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BEST LAID PLANS
Miles William Oliver Cumberland IV, aka Oliver to his friends, aka a billionaire on the run
Of everythingI expected to feel when I left my father’s welcome-home party four hours ago, joy over my headlights illuminating aWelcome to Pennsylvaniasign wasn’t top on the list.
It wasn’t on the list at all.
But here I am, driving into—actually, let me stop there.
I’mdriving.
Myself.
Alone.
In the front seat.
No chauffeur. No assistant rattling off my meetings for the day. No business associate pitching a marketing partnership. No hovering security listening in to every word.
No relatives demanding to know why their exclusive, limitless credit card has been canceled or why I sold the family estate on Martha’s Vineyard.
No phone calls interrupting with an emergency that needs to be dealt with.
No weight of my family’s expectations squeezing my lungs and making it hard to breathe.
Just me, the pitch black of a moonless night, endless possibilities with zero expectations, enough mental preparation that driving doesn’t trigger panic attacks anymore, and my road trip playlist.
This must be what peace feels like.
There’s an edge to the peace—tossing my phone so it can’t be used to track me and operating with cash only isn’t a foolproof method of disappearing—but it’s more peace than I’ve felt at any point in my life, and especially the past four years.
I feel around on the door for the button to roll down the window, hit it, and my seat starts to recline.
The unexpected motion startles me, and I swerve the SUV before straightening it out. No panic. Road’s practically empty, and I corrected, and I’m nearly to my destination, and everything’s fine.
“Wrong button,” I mutter to myself.
I feel around again, andah, yes.
There it is.
The right button this time. Fresh, cool air whips into the vehicle, drowning out the symphonic pop music I’m playing in honor of knowing how much my mother hates it when major symphonies cover pop songs.
And also because I love it.
It’s unexpected.
It makes me smile.
And smiling has been rarer than a penguin in the desert for the past few years.
Thirty miles to go once I hit my exit, and I should—ah, yes.
There it is.
My headlights illuminate the large green sign telling me that my escape off the beaten path and into the backcountry of nowhere-land is fast approaching.
