Page 5 of Pictures in Blue
“Charlotte!”
“Whaaaaaat?” she drawls, picking up one of my bags and taking it outside to my car. She opens the trunk, placing the bag inside before turning toward me. “You have been such a grump around the office and kind of a drag outside of the office too.”
“Hey!”
“Well, it’s true! You needed a push, and I’m your friend. So I’m giving you a push.”
“More like a shove,” I mutter, copying her movements and put my other two bags, one containing my camera equipment, in the trunk and straighten up next to her.
She nudges my arm with her elbow. “A good shove though.”
I know she’s right and I’m not sure why I’m being so stubborn about leaving, but something is nagging me about doing this for myself. I’ve spent years trying to build my career, while navigating relationships that always turn out horribly, especially the shattered one with my mother.
I don’t count on that one ever being repaired, though. Ever. It’s shattered like baseball-through-the-window shattered. She can try to patch it up with plastic wrap and tape, but that’s a solution that only works for her. Which is the only one she cares about. My whole childhood, she made it seem like taking care of me was something that wasn’t necessary. It was something that came in last place when competing with her and her life. While most parents put their kids first, Sharon did the opposite and I always came in last.
Charlotte closes the trunk, startling me back to the present. “Alright, you are set to go tomorrow morning.”
“I guess I’m running away to the mountains,” I finally say out loud. As soon as the words permeate the air, my brain begins to quiet for the first time in a long time.
“To find your lumberjack!”
I roll my eyes and place my arm around her shoulders. We walk back into the house and finish off the bottle of wine. Charlotte falls asleep soon after sprawled out on the couch. I cover her up with a blanket and tiptoe back to my bedroom, careful not to wake her. I realize later when I stub my toe loudly on the leg of my bed, I don’t need to tiptoe. The woman sleeps like a toddler worn out from a long day outside. I can probably have a dance party and she wouldn’t even stir. I curl up in my down comforter and think about what it will be like to have no responsibilities for almost a month. No boss, no editor, no breaking news, no articles. Just me, my camera, and my running shoes. I fall asleep with images of the mountains, mist from an early morning masking a field of wildflowers.
CHAPTER THREE
AVERY
Blue Grove, Oregon is the smallest town I have ever been to. Well, way smaller than what I am used to at least. But it’s arguably the most beautiful. I drove through the day only making occasional stops for fuel and crappy gas station coffee. My original plan was to rest at a hotel at one point along the thirteen-hour drive, but my nerves were on edge and I didn’t want to waste any more time. Once I was on the road, I had the urge to get to my destination as soon as possible.
I pray to any gods that might be listening that this town has a coffee shop of some kind because I amdesperatefor a good peppermint latte. Gas station coffee can only go so far, and it has officially reached the end of its journey.
It feels weird being in a place that isn’t constantly on the go. It almost seems as if Blue Grove is moving in slow motion, waiting for the rest of the world to match its pace.
I quickly find that I’m okay with slow.
I’m excited for slow.
Malibu is filled with people at every corner. Everywhere I turn, there’s a new face. I don’t think I came across the same face twice in one week, and if I did, it was a miracle if I even remembered them. Or their name, if I had time to talk to them. Which, again, was a rare occurrence. I like to keep to myself, so something like this isn’t my go-to. Introverted mindset at its finest.
But this trip is going to be different. I’m here to meet people. Push myself out of my comfort zone even though I’d much rather grab pillows and blankets, build a fort, and burrow myself so far into my comfort zone, no one could ever find me. I’m here to discover what might be next for me or whatever clandestine bullshit it is that Charlotte wants me to do. In conclusion, this trip is exhilarating and terrifying all in one. A thing of nightmares, while also something out of one of my romance novels. But I am determined to defeat the monster under the bed, while also still searching for a weapon. My anxiety keeps me in the dark.
I feel that familiar spike at the idea of traveling to a brand new place filled with people I don’t know. I’ve dealt with strangers as anyone does throughout my life and it has never gotten easier. I feel that all too-familiar pressure in my chest spreading to my lungs. Seizing them until my breath is stolen. I count to ten in my head and focus on the road ahead of me. Count the senses.
Sight. The long yellow lines speeding past.
Sound. The whipping wind from my open window.
Smell. Pine and fresh air.
Taste. Stale coffee from the last gas station I stopped at.
Touch. The chipping leather from my steering wheel cover digs into my palms as I grip the wheel, my knuckles turning white.
I clench my hands. Unclench. Clench. Unclench. Repeat. Until I feel the panic and the pressure in my chest start to fade. I take a deep breath and roll down my windows further, the smell of fresh pine fully invading my senses and instantly calming my spiraling thought pattern. I look at the trees and wonder how quickly I can manage to find a good hiking trail. Something I haven’t really done since I was a kid exploring the woods in my backyard.
My body relaxes. There… better.
I’m no stranger to panic attacks. I was only eight years old when I had my first one and I was convinced I was dying. My mother told me I was being dramatic and acting for attention. But I really thought the pressure in my chest would crack me open. Expose me from the inside out, my guts spilling on the floor like a broken egg.
