Benecio
The Dodge screeched into George Bush Intercontinental's long-term parking lot at 1:47am, tires squealing against the concrete like they knew exactly what kind of trouble I was about to get into.
I killed the engine, grabbed my duffel from the passenger seat, and hit the lock button with a sharp 'beep' that sounded way too much like freedom. For the first time in twenty years, there was no black SUV idling two spots down. No guys with earpieces pretending to check their phones. No Pai calling every ten minutes to ask if I was breathing.
It was just me, my bad decisions, and a one-way ticket to New York.
I was grinning so hard my face ached. I shoved my earpods in, scrolled straight to my playlist, and hit play.
"'If I could escape and recreate a place as my own world…'"
Gwen Stefani's 'The Sweet Escape' poured into my ears, and I swear the universe lined it up on purpose.
