooked line and nod in total agreement

  We’re now trekking through Ashland, Oregon, nearing the California border. On the way here, the subject of Jake comes up. For the last hour and a half, I’ve familiarized kind Marjorie with the past two miserable months of my life before finding out that my first love recently moved on.

  “You’re a smart girl, Quen,” Marjorie says while operating the monstrosity on eighteen wheels as smoothly as a sleek sedan. “And gorgeous, too. You remind me of my niece, Melissa. You have everything going for you. That douchebag doesn’t know what he’s missing. He’ll find out soon enough, though. One of these days, he’s going to regret ever breaking your heart. You’ll see.” She gives me a confident nod.

  I don’t know Marjorie from Adam, yet as we traverse through this last sliver of Oregon, she’s been pumping me full of encouragement. I wish her empowering words would sink into me. But no matter what she says, the fact remains that Jake left me, and not long after that, he found someone new. The very thought squeezes the life out of my chest.

  “I suspect you think I’m full of crap.” Marjorie appears amused.

  “No,” I say, “I appreciate your kind words. However…”

  All of a sudden, the words that were just perched on the tip of my tongue quickly dissolve like a sugar cube in a rainstorm. I am beyond flustered.

  “I get it,” she says. “It’s going to take something new, something better to make you forget all about the pain that non-committal loser caused you.”

  Jake? A loser? The very idea of that is unsettling. I never thought of him as being a loser, even though others may beg to differ. In spite of breaking my heart, he’s actually a very sweet guy. Any girl would be lucky to have him. It’s just…

  I don’t know. Maybe we weren’t really meant to be together. Perhaps it was for the best that we separated sooner as opposed to making the mistake of getting together. I would have been forced to go wherever he went just to be near him. That would’ve meant staying in Eugene, thereby narrowing my employment options even more.

  Maybe this is right…even though it really hurts at the moment.

  “What the hell!” Marjorie barks out of nowhere.

  Startled, I look straight ahead. Suddenly, our smooth coast down I-5 comes to an abrupt halt as we just barely inch past the California state line.

  For the next three hours or so, we sit stagnate, going out of our ever-loving minds in standstill traffic. We only creep forward several feet every few minutes. It is literally bumper to bumper. I’ve never seen anything like this in real life—only on television. All that’s missing is the obligatory swearing and honking horns from surrounding drivers. As I glance out the window, down, and then around, I witness others seated in their vehicles looking just as confused as Marjorie and me.

  “I have no idea what’s going on. I hope it isn’t serious—like a fatality,” Marjorie murmurs. Her expression seems cautious, as if she fears giving off any sort of bad mojo. A death is indeed the worst-case scenario.

  In reality, whatever happened out there evidently was serious enough to cause an epic case of gridlock in two separate states. Helicopters are constantly hovering overhead, presumably from the authorities and news stations. Unfortunately, we have no clue what the media is reporting since Marjorie’s radio dropped its signal about an hour into our drive.

  As if nothing else could possibly go wrong in this clusterfuck of a day, I am getting hungrier by the second, while my bladder feels like it could burst at any moment. I squirm in my seat, willing away the two extremely uncomfortable sensations. This mind magic trick has to kick in at some point because there doesn’t appear to be any rest stops or exit ramps in sight as we move slower than a snail. Fatigue is also beginning to set in from the long, bumpy ride and being confined to the same space for way too fucking long.

  Eventually, we spot some sort of makeshift highway patrol checkpoint. Ahead is a brigade of state highway patrol officers either perched inside of patrol units with flashing lights, or on foot conversing with commuters.

  “I wonder if they’re trying to route everyone off the interstate,” Marjorie ponders.

  “I have no idea.” I sigh. “Where would we even get off, anyway?

  Please, let there be an exit approaching here shortly. I am literally about to blow.

  Soon, a young male officer wearing the full highway patrol garb, including campaign hat, approaches Marjorie’s truck. She rolls down her window, and the cop looks up at her.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am!” His greeting is polite, but he has to yell over the engine. Marjorie shifts into park and powers off the truck.

  “Hey…what’s going on here?” She cuts straight to the chase.

  “I’m not sure where you’re headed, but I highly suggest you steer clear of I-5 south for the next couple of days.”

  Both Marjorie and I appear stunned.

  The next couple of days? What the hell?!

  “Why? What’s going on?” Marjorie asks.