That was easily the longest hour of my life. Would she come back? Was this actually going to happen? I can’t say I really believed it. I fully expected to still be sitting there when the sun came up, back to crying and not having a clue what to do, but for now, I had hope.

And French toast. I savored that toast, taking my time with each piece and trying to make it last the whole hour. I could seriously have lived off of nothing but that toast.

I looked out the windows beside me, past the flickering open sign stuck to the glass and out to the empty street with one burned out streetlamp. There was just barely a hint of the sun creeping over the horizon, casting long shadows over everything.

I’d been dreading this day. In 11 hours, any hope I’d had of actually choosing my own life was supposed to disappear. Now look where I was! None of that mattered anymore. As long as she came back, with her money, I could be free.

For a second, just a sliver of a second, I remembered the little piece of plastic that I’d thrown in the glovebox, and the feeling of dread I’d had for the past two weeks came back with a vengeance. I couldn’t run away from that.

I looked away from the window and back at the diner, trying desperately to distract myself. I focused every part of my brain on the stale coffee in the air, the checkerboard floors, the stiff and uncomfortable booth, the cliché pop radio station playing quietly, the taste of powdered sugar and syrup on my tongue. For today, I could pretend that I could run from it all. Tomorrow was a new day, and then I could deal with the problems in the glovebox, but for today, now, it didn’t exist. Today I would run, with Mitta, and it would be okay. Today would be my new start.

I turned back to the plate and picked up the last piece of French toast, the smallest smile starting to appear. I could start over. All of the rules, all of the expectations, all of the obligatory I-love-you-toos, gone. For once in my life, I could just be me. I might not have known exactly what that meant, but I could figure it out.

The door opened just as I finished the toast, and I spun around to find Mitta walking in, although a very different looking Mitta. Gone were the fluffy robe and baggy pajama pants, replaced by a skin tight tank top and jeans on her hips, proudly leaving her belly button for the world to see. She had a bulging light purple tote thrown over her shoulder and an old camera in her hand. A Polaroid camera? Who was this girl?

“Ready?” she asked, beaming. I laughed, choosing to ignore the tiny voice in my head telling me to change my mind.

“Vámonos!” I said, standing up to follow her out into the parking lot, lit by the half-risen sun and neon sign for Jamie’s 24 Hour Breakfast Parlor.

“So where’s your car?” she asked. I started to lead her towards it, but she stopped in her tracks as soon as she realized where we were heading. “Are you serious?” I stood about halfway between her and the car and just nodded, biting my thumbnail. I hadn’t thought to tell her about it. “Does it even run?” I nodded again. She just stared. Slowly, very, very slowly, she started walking towards it again, like she was trying to decide whether or not she wanted to turn around and leave. I prayed that the car wasn’t a deal breaker – so she was old. So there was duct tape on the mirror and rust all over the back. She was the only car I could afford, and she ran. That’s what mattered, right?

I wasn’t convinced that Mitta wasn’t going to back out until she was in the passenger seat with her seat belt secured and the engine running. “Jeezus, how old is this thing?” she asked while fiddling with the radio dial on the box unceremoniously strapped to the top of the dashboard with metal brackets.

“Trust me – you don’t want to know.” Even I wasn’t sure, to be honest. The man I bought it from told me it was from the 90s, but cars at least had digital clocks by then, didn’t they? I’d stopped caring. As long as she kept running, I could deal with the one back door that wouldn’t open and the half-functional windshield wipers. “Where’s the closest gas station?” I asked as I backed out of the parking space, nervously glancing at the gas gauge that was riding on empty.

“Right up that road,” she said, pointing left. I stared ahead uncomfortably as she looked around my car. Investigating. Inspecting. I wondered what she was thinking. Probably speculating on just how poor I was, driving around in this pile of rust with the hood that didn’t lay flat and holes in the seat upholstery. I couldn’t even fill up my gas tank without her help. To be fair, I wasn’t quite as bad off as all of that suggested, but how could she know that? Maybe she had noticed the cross hanging from the rearview mirror, dancing around as I pulled into the gas station. That wasn’t something I wanted to talk about, but hopefully, neither did she.

I stopped beside a pump and she dug some money out of her bag and handed it to me, not saying anything as she continued to survey my car. I got out and started to fill it up, very uncomfortable but unsure how to break the silence. Soon, she got out of the car and started walking around it, running her finger down the lightning shaped crack in the back window. I had to say something.

“I’m sorry, about the car. I should’ve told you…” that it looks like a pile of junk?