I believe a couple of things that make this post possible.
1. Doing the aligned action even if it’s the scary thing. This is that scary thing.
2. Sharing your art even if it’s messy. This is that messy thing.
It’s been years since I’ve shared my art publically outside the virtual classroom. My agent and a few of my beta readers and friends have seen my writing, but I have published nothing but the occasional random bog since 2020. I wrote this piece for my publishing and new media class. The assignment was symbolism and this is what I came up with. A short story about running away and then running home.
Enjoy.
Looking for Laguna
By Teri Brown
Your phone beeps, signaling a message. Your gut clenches. Just what you need—a message from Digger.
You dial to retrieve it, tapping in your password with one hand while steering the car with the other. His voice hits your chest like a well-aimed horse’s hoof. You remember the year it changed, cracking into squeaky high notes before settling into the deep, sexy tone that still makes you weak in the knees.
“Hey Jace. I just thought we should talk. I know you said you wanted to end things, but I just can’t believe that’s what you really want.” There’s a pause, and you almost end the call, but then his voice continues. “I’m thinking that I should come out to the ranch today. I got my packet from the University for the married couples housing in Eugene. We got in.” Another pause. “Anyway, let me know what you think. I love you, you know?”
You do know. And love isn’t just blind—it’s deaf and dumb, too, because you don’t know how much clearer you could have been. Pissed off and heartsick, you text NO, hit send, and slip the phone into the side pocket of your 1970 VW Bug. It’s just as well you’ve left. Clearly, he doesn’t listen.
The message leaves you uneasy, though. How much longer can you fool your ex-fiancé into thinking you’re somewhere you’re not? Or your parents, for that matter?
You press your foot down on the accelerator, driven by a sudden need to put as many miles between you and Digger as possible. California, here you come. That’s the dream. Once you get there, you can be someone else. Someone glamorous and free.
Falling in love with Digger just confused you for a bit, that’s all.
You ignore the doubt that settled in the pit of your stomach sometime yesterday between Miles City and Billings and concentrate on the road. Wiggling in your seat, you try to stretch out your spine. Turns out VW bugs may look cool, but vintage seats were not made for comfort.
“I can drive for a bit if you want me to,” Ryan surprises you. You thought he was asleep.
“Nope. No offense, but I hardly know you. For all I know you drive like a maniac. Besides, no one drives my car except for me.”
And Digger, a little voice inside your head reminds you.
Oh, shut up.
“You’re the one who ran me off the road and killed my car,” Ryan points out.
You shrug. “Your car looked like it was already on its death bed.”
He laughs. “Truth.”
Turns out Ryan was going to California, too. You can’t imagine what Digger or your parents would say about picking up a stranger, but you felt responsible for his predicament. Plus, he’s paying for gas and the company keeps you from thinking about Digger too much.
You and Digger were supposed to get married in August and then head to the University of Oregon, where Digger had gotten a scholarship. You were going to work and go to a community college while he played football for the Ducks.
Who gets married at eighteen in this day and age?
You saw what happened to your own parents after marrying young. Hell, everyone in Resolute, North Dakota was a spectator of that particular war. You ignored it by watching old shows like Laguna Beach and The Hills and dreaming of escape. Your fairy tale is about endless beaches, blue skies, and designer clothes. Not football and rain, no matter how much you love watching Digger play.
Next to you, Ryan points to a sign. “There’s a campground up ahead. Why don’t we stop there?”
You turn and you’re instantly swallowed up in trees and brush, and you can barely see ahead or behind you. You slow even more and concentrate on missing the rocks while your ancient car lurches and sways down the road. You wish you had a clear path. You wish you could see ahead of you. You wish you had Digger’s old four-wheel drive. Then you push the truck out of your mind because so much of what was important in your life happened in the cab of that truck. You learned to drive in that truck. You learned to kiss in that truck. You watched Hell Boy at the Resolute Drive In in that truck, not caring that you guys had already been there four time or that metal speaker hanging limply in the window barely worked because the thigh pressing warmly against yours belonged to Digger.
You’re going to miss that truck.
“Watch out!” Ryan yells.
You spot a streak of gray and swerve, seconds before hearing a sickening thud against the front of your car.
“What was that?” You slam on the brakes and leap out of the car.
About three feet off the road lies a huge raccoon. He’s on his back with stiff legs pointing to the sky.
Tears sting your eyes, and you squeeze them shut. You killed an animal. You don’t kill animals. You don’t even eat animals. You’re probably the only rancher’s daughter in North Dakota to ever become a vegetarian.
Now you’ve gone and killed a raccoon.
“Jaci?” Ryan puts his arm around you. You hadn’t even heard him get out of the car. “Are you okay?”
You shake your head, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes. You bury your face in his shoulder, glad you’re not alone. “I didn’t mean to hit it.”
“I know.”
Suddenly, more than anything, you want Ryan to be Digger. The chest you’re crying against is the wrong chest, the arms holding you are the wrong arms—even the t-shirt smells wrong. You gasp with the wrongness. How did you get on this timeline? Why did you think running away was the answer? Why did you, an eighteen-year-old country girl from Resolute, North Dakota, think that you were going to find fame and fortune in California? As if your fake highlights and designer knockoffs would suddenly change and your skin would glow, your body would morph from strong rancher girl to California beach sleek and you would be, what? Happier? Happier than in Digger’s arms? Grief guts you, as much for what you have done to you and Digger as for the prostrate raccoon.
“Jaci?”
You pull back and notice that you’re getting snot on the front of his shirt. “What?”
“I think it’s alive.”
“What?”
You turn away from him in time to see the animal shiver. You wipe your nose on your sleeve. Just then, the raccoon sits up and huffs, indignation written all over his drunken sailor face. He chatters and makes his way into the waiting arms of a skinny brown-haired girl who looks no more than ten.
“Are you okay, Hell Boy?” she asks, cuddling her pet. “Did those mean people hurt you?” She glares at you before ambling off towards the campground just beyond the tree line.
“Hell Boy”? Ryan laughs, but it barely registers.
If Digger were here, he’d toss out a quote right now. “I wish I could do something about this, but I can’t. But I can promise you two things—one, I’ll always look this good and two, I’ll never give up on you… ever.”
You laugh, even as tears run down your face. You know. You know what you’re supposed to do. Could California offer love? Laughter? The knowingness of someone always having your back? You don’t need a California fairytale. You can write your own story. “Everything’s all wrong,” you tell Ryan, hiccoughing gently.
“I’m going home.”
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