"He took it well," Dom says. "Your mom stepped in and shaped the conversation from there."
"She did," I say, toying with the hair tie on my wrist. "Every day of this trip she shocks me. It's like I don't know her. Like she was black and white, and slowly she's coming into color."
"You sound melancholy about it."
"I don't feel melancholy about it." I don't think so, anyway. "Maybe I'm adjusting to this new side of her. Who knows how long it will be around. Maybe forever. Or only the duration of the trip."
"You don't want to get attached to the new version of her, because you don't trust it has staying power. If you let yourself care, it'll hurt when she goes back to who she was before."
Oh. Wow. Ok, yes. That's exactly how I feel. "How did you know that?"
Dom taps the steering wheel with the side of his thumb. "I have firsthand experience, unfortunately. Also, therapy."
I remain quiet, hoping this will be the moment Dom finally talks about his supposedly vanilla family.
"My dad is a character. In both good and bad ways. He calls himself a showman, but it's just a gilded word he chooses because he can't bear to accept the truth about himself. My childhood..." Dom trails off, and I'm so worried he'll stop talking. I've been waiting for him to open up, and now that the moment has arrived, I realize how badly I want to know him.
"I'm listening," I say quietly.
He glances at me, breathing a hard, closed mouth breath. "I love him, you know? But I don't understand him. Growing up, things were never stable. I wasn't sure if I would come home and find my stuff in the back of his truck, because we had to move again. Another fight with another landlord. It could be assimple as them asking my dad to mow the lawn more frequently. It would set him off, and that was that. My dad's a nice guy, but he can be a hothead. He's calmed down since he's grown older." Dom reaches out to adjust the air vent, angling it away from him. "Kids need stability. I know things happen, and people move, but it happened too many times. It didn't take long before I saw he was the problem. I promised myself I would do whatever it takes to not be like him. I worked hard in high school, I did everything I could to get as far as possible from that mentality. I was always afraid it was transmissible. I couldn't believe it when I got a scholarship for college in New York. It didn't cover everything, and every second I wasn't studying, I was working. But I did it. I made it happen. I'm nothing like him, which should make me happy, but really, it just confuses me. It's hard to love somebody who is so deeply flawed. It's even more difficult when it's your parent."
"What about your mom? Where does she fit into all this?"
"It would be easy to let my mom off the hook for everything because she is a really nice person. But she enables him. She never seems to mind the way he lives life. As a kid I wished for her to take a stand on my behalf. I wanted her to do what was best for me, but she rarely did. It was hard to let myself acknowledge my disappointment in her, because I know she loves me. Our parents can love us, and still hurt us, and that's a difficult concept to grapple with."
"You are so much further than me in your childhood trauma repair journey. You've realized your flawed parents are still lovable. I haven't reached that point yet. Instead of doing the work, I ran away."
"Sometimes it's safer to do the work from a distance."
"You're very wise."
"I am older than you by two years."
"When is your birthday? I only know you hate it. I need to know the date you hate."
"October first."
I grab my phone and enter the date in my calendar. "Why do you dislike your birthday?"
"It's not something tragic, if that's what you're thinking." He shoots me a wry smile. "My dad isn't big on birthdays. He thinks they don't matter, and celebrating them is silly. So my birthday was just another day. Again, nothing truly tragic, but as a kid, it's hard to watch your peers be celebrated. My elementary school teachers always knew when it was my birthday, and they had these paper crowns they would make for every child when it was their special day. I kept all of them, but they're packed away in a box now. So there you have it. That's why I don't like my birthday." He shrugs.
My heart lurches. I wish his birthday were tomorrow. I'd find a cake and candles and make him a crown. I opt for running my fingers over his forearm.
His playlist plays quietly in the background, and he says, "Tell me about the next place we're going."
It's his way of saying he's done talking about his parents.
We're Going To Have Fun, DAMMITis in the bag at my feet. Spreading it open on my lap, I read from the Sierra Grande section.
"A classic western town, Sierra Grande is home to the largest cattle ranch in Arizona, the Hayden Cattle Company. The walkable main street will transport you to the Wild West. Grab lunch at The Orchard and watch bull riders try their luck at The Chute." I turn the page, continuing to walk Dom through our next week of destinations. "Sedona. Glamping. The haunted Hotel Monte Vista, in Flagstaff." I flip to the information printout with our reservation and schedule. "Considered one ofthe most haunted hotels in Arizona, inhabited by several spirits, including a bellboy, two prostitutes, and the Meat Man."
Dom reaches over and playfully chucks my chin. "Good thing I don't believe in ghosts."
"I do, until I'm proven otherwise. Best believe I will glue myself to your side all night while we sleep."
"I could think of far worse experiences."
After that, I let the ghost discussion die (no pun intended). We stop once more at a rest station to use the facilities, and when I exit the ladies' room, I see Dom has Bernice's top down. He leans against the car, one leg crossed over the other at the ankles, his arms folded in front of his chest. With his wavy hair, flopping lawlessly about his head, he resembles a literary James Dean.
