Free The Long Way Home by Tara Brown

an eyebrow, “Yeah, you were. You were on fire when
we were younger. You let them kill that part of you.”
    I looked down at my pedicure and scowled at the broken
toenail, “You know what it’s like there.”
    “I always hated it there. Let’s just get in the car before I
drag you into the woods, and make you climb a tree and eat a bug.”
    My eye twitched. I watched his face the entire time I climbed
into the car and locked my door. He got in, flinging bags of food and drinks on
the back seat. My other bags were back there. I remembered the shoes I’d
bought. I unbuckled, grabbed the bag, and pulled the box out. I looked at the brand
new Prada wedges. They were silver and white and had thick straps crisscrossing
the top. I looked down at my filthy feet and decided to wait to put them on. I
put them in the back seat.
    He gave me a sideways glance, “You need some flip-flops.”
    “What?”
    He nodded, “Yup. Next store we see, I’ll get you some.”
    The black jogging pants were almost killing me inside. I
flipped down the visor and flinched. My strawberry-blonde hair was curled and
unruly. The glossy sheen of my straightened hairdo was long gone. My dark eyes
looked haunted and exhausted. I had a full set of Gucci bags under each eye. My
skin was lackluster and pale.
    “Why are you looking at yourself like that?”
    I looked at him, “Oh, just checking the damage.”
    “You look fine. You always do.”
    I nodded, “Wow, fine. Thank you for that. All my worries have
just instantly dissolved with that fine. You, my friend, have always been a
wordsmith and an ego booster.”
    He narrowed his gaze, “I did go to college. I’m not a tree
trunk.”
    I smirked, “You played hockey, you’re not fooling me. And you
told me I looked like shit, back at the house.”
    He laughed, “That was before you showered. You know what I
like about you, Jack? Your attitude is just shitty enough that I feel FINE
saying you look hot or you look fine. You’re a sexy woman and you know it. I
know you—well, better than anyone. No one talks about the fact your dad
runs the household, cheats on your mom, and you’re still stuck in that
old-boys’ club sort of mentality. Your dad's an asshole. He’d still have black
servants if Abe Lincoln hadn’t told him no. Your mom is a doormat and I have
always hated that they planned your marriage. You got that subservient look in
your eyes now; it never was there before. The years aren’t aging your face, but
they’re killing your eyes. Your soul is dying. I’m fucking glad he cheated on
you or whatever he did. I’m glad you finally see what a douche Phil is.” His
smile was bitter-looking and a bit crazy, “I’ll wager
you anything you want, that this is the first crazy thing you’ve done since you
and I fell apart. Besides sneaking to my house on Christmas.”
    I put my hand out, “You don’t know me so well anymore. Don’t
sum me up like that.” I gave him a narrow gaze, “I think things and feel
things, but I can't just act them out like you. You’re still such a child. Try
being engaged, France. It’s hard work.”
    "I did try once, if you will recall." He grabbed my
hand, squeezing it, “He never deserved you, and this is your chance to be your
own person and run your own life. Fuck them.”
    I fought my tears, and instead, gave him a deadly stare, “I
have done something crazy and you don’t know about it.”
    He rolled his eyes, “What—you been robbing banks on the
side?”
    I punched his massive arm, “No.”
    He laughed,   “You
have to tell me what it is now.”
    I shook my head, “No.” I closed my eyes and fell back to
sleep instantly.
    He’d driven back roads and through small towns the whole way.
So when he entered Atlanta city limits, I was stunned.
    “We’re in Georgia?”
    He nodded, “You ever been to Georgia?”
    I shook my head.
    He smiled, “You’re in for a treat.”
    He pulled into the Four Seasons and I looked down at my
clothes,