Good To Go by Caroline Lyddane

The rain drummed against the rusted metal roof of the shaggy bus station. Water streamed
down in thin rivulets, pooling in the cracked concrete beneath the pale, flickering lights. The air
carried the scent of damp mold and gasoline, clouding the senses. There was a single bench that
sat against the wall of the bus station, the paint curling off like dried leaves. Two people
occupied it, one of them hunched over, lost in thought, while the other sat stiffly, fixing their
gaze on the empty road beyond the terminal.

Jess shifted and adjusted the scratchy strap of her heavy backpack, squirming uncomfortably.
She hated the sitting still part in waiting. The bus was running late, but every passing minute was gnawing at her nerves. The man who had sat next to her hadn’t moved, seemingly an inch since she had arrived. His coat was moth-eaten, holey, and rough, while his boots were deeply scuffed and dampened from the pouring rain. She felt like he was either sleeping or maybe even pretending to be. Her grip tightened on the envelope she held dearly in her lap. A job offer, her fresh start- if she could only get there.

Through the pounding noise of the rain above her, her thoughts wandered back to the
conversation she had had with her mother before she left. “You think this is the right choice?”
her mother had asked, her familiar worry etched in the aged creases of her face, her voice gentle
but weighted. Jess had responded in a simple nod, although now, while she was sitting in this bus station with the stench of rain-soaked pavement and old gasoline staining the ground, with
uncertainty thick in her throat, she wasn’t sure anymore. She traced the edge of the envelope
anxiously with her thumb as she embraced the feeling of the weight of her decision pressing
harshly against her ribs.

From the man’s perspective, the bus station was a peaceful purgatory of chills that struck him to
the bone and silence, broken only by the periodic car splashing through the puddles of the road in front of him. He could feel the tension radiating off of the girl seated beside him, the way she
kept readjusting her bag and tapping her foot against the soaked pavement. He’d been alive long enough to be able to recognize someone on edge. Maybe it was just the weather, or maybe it was something more, but he exhaled slowly, pulling his ratty coat tighter, his fingers numb from the cold.

He really didn’t care much for conversation with anyone. But something about the way she was
gripping that envelope in her hands told him that whatever it was, it was much bigger than just a simple piece of paper. In a place like this, on a night such as this one, he found it interesting. He
glanced over at her, at the restless, nearly anxious way she kept shifting her weight in her seat,
before he finally spoke.

“Where are you headed?”

Jess jumped at the sudden noise, only to look over at the man next to her, realizing he actually
wasn’t asleep. She hesitated to answer. She had barely looked at him since she sat down, but now that she had, she noticed the seemingly tired lines on his face and the way his shoulders were trying to curl inward as if he was trying to disappear.

Inside the building connected to the outside bus station, the woman behind the old ticket counter observed the two people on the bench with quiet curiosity. She had been working at this station for over a decade, and people-watching had become her second nature. The girl sitting seemed to fidget too much, and she assumed she was probably running from something or running towards something she wasn’t sure she wanted. The man, though, had the look of someone who was the opposite. Who had stopped expecting much from the life he was given.

Sheila had seen their type before, and she would see them again. It wasn’t strange to see travelers carrying more than just the luggage on their backs, but also the luggage in their hearts. They carried their stories, their regrets, their hopes that they weren’t sure they could ever say out loud. Eventually, the bus would come, and they would leave, but Sheila would remember them for a short time before another pair of travelers took their place on that same worn bench with their own unique, but the same quiet burdens.

The bus finally pulled up, its headlights cutting intensely through the damp night air. Jess stood
up, gripping her envelope tightly in her palm one last time before haphazardly shoving it into her bag. She seemed to hesitate for a moment before eventually turning back to the man, glancing at the figure from over her shoulder.

“Good luck.” She spoke quietly, her voice barely audible over the pounding crash of the impact
of rain landing on the rusted cover above them.

He nodded in response. “You too.”

Sheila quietly watched as the young girl stepped onto the bus, her silhouette briefly framed by
the dim interior lights of the vehicle. The man stayed behind, seated on the bench with his gloved hands in his pockets, waiting. Sheila wasn’t sure what.

The door to the bus hissed shut, and as it pulled away, Jess found herself exhaling in relief as she
stared out the fogged window at the station while it blurred past the window. The road ahead, the road the bus was leading her to, was uncertain. But for the first time in a very long time, she felt like she was finally moving in the right direction.

A week later, she found herself sitting in a cafe in downtown Chicago, the same, once pristine
envelope now creased and worn from her constant handling. The job, the same job that had been pressing the weight against her ribs. It was hers if she wanted it. She stirred her coffee
absentmindedly, staring out at the city she had once known only in her dreams. It stretched
before her now, vast and unfamiliar, full of both promise and uncertainty.

She felt her phone buzz against the table. As she looked down at the screen, she saw a message
from her mother: “How is it going?”

Her mind ran through all the things she could respond with. She could tell her mother about all
the fears she still held for her uncertainty, or maybe all the moments of the quiet hope that had
rooted itself in her heart and begun to grow, its vines wrapping around her heartstrings. Instead,
she picked up the phone, the weight of it feeling heavy in her grip, and dialed the number that
was bolded out on the letter.

A voice answered on the other end.

Jess allowed herself a small smile.

“Hello? This is Jessica Albert, and I’d like to speak with Mr. Johnson about my decision.”