I squinted, scowling into my rearview mirror at the guy behind me next to the Suburban, threw my arm over the passenger seat of my new-to-me, late model Sentra, and looked over my shoulder, my foot hovering over the accelerator. The shrinks had given me the labels of depression, anxiety, PTSD, survivor’s guilt… sex addict… it just depended on which one you talked to. None of them however, had tagged me as homicidal. Boy, somebody had sure missed something.
5 months earlier-
“Come on, Janie, hurry it up! Ash will be here any minute!” Terrell said as he parked his vintage Trans-Am and turned off the Talking Heads along with the engine. He carefully scooped up his perfect girlfriend’s miraculously intact cake from its perch on the front seat and hurried into the DQ without waiting for me. What a douche. I swear, football stars. All that creatine must go to their heads. I once again turned myself into a pretzel in his miniscule backseat as I put my favorite red cowboy boots back on, still singing the song he’d turned off.