One Week - By Nikki Van De Car Page 0,6

open-mindedness and purpose.

I stop in my tracks. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. A bus to where? I know he said…somewhere. Still in California, I think. San Francisco? I try to think for a moment, but I honestly have no idea. Damn it. Great going, Bee. Way to get yourself all the way to—oooh, Santa Barbara. How daring. What a badass you are.

I shake my head, and try to get that sense of purpose back. I can figure it out. I mean, how hard can it be? New York City—popular destination, right? I'll just go and find a route map or ask an Amtrak worker or whatever. People do this every day. There's probably one of those big boards like in the movies, with the flapping signs as the trains depart, or are delayed, or whatever. Though those always looked pretty confusing, come to think of it.

I walk into the station, and it is immediately clear that there is no big board here. This is a small station, and it's mobbed. I thought the line at Union Station was long? This place has only one teller, and there are about fifty people waiting to see her. I look around for a helpful route-searcher person, but that person does not seem to exist. Amtrak's customer service leaves something to be desired. I do see a stand where there might once have been route maps, but it's empty. And it doesn't look like the beleaguered teller is going to have time to refill it anytime soon.

Someone bumps into my shoulder, and I realize I'm blocking the door. I move over to the side, and bite my lip. This is kind of a problem. Even if I sacked up and got in that line, by the time I got the help I needed, I would probably have missed the stupid bus to wherever-the-hell. Another person bumps into me, and I turn to tell them to back off, when I realize that I'm still in the way. There isn't anywhere that isn't in the way in a place this small and crowded. I see the sign for buses, and decide to go be in the way over there. Maybe inspiration will strike.

Or maybe, I admit to myself, I'll spot Goth Geek and follow him. In a totally subtle, he'd-never-realize-I-was-doing-it kind of way, of course. I round the corner, and jump back—accidentally stepping on the guy behind me's foot in the process.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and peek around the corner. Goth Geek is right there. He's using the payphone and seems mighty unhappy with the person he's talking to. I can't understand what he's saying, it's too loud with all the bus noise, but from the way he's tugging at his fried follicles, the conversation is not going well. He slams the phone down and marches off, using his duffel bag as a weapon, knocking people out of his way.

Great—he'll clear a path, and then he'll get on a bus. I'll get on that bus a casual minute or two later, and everything will be fine.

Except he's not getting on a bus. He's walking out of the station. I scramble after him, and watch, mystified, as he stomps down the sidewalk, heading downtown.

Well, damn. I look agonizingly back at the line for the teller, and scramble to catch up with the Geek. Who is walking incredibly fast. And my feet are killing me; strappy kitten heels do not make for particularly good stalker shoes. I snort at the absurdity of the situation—how did I end up here? Chasing after some random guy so that—joy of joys—I can get on a bus? I don't even know if he's still going to New York! Maybe his angry phone call fight ended with him refusing to go to New York—or being informed that he was no longer welcome there. But if that were the case, he'd be getting back on the train to LA, right? I mean, there's nothing in Santa Barbara. I've been here, I know. Cute little houses that cost millions of dollars, and a ton of antique shops and cafes that charge way too much for a cup of tea. That's it.

So the working theory—as much as I have one, jogging along and looking like an idiot—is that the fight was irrelevant to Goth Geek's travel plans, and the bus just doesn't leave yet, and he's going to do a little sightseeing in the meantime, burn off some of that irritation.

I skid to a stop as Goth Geek