Isabella

Isabella steered her trusty Buick Encore into the faded rest stop along Route 15. A dilapidated motel stood nearby—cheap enough for her wallet and, more importantly, for her peace of mind. Once she checked in, she could leave her worries behind—well, most of them. The reassuring jangle of her keys in her pocket reminded her of the plan. Fred wouldn’t be home until after ten, so her cousin—whom she’d never actually met—could handle him. Her cousin was a formidable sight, likely to unsettle Fred, who liked to play mind games and catch people making slip-ups in conversation. Whenever he got flustered, Fred reverted to childish taunts like "fartknocker." Isabella was weary of letting a grown man sabotage her day with such clumsy antics.

At least her cousin’s presence made her feel a touch safer—like having a bodyguard, or maybe just someone willing to show up for her when she felt most like a lone sock in a dryer, spinning and spinning.

Thinking back over the last three years sent her into a tailspin. There’d be no bringing the cat to the hotel—certainly not the current one, and not any swankier, either. She’d miss Fred’s sprawling McMansion, with its cat-friendly bird garden—a ridiculous luxury, but one she’d grown used to. Still, leaving felt like the only path forward, even if it meant trading birdwatching for bad cable television.

For months, the idea of leaving had tiptoed around her thoughts like a stray cat. Then Fred smashed her grandmother’s old Italian jewelry box, sending trinkets skittering across the hallway like startled beetles. She hadn’t slept with anyone in six weeks—apparently, a fact Fred used as evidence for imaginary affairs. The truth? He was 56, and his amorous signals had become as rare and unpredictable as shooting stars. Isabella, at 43, didn’t find herself any more captivated by bedroom gymnastics than she had as a newlywed, anyway.

Her feelings toward him had dimmed—a flickering candle in a drafty room. He was forever scheming, always convinced the world was after some secret stash only he knew about. He chased his own desires with all the enthusiasm of a cat napping in the sun, but accused everyone else of greed.

Fred kept a running tally of bedroom acrobatics they’d skipped, like an accountant obsessed with missing receipts. He spun tales of imaginary lovers, but never managed to pin down a suspect—just wild accusations and zero evidence. Isabella actually laughed through her tears at his lack of imagination. When she teased him about her reading habits, he took offense and, in a fit of drama, smashed her jewelry box for good measure.

Lounging in the driver’s seat of her Buick, Isabella wondered if all this was just a peculiar symptom of a midlife crisis—hers, his, maybe both. Maybe she was supposed to feel wild and untamable again, but all she really wanted was an exit ramp.

Just then, a polite rapping on her window startled her. On the other side stood a young man so outrageously attractive he could have stepped out of a sunscreen commercial—sun-kissed hair, a warm tan, muscles that looked sculpted, and eyes the color of spring leaves. She rolled down the window, curiosity taking the wheel.

The stranger spoke: “There was a guy in an orange shirt fiddling with your back license plate. I thought you might need a heroic rescue, but he hopped into a Mercedes and vanished like a magician.”

"You’re kidding! That’s classic Fred—always up to something bizarre. Sorry, I’m Isabella. I’m actually in the process of leaving him. He’s convinced I’m having some grand affair."

"Well, you’ve stumbled into my area of expertise! I’m a private investigator and a card-carrying lie detector specialist—seriously, I have the badge and everything. Most of my work is catching cheating housewives, if you can believe it. My advice? Get the test results, then go chase your own dreams—people obsessed with business and money assume everyone else is running wild, when really, some of us just want to read a book in peace. Lester Brown, by the way." He handed over his card with a flourish. "So, what’s your next move?""So far, my grand plan is... stay at a motel. Maybe rent a car. Grab a few essentials. I’m going to max out the card on room service and tiny soaps. Fred should be at work by ten, so I’ve got a head start."

After sorting out a car, a room, and a pile of clothes, Isabella figured there was no use waiting around to job hunt. She dusted off the idea of writing—six years dusty, to be exact—but all her old contacts were as useful as a chocolate teapot. She scrolled job ads on her phone. With her credit card bill paid up for a month, she raided the kitchen recipe box for her emergency stash—six grand in crisp bills. No one had ever actually cooked in that kitchen, she mused, thinking back to when Fred bought the house fifteen years ago, all full of hope and plans.

Back then, they were business dreamers, with plans to spend weekends with friends and maybe start a family. Now, at 43, Isabella realized none of that had happened—just a handful of missed opportunities and a lot of takeout dinners.

She sometimes missed her youth when she caught her reflection, but wisdom—however hard-won—was a far better companion than naiveté.

Later that evening, Isabella met Lester at a hole-in-the-wall bar with neon signs that buzzed like drunken cicadas. They toasted to new beginnings, sipped watery gin and tonics, and traded stories about secrets and schemes. The night wore on, and laughter faded to comfortable silence. On the way to drop her at the motel, Isabella climbed into Lester’s car and promptly fell asleep, head tilted against the window, dreaming of a world where mysteries were solved with naps and kindness. Lester, ever the gentleman, left her snoozing peacefully in the passenger seat, letting her rest as the city blinked quietly around them.

Lester was attracted to her. He wasn’t typically interested in clients, or whatever she was. Really, he had only given her a card. She was fed up and didn't want to care who Fred was sleeping with, playing with, or paying for these days. She didn’t even care about the money anymore, which was never worth it. She felt respected when he spent it on her, but she didn’t see that as an end. Things were meant to be used, no matter how nice. Fred just wanted to hoard things. Lester believed that if you haven't needed something for a year, you let it go. He felt she had more in common with him than Fred.