I Got Lost & Ended Up In Henderson

When Evan and Marissa Bellows woke up on the second Saturday of March, the plan was simple: drive to Los Angeles, meet with their tax preparer, sign some forms, and be home before dinner. Tax season was always a headache for both of them, as it was for the rest of the country, so they were very grateful for their tax preparer. They lived in San Bernardino, an easy hour just east of LA if the traffic gods were merciful — which they rarely were — but it was still doable. They had made the appointment a month ago, neatly written on their kitchen calendar in Marissa’s loopy cursive:

"TAXES – 10:00 a.m. – DAVIS & RUIZ CPA"

At 7:45 a.m., they loaded into Evan’s trusted but aging Toyota Corolla. Marissa sipped a coffee from her thermos, flipping idly through her phone. Evan fiddled with the GPS.

“Forty-five minutes,” he said cheerfully. “Plenty of time.”

They rolled onto the 10 Freeway just as the early spring sun poked out behind thin clouds. Traffic was suspiciously light. Marissa, a natural worrier, frowned a little at that but said nothing. Maybe, just maybe, they’d beat the weekend rush.

But somewhere around Pomona, the first curveball came. A blinking sign:

10 WEST CLOSED AHEAD – DETOUR REQUIRED

Evan groaned. “Figures.”

He veered off at the next exit, following the orange detour signs that led them onto side streets. But the detour signs seemed... odd. Temporary. Homemade, almost, with uneven arrows and crooked lettering.

“Are we even heading west anymore?” Marissa asked.

Evan squinted at the GPS. It kept trying to "recalculate," swirling like it had lost its mind. “Yeah, sort of. Look, it says get back on the 10 in like five miles.”

So they pressed on — five miles, then ten, then fifteen. The neighborhoods turned into warehouse districts, then open stretches of desert-like land. The sun climbed higher. The city fell behind them.

At 9:30 a.m., Marissa checked the clock and her stomach tightened.

“We should call Davis & Ruiz,” she said.

“We’ll make it,” Evan said. “Just a little shortcut.”

At 10:15 a.m., they were still driving.

At 10:45 a.m., the GPS finally piped up: Continue on I-15 North.

“Wait, North?” Marissa said sharply. “North? That’s not right. LA’s west.”

“I know,” Evan said, growing uneasy himself. “I’m just trying to get back to a main road.”

Signs began to flash past them:

Barstow 50 miles

Las Vegas 165 miles

They exchanged glances.

“…Evan,” Marissa said slowly, “we’re heading to Nevada.”

He laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “No, no, no. Just... let’s get gas. I’ll check the map. Great mother of Mordred!”

They pulled into a dusty, heat-baked gas station that looked like it had last seen serious business during Route 66’s heyday. The attendant, a leathery old man with a bright orange hat and oil stained overalls, leaned against the pump with a bemused expression.

“You two lost?” he asked, clearly already knowing the answer.

Evan nodded sheepishly.

“We’re trying to get to Los Angeles,” Marissa said, feeling ridiculous.

The man chuckled. “Well, darlin’, you’re about two hours in the wrong direction.”

He pulled out a paper map — a real one — and unfolded it across the hood of the Corolla. His finger traced their journey.

“Missed your turn way back over there," he said. "But you’re close to Henderson now. Might as well stop in, cool off, grab some lunch. Worry about getting home after.”

Evan and Marissa exchanged another look. It was 11:30 a.m. Their tax appointment was a lost cause. They were sweaty, disoriented, and strangely... giddy.

“Fine,” Marissa said, tossing her hands up. “Henderson it is.”

They drove into Henderson like two castaways sighting land. It wasn’t the neon chaos of Vegas; it was quieter, homier — suburban streets, little parks, desert plants sprouting from median strips.

Marissa found a diner online called Lucky’s with a 4.8 rating and “legendary” peach pie.

“Peach pie sounds like a reward for getting totally, absurdly lost,” she said.

Lucky’s was exactly the kind of place travelers stumble into and remember forever: red vinyl booths, black-and-white checkered floors, and a waitress named Doris who called them "honey" without a hint of irony. They ordered breakfast even though it was lunchtime: pancakes for Evan, an omelet for Marissa. And two slices of peach pie — heated up, with whipped cream.

As they ate, the weight of the morning peeled away. Marissa laughed so hard at one of Evan’s stupid jokes that she snorted coffee through her nose. Evan laughed until his sides hurt.

Afterward, they wandered the small downtown, exploring quirky antique shops, a bookstore that smelled like vanilla and dust, and a park with a little pond where kids fed breadcrumbs to ducks.

“This isn’t how today was supposed to go,” Evan said, grinning.

“No,” Marissa agreed. “It’s better.”

They spent hours there, without a care for time or schedules or taxes. Around 5 p.m., they bought a couple of cheap T-shirts from a touristy shop: I Got Lost and Ended Up in Henderson!

Evan wore his proudly.

When they finally started the long drive home, the stars were out. The desert stretched around them in a velvet bowl of darkness, the headlights cutting a narrow tunnel of light through it.

“You know,” Marissa said, resting her head against the window, “maybe we needed today. Not just a break from work or bills or... whatever. But a real break. A surprise.”

Evan reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Best wrong turn I ever made,” he said.

They laughed quietly together in the dark, the Corolla humming beneath them.

They didn't get back to San Bernardino until nearly midnight, exhausted but happy in a way that defied explanation.

They missed their taxes.

They missed their schedule.

They missed all the things they thought they had to do.

And instead, they found Henderson.

They found each other again — not the overworked, stressed-out versions, but the wide-eyed, adventure-chasing dreamers they had once been.

And somehow, that was exactly where they needed to end up.