Clark’s driving the van, and our bus is driven by Not Clark Wilder. I wish I could be more specific, but whenever someone introduces me to a Wilder brother, I’m too dazzled by his gorgeousness to remember his name. I think this one is Kane—one of the younger ones—but I wouldn’t put money on it. He has red-and-gold-streaked brown hair and pale blue eyes, and although I’m more of a fan of the Clark Wilder Norse God build, he’s a yummy, athletic specimen.

Just as we hit road speed, a walkie talkie crackles a few seats in front of mine. “Kane?” Clark’s voice rumbles over the connection.

So I was right, it was Kane.

“Yeah?” Kane replies.

There’s too much static to make out the conversation that follows, but whatever it is, Kane pulls over to the side of the road.

Two people trot up alongside the bus, climb the front steps, and appear in the aisle.

And my heart withers and dies and consumes itself in a crematory blaze.

Okay, I may have exaggerated a tiny, tiny bit.

But it’s not good.

Facing me is a woman with lovely honey-colored hair, pulled back in a ponytail. She’s packed her perfect, tidy C-cup-ideal bod into a set of expensive-looking hiking pants and a form-fitting base layer. She’s the female version of Clark, a fantasy of what an outdoorsy woman should be.

(I wonder if she consulted Pinterest?)

Her name—which I know—is Corinna.

I know her name because she’s sleeping with the man standing directly behind her, and has been since well before his divorce.

The man standing directly behind her is my ex-husband, Reuben. He has grown a beard and is wearing a bandana around his head, in a misguided effort to transform himself from artist to hiker. Mostly he just looks like a hack writer with a scraggly beard—which he is.

Sometimes, when confronted with information your brain can’t handle, it goes into super slow-mo mode. That’s what’s happening to me right now. It’s like this:

Corinna (who Reuben cheated with) is on the bus.

Reuben (my ex-husband) is also on the bus.

Corinna and Reuben are…

…going…

…on…

…this…

trip.

Together.

With me.

With just me.

No Imani.

Nooooooooooo!

Although once again, I make no sound, because the only thing worse than the present situation would be drawing attention to myself.

Corinna and Reuben slide into a seat near the front of the bus.

I could get off. There’s probably a rear exit. And surely even a benevolent god testing my resolve about going on this trip wouldn’t actually expect me to stick this out.

I test this theory, using the technique taught to me by my divorce counselor: If you were someone else, would you judge her for getting off the bus?

Hell, no.