I’ve made a mistake.
I know it as soon as I catch my head lolling, my eyelids drifting shut.
With a sharp inhale, I sit up straight and tighten my grip on the wheel. I blink and the road swims back into focus. Dusty asphalt passes beneath me like fast-running water, the broken white line shining in the twin beams of my headlights. On both sides, red dirt fades to black.
My heart starts to race. Did I just fall asleep? I check the speedometer: I’m almost twenty over the limit. Goddamn. Swiping a hand across my clammy brow, my foot finds the brake and the van slows down.
The evening is quiet, no other vehicles but mine, but it feels like a close call. I could easily have veered off the road and hit a tree, or collided with a passing kangaroo; I could’ve smashed into an actual person. I can just imagine what Phoebe would say if she were here. Are you insane, babe? Tap into your wisdom and pull over. Don’t you know anything about how to keep yourself safe? Oh, the irony.
The horizon to the west is striped with gold. Night has fallen so fast. Surely the sky was still bright just minutes ago? I keep going. It might not be safe to drive after dark, but stopping overnight on the side of the road isn’t an option either. And I can’t turn back. I had a good reason for leaving in a hurry … didn’t I?
I think back. Why did I leave again? I’d been at a campsite. There’d been a guy. I hadn’t felt comfortable. And when you’re uncomfortable, you leave. Travel 101. But what specifically had made me feel that way? I can’t quite remember, the details are blurry – which isn’t unusual for me, I can’t always pinpoint the reasons behind my feelings. But then I steer sharply around a sudden pothole and something rolls into my foot, cracking me on the ankle. Reaching down, I pull an almost-empty wine bottle from the footwell. Oh. The dregs slosh against the cap and my stomach churns with it. Oh, no. I run my tongue around my mouth and taste blackberries and tannin. The realisation hits me like a sandbag: I’m not just tired. I’m drunk.
Skin crawling with shame, I wedge the bottle between my seat and the door, its glass neck poking out like a little person with something to say. No. I glare at it. You pipe down. I don’t want to hear from any of its full friends in the back either, though I can already hear them calling.
Look at me, can’t even get through my first full day on the road without a booze-fuelled drama of my own making…
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