Page 6 of Runaway Road (Runaway 1)

The traffic in the suburbs wasn’t awful, but as I hit the city, things slowed to a crawl. It took an hour for the congestion to break, but break it finally did.

Then I raced.

Karson had always said running away from home was the best decision of his life. I had to agree.

The wind whipped through my hair as I sped along the highway. Just me and my cherry-red Cadillac.

On a runaway road.

Chapter Two

Londyn

Two days on the road and I was free.

Boston had been slowly suffocating me, something I hadn’t realized until five hundred miles separated me from my former life.

Screw daily routines. Screw schedules. Screw structure and convention. I’d been trapped in normalcy and ignorant of the heaviness in my heart. Turning a blind eye to my problems had been easy with the schedule I’d maintained. Every minute of my life had been choreographed. Sitting idle hadn’t held any appeal.

Now that I had time to think about why I’d kept myself so busy, I saw that routines and structure had become a necessary distraction. When I was working, running the house or organizing a function for Thomas’s company, I didn’t have time to think about the last time I’d truly smiled or laughed carefree. When I was spending time at the spa or shopping, I only relaxed enough to recharge my batteries. But the downtime had never been long enough to reflect.

Sitting behind the wheel of my car forced me to take a hard look at the past eight years.

When I’d started working for Thomas, I’d enjoyed the routine, mostly because it had been an anomaly. Knowing what each day would entail had been a new concept for me. Stability had been refreshing.

And I’d been blissfully in love with my husband. I’d fit our lives together—or fit my life to his.

Thomas required structure. He thrived on a schedule. The man knew what he was doing with precision, every single day for the upcoming three months mapped out in detail. Gemma was the same way. Maybe it was a CEO thing, but the two of them had next to no flexibility. No spontaneity.

Gemma, I understood. She was desperate for surety, and after our childhood, it made sense. But Thomas’s motivation wasn’t born from fear of the unknown or a chaotic youth. Thomas had discipline and drive in every aspect of his life because it made him money.

Success and status were Thomas’s true loves.

Why had I tried so hard to fit that mold? Because of love? I’d convinced myself I was happy, but did I even know what happy was?

All questions I’d been asking myself since leaving Boston. Maybe by the time I reached California, I’d have them answered.

In the meantime, I was shunning all structure. I took the road at my own pace, not worrying about the speed limit or keeping up with traffic. The clock on the dash meant nothing because I had nowhere to be.

It was peaceful, simply driving alone. When I’d made my way to Boston—and all the stops in between—it had been by bus. Trips since had been with Thomas, and if we hadn’t been in an airplane, he’d been behind the wheel.

Maybe for the first time, I felt ultimate control.

No wonder Gemma had become a control freak. It was fucking awesome.

I’d plaited my hair in a tight braid, but the wind whipped a few strands free as the sun warmed my face. Occasionally, another vehicle would pass me by and the smell of gasoline would linger for a mile. Unless it was raining, I was driving with the top down.

The day I left Boston, I drove for five hours without even a bathroom break. I wanted to get the hell away from traffic and the city. Cutting through Connecticut and a sliver of New York, I didn’t stop until I hit the middle of Pennsylvania.

I pulled off the interstate and found a midlevel motel. I checked in and slept for fourteen hours. The grueling months of the divorce, when Thomas had fought me hard to reconsider ending our marriage, caught up to me. So I recharged in my motel room, making up for the sleepless nights.

The next morning, I woke up tired, not ready to get on the road. So I didn’t. What was the hurry? This journey had no deadlines.

I added another night to my stay and spent the day in bed with a box of pizza delivery and the television.

Thomas didn’t have time for movies or binge-watching television shows. We’d had one television in the house, a flat screen in the informal dining area where we’d eat breakfast. Thomas turned it on to watch the news each morning over egg whites and turkey bacon.

I hadn’t minded. Before I’d run away at sixteen, I’d spent countless hours in front of the TV. Nickelodeon and MTV had been my babysitters while my parents had been busy with their current drug of choice.