I’d been on the road for three days, which meant I’d heard every song on my iPod about a hundred times, and I had way too much time to think, cry, scream obscenities at the universe, and contemplate my future. And yet by the time I’d made it to merely blocks from my destination, I still had no idea what the hell I was doing, or going to do next.

Somehow driving to Los Angeles from Dallas had been much prettier. The sky bluer, the hills, well, let’s face it, just as brown, there’s a drought after all. The route from the City of Angels back to the “Big D” lacked the same appeal.

It took me a full day to get the nerve to call my parents and tell them, “I’m coming home.”

“Great. Are you getting a hotel?” Mom asked.

“No, Mom, I’m coming home to stay.” The words caught in my throat and I cried.

“Oh,” she sounded terrified, not sympathetic.

“Can you tell dad?” I hiccuped through the sobbing. “But don’t tell anyone else.”

She’d obviously called my best friends, because suddenly my phone blew up. I ignored it as much as possible. I refused to respond to the calls, messages, and texts, figuring I’d tell everyone at the same time, so I didn’t have to relive the story over and over.

By the time I’d hit the Dallas city limits my back ached, my knees throbbed, and my eyes needed toothpicks to hold my lids open, but I had only a few miles left to get to my parents’ place. If I could take both hands off the wheel and still drive, I’d put my hands over my face and scream into them.

Stopped at a light, just a few miles from home, the reality sank in. I’d left my career over a stupid guy. Three days ago I’d been in the most fake place in the world, and I loved it. This was home, real home, where even though I knew they cringed and prayed I’d only be staying for a few weeks at the longest, my mom and dad would welcome me with open arms, and I dreaded it. I waited for the light to turn green, wondering for the gazillionth time what I was going to do next.

A horn blared behind me, and I resisted the urge to roll down my window and flip them the bird. I stepped on the gas, and my Jetta died. No problem, this had happened before. It groaned and almost caught life, then nothing.

Shit.

I tried again.

Nothing.

“No.” I slammed the heels of my hands against the steering wheel.

More horns blasted a symphony behind me. The urge to flip them off overwhelmed me, but I had a stronger urge to cry. I searched around the steering wheel and dashboard for the hazard light thingy. I’d never had to use it in the decade I’d owned the car. You’d think they put them in the same place on every car. I knew where it was on my mom’s Ford Edge. But no, stupid Volkswagen had to be different.

My hand trembled as I looked, because now I heard shouting as well as honking. Okay, stop, think. I tried to start it again. I heard a chug, chug, chug sound, but nothing actually happened. I grabbed my phone to call my dad, and as I picked it up, I saw the battery read one percent. By the time I got the number dialed, the phone would be dead. And with my car lifeless, I couldn’t charge my phone. Why the hell hadn’t I plugged it in when I’d started driving earlier that morning?

Ah, the triangle doodad, that must be the…I pressed the button. Both blinker lights blinked. Good, now maybe everyone would stop honking and hollering. Besides, we’d sat through the green, to another red light. I took a deep breath, then looked out my driver’s side window.

I screamed, “Holy shit!”

I kid you not, a Duck Dynasty wannabe stood outside my car. Full brown beard, matching hair falling over his shoulders, and surfer clothes, he may as well have had a sign that read “will work for food.” I shook my head. I needed some sleep. Real sleep, like three full days of uninterrupted sleep.