Page 2 of The Ex-Best Thing
Escape. I’m trying to escape. It’s imperative I get away, and then I won’t have to face any of this yet.
Maybe ever?
I leave the convenience store without being identified and find a place to sit to wait for my flight to board. I have two layovers to go and an entire day ahead of me in airports. All I have to do is make it to California,and I’m home free.
Three flights,two layovers, and one delay later, I’m stepping off the plane onto the tarmac in Santa Rosa, the crisp midnight air cutting through my sweater. The wig has been itching since noon. Layers of makeup are caked one on top of the other, making my skin feel grimy and greasy. I need a full day in the spa and an esthetician to reverse the incoming breakout?—
Actually, I don’t. Because when I’m alone in the beach house I’ve rented for a month, no one will be there to see the ill effects of this entire day of travel and stress and too many layers of BB cream. Liberation claws through my body, filling me with so much elation I can barely see straight.
For the next four weeks, I don’t have to seeanyone.
Human-sized sculptures of Snoopy and Woodstock dot the sidewalk in front of the smallest airport I’ve ever stepped foot in. Once I’ve secured a taxi, the driver informs me we’re forty-two minutes from my destination.
I’m glad this tiny town even has a car service. I was a little worried when we had to deplane outside and walk into the miniscule airport that I’d be footing it the twenty-nine miles to my Airbnb.
And what is the obsession with the Peanuts characters?
But none of that matters. I would sleep in a life-sized replica of Snoopy’s red doghouse if it meant true privacy, and according to a guy I used to know, this is one of the few places left in the country where I’ll be able to get that.
No randos taking my picture.
No guilt-trip text chains forcing me into attending events.
No pasting on a fake smile forthirty whole days.
And no facing my stupid mistakes.
The drive out to Bodega Bay gives me enough time to find the entrance information for my rental and screenshot it. Which is good, because by the time we reach the house, it’s clear that my phone reception is almost nonexistent. The house is a little dated, but it’s a small price to pay for anonymity. Of all thebeaches in all the world, I chose this one because very few people have heard of it before, except the locals. At least, that’s how Benny made it sound when he described it to me all those years ago.
Honestly, I kind of hope I’ll get to meet his grandma. Maybe right before I leave town, I can look her up, pretend to be a massive Benny Rhodes superfan, and ask her to show me his baby pictures. Did his baby eyes crinkle when he smiled the same way they did as a teenager?
Not that it matters. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about him. It’s justthis town. It’s making me nostalgic.
“It looks kinda dark, lady,” the taxi driver says, peering at my rental house after putting the car in park.
Lady? I look that old? At least my disguise is working.
“It won’t once I turn the lights on,” I say brightly. “Which house is it?”
“That blue one.” He points.
I pay him, tipping him well for driving me all the way out to the middle of nowhere, and climb out of the car. He helps with my ultra heavy bag, then his brake lights wash red over me while he drives away down the narrow one-car lane.
Cool, salty air fills my lungs. It’s too dark to see, but I can hear the faint hum of the waves in the distance. My Airbnb is on a ledge overlooking the ocean, lined up in a row of squat single-level houses made up of right angles and faded colors.
I inhale the cold misty sea air and take my suitcase by the hand, dragging it up to the paved walkway to the dark front door. Then I wait for the taxi to completely disappear, in case he’s got an ultra zoom lens and is waiting to watch me key the lock code into the door. This isn’t extreme paranoia. It’scaution. I’m not planning on being murdered in my sleep.
His lights glow down the road, the fog rolling in thick and obscuring his car.
Alone at last. I key the code into the door and reach for thehandle, but it doesn’t budge. Instead, I get red flashing buttons and an unhappy beep.
So, I try again. And again. I pull up the screenshot of the house’s check-in instructions and try again while reading the numbers. I’m definitely keying in what they told me, and it’s not working. I reverse the numbers, try that. Add a pound sign. Nothing but angry red beeping.
And now it’s locked me out from trying any more codes.
Okay, don’t panic. The rain is coming down in earnest, and I want a hot shower and sleep. I also need to use the bathroom, like yesterday.
I shoot an email off to the owner, then message them through the booking app, but neither of those things promise to yield quick results at almost one in the morning. I’m not entirely sure either of them sent while I only have one weak bar.
