Three Hundred Miles Too Late

I stared at Vanessa Tomlinson's message, "Is the interstate jammed? Drive safe," and my fingers went so cold I could barely hold my phone.

My mother's critical condition notice was still lying on the passenger seat.

In that moment, I suddenly understood.

Vanessa was not busy. She had simply placed my emergency behind Caleb Pierce.

I did not question her right away.

I only replied with one word.

"Fine."

Vanessa replied almost instantly, as if she had finally completed some routine obligation.

"Have you eaten? Food at rest stops gets cold. Don't eat anything random."

I was about to type when Caleb updated his video again.

He posted a photo of coffee from a rest stop.

The caption read: "Warm. It feels good when you're here."

Beside the rim of the cup, I could see the Patek Philippe watch Vanessa always wore.

Something clogged my chest, nausea churning hard.

I shut off my phone and kept driving.

Halfway there, my mother's attending doctor called.

He said her condition was unstable and told me to get there as soon as possible.

I was so anxious that I pressed the accelerator all the way down.

Because my mind was spinning, I nearly missed my exit.

When I jerked the steering wheel, the car swerved violently, and cold sweat broke out all over me.

I pulled onto the shoulder and only then noticed that Vanessa had called me several times.

For one foolish second, I thought she had finally remembered me.

I thought she was calling to explain.

But the first thing she said after I answered was, "Did you see that video online?

"Evan, don't overthink it.

"He was driving long-distance for the first time. I was just on the same route."

My knuckles turned white around the steering wheel.

"On the same route for three hundred miles, Vanessa?"

The other end of the call went silent for two seconds.

Then her tone sharpened with impatience.

"You're still on the interstate. Can you not get emotional right now?

"The company project really is urgent. I only happened to run into Caleb on the way."

She said "happened" so casually.

But I had just refreshed Caleb's comment section.

He had replied intimately to one of his friends: "She told me this morning that she was worried about me, so she came with me."

It felt as if my chest had been ripped open.

Cold wind poured straight into the wound.

For the first time, I stopped making excuses for her.

By the time I reached the hospital, night had fallen.

My mother was lying under an oxygen mask, her breathing weak.

When she saw me, she moved her fingers with effort and asked faintly, "Where is Vanessa? She said... she would come back with you today..."

I held her icy hand and lied.

"She's on the road. Traffic is bad."

Just as I finished speaking, my phone lit up.

It was a message from Vanessa.

"Caleb has a slight fever. He's asleep at the hotel. I'll call you later."

Before I could reply, the monitor beside my mother suddenly let out a sharp, frantic alarm.

My mother was pushed into the emergency room.

The red sign above the doors burned my eyes like hot iron.

I stood alone in the empty corridor, still carrying the chill of the interstate rest stop on my clothes.

Relatives arrived one after another.

My uncle grabbed my hand and asked urgently, "Where is Vanessa? How could she not be here for something this serious?"

All I could do was repeat a lie I no longer believed.

"Her company has an emergency. She's on her way."

Everyone looked at me.

Pity.

Scrutiny.

Suspicion.