Lyra Parish: Weak for Him

The real estate agent marked a giant black X beside the line at the bottom of the contract and handed me the pen. I understood the terms and conditions. I had read them at least twenty times over the past few days, but as my pen hit the paper, I froze.

"Sign on this line, Jennifer. Unless you're having second thoughts."

She tapped the paper with her pink manicured nail, causing her bracelets to jingle.

The people who wanted the house said they would convert it into a bed and breakfast for all the tourists visiting the Golden Triangle, a quaint area in Texas, known for oil and the home of Janis Joplin. I would miss the little things, like the Groves town square and the Pecan Festival, but they would always hold a place in my heart. The worn boards, double windows, and wraparound porch would be fully appreciated by someone else.

Every detail about the house, the way the shutters haphazardly hung on the upper windows, the boards that creaked on the stairs, and the rounded corners of the island in the kitchen, were a constant reminder of how my life changed when a reckless driver slammed into my parents' SUV.

I didn't want the burden anymore. I had dealt with enough.

Instead of studying for final exams, I planned two funerals.

Instead of walking across the stage during my college graduation, I buried my parents.

I couldn't celebrate without them. I wouldn't.

Tragic situations sometimes forced people into adulthood, causing one to take a leap of faith they might not have taken before. If I learned one thing from the accident, it was the fragility and preciousness of life. How a person should tell someone if they loved them and not hold back their feelings regardless of the consequences. I didn't tell my parents how much I loved or appreciated them, and every day without them, I regretted it.

The two-story farmhouse was a reminder of the memories, of my childhood, and allowed the ghosts of my parents to linger and haunt.

Devastation could make a person stronger, or bitter, or depressed, and I didn't want to stick around to find out which I had acquired. The longer I stayed, the less time it would take to lose myself. I wanted—no, needed—out.

I sucked in a deep breath and signed my name beside the overemphasized X.

Mrs. Shirley, the old bleached-blonde Barbie that used to babysit me when I was a child, smiled at the signature.

"Thanks, honey. I'll let the buyers know everything is final."

Her country accent seemed fake, almost how actors portrayed Texans on TV, but it was natural; it had been like that for as long as I could remember.

Signing that paper lifted a million pounds from my shoulders. The shackles had released, and I was free from the responsibility, the reminders, and everything that came with the house. I blinked the tears away. I refused to cry. Shirley continued to make small talk as I loaded the last of my belongings into the trunk of the Honda.

"Where should I send your copies of the finalized paperwork?" she asked as I slipped into the drivers seat. I rolled down the window.

"To my P.O. box in town. I'm having my mail forwarded there for now."

"So no address in Vegas, yet?"

"No ma'am, not yet."

"You know you don't have to leave, Jennifer. There are people here who love you."

"Yeah. There are people that I loved that are no longer here. There's no reason to stay anymore."

She leaned into the window, hugged my neck, and kissed my cheek.

"Take care, doll. Call us if you need anything."

"I will."

But she knew I wouldn't call.

It was an empty expression that she genuinely meant, but one that I would never claim. I was an independent kid, and not much had changed as I grew into an adult.

We exchanged one last smile, and then I put the car in reverse and sped away. As I cruised down the shell driveway, I took one last look into the rear view mirror, where she stood on the porch, watching me drive into the morning sun. I told myself I wouldn't look back, but I had to take one last glimpse at my old life, the crooked shutters, and the pasture with the tall crisp grasses, and the fence that didn't connect all the way around.

"Goodbye," I whispered.

The house faded away until it was miniature, and then non-existent.

The GPS read twenty-four hours.

I would stop halfway, and then continue.

The only choice I gave myself was to live like the sun wouldn't rise tomorrow.

Las Vegas bound, finally .

Exhaustion blanketed my body. So much, I contemplated crawling from the seat of my car to the hotel lobby. My legs needed a stretch, and I couldn't drive another inch. The golden Valet sign seemed like a godsend.

Barefoot, and with a purpose, I slid out of the Honda, stretched my arms to the heavens, and let every vertebra in my back crunch. Instead of driving to the parking garage, I threw the keys to the valet driver. He shook his head like every tourist did it, and walked over to the little podium, scribbled some things on a clipboard, and handed me a slip of paper.

Before I walked into the hotel, I took in the bright lights, sounds of zooming cars, and chatter of the tourists on the streets. Smells of life and food and old hotels made my body light up with excitement. Regardless of exhaustion—and the constant emptiness that never seemed to leave—the city life exhilarated me.

Everything I dreamed of was under my feet: change.

Nothing but sidewalk pavement surrounded me.

Oh, I couldn't wait to get acquainted with the city.

Unceremoniously, I grabbed my suitcase, and headed toward the grand entrance.

Once inside the revolving doors, the sounds of tokens dropping on metal and musical blings echoed in the distance. Gambling and booze were only a few steps away, and I would never forget the blown glass flowers that spilled from the ceiling. Deep blues, oranges, and yellows hovered above, coaxing me into their colorful spell. The lobby held the sounds and distinct smells of freedom and sin.

"Can I help you?" the petite woman at the front desk asked. A high-pitched, nasally voice escaped her. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled.

"I have a reservation. Jennifer Downs."

In a few clicks, and a slide of a credit card, I had the key to my room.

"Would you like help with your bags?"

Although the bellman wore white gloves and a cute little hat and practically begged me to take him away from his post, I refused. Two suitcases were no problem, and I never knew how much to tip.

"Enjoy your stay at the Bellagio, Ms. Downs. If you need anything, please dial zero."

I pushed the arrow for the elevator.

Once the golden elevator doors closed, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Disheveled like I had run through a hurricane. My clothes were wrinkled from sitting, but I didn't care. All I cared about was Vegas.

Before I let my excitement get the best of me, I sucked in a deep breath and smiled. As I hummed to Frank Sinatra, the elevator dinged and opened, releasing me onto the seventeenth floor.

I walked to the end of the hallway and inserted the hotel key into the little slot. The mechanism turned green and clicked.

Blue walls, blue accents, and blue curtains—the color of serenity and calmness. The room was breathtaking. Not because of the king size bed or HDTV on the wall, but because of the amazing view.

I dropped my bags and moved to the giant windows. Tall buildings, city lights, and mountains lined the horizon. I wanted to encapsulate my emotions and remember the moment forever.