It’s not pretty scenery, that’s for sure. Driving through Richmond rarely is, from the freeway at least. From here you can see the green of the hills and the muck of the railroad tracks, and neither feels particularly appealing. I’m angry and I can’t figure out why. Part of me wants to throw my wedding ring at Rob and hop out of the car, but it’s not exactly a viable plan. Instead I just curl my toes inside my sandals and silently wish hateful shit on him for no apparent reason. It could be the headache. It’s aching worse now, the pain ebbing and flowing. I’m reminded of when I was pregnant, when Jax would kick me so hard that I would have to stop and catch my breath. I try to breathe, to open the constricted blood vessels. Then Rob puts his hand on my leg and it’s everything I can do not to smack the crap out of him.
Of
course I know where all this is coming from. I can’t pretend otherwise. It
presses at the back of my throat like bile, roils my stomach like something I
wish I hadn’t eaten a half hour earlier.
Fact
is, I don’t know if I’m in love with him anymore. In a way that’s what I’m
going up to St. Orres to find out; that’s the knowledge I’m pursuing, the
information I’m out to get. Why I think that Gualala has the answer is beside
me; I only know that I do.
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