My mother said it over and over.
My father repeated his own version of it on the rare instances when I’d visit him in prison.
Maybe Iamungrateful.
Maybe Ihavebeen an asshole.
Maybe Iamselfish.
Maybe Idon’tdeserve to be able to use my money to disappear from my old life.
Maybe I won’t be happy with anything, and running away won’t solve what I think it will.
Daphne doesn’t tell me she’s going to wait in the car for me.
I don’t ask her if she’s strapped in before I fire up the engine and point my car toward tonight’s destination while takingvicious bites out of a protein bar. We’re staying on backcountry roads the whole day again today.
She turns the satellite radio on to some god-awful country music station.
I switch it to the symphonic pop station.
She changes it to a polka station.
I switch it to a talk news station.
“Trevor, it’s interesting to see how Miles2Go’s stock is performing. They haven’t turned a profit since William Cumberland was sent to prison, but in the past two years, they’ve grown three times as fast as their nearest competitor, gaining more and more franchises across the whole of the North American continent, and even without profits, we’re seeing the stock price steadily rise.”
“Well, Emma, I think that speaks to how positively the public has responded to Oliver Cumberland’s emphasis on investing what would’ve been profits into environmental and diversity charities. They’ve been in a growth phase as a direct result of public relations initiatives that benefit communities, and?—”
I switch the radio back to the polka station.
Daphne switches it to the news again.
I switch it back to symphonic pop.
She huffs and slouches back in her seat.
When we stop for gas, I follow her into the store to make sure she doesn’t buy another burner phone before pumping gas.
She grabs six taquitos, four donuts, three energy drinks, an egg burrito, a Quickie-Lickie T-shirt, and four bags of Flaming Finger Lickies, which I deduce are Quickie-Lickie’s version of the Lava Cheese Puffs that Miles2Go sells.
She balances all of that in her arms until she dumps it on the counter as I’m paying for gas. “He’s got this too,” she tells the clerk.
I don’t twitch a single facial muscle while I pay for it all.
Or while she adds a canvas bag with Quickie-Lickie’s tongue logo and the phraseGet Lickedon it.
When we get back to the car, I direct her to fill it with gas while I clean the stupid bug-splattered windshield, which will be bug-splattered again before we get another five miles down the road.
And that’s how it goes the rest of the day.
When I want her to drive, I order her to drive. When I want her to pump gas, I order her to pump gas. When I want her to clean the windshield, I order her to clean the windshield.
Before my time as CEO at M2G, I would’ve added apleaseand athank youafter asking if she felt up to it.
Today, I just order.
She pulls over to gape at the world’s largest metal cricket—yes, the insect—and mutters, “Gosh, I wish I could take a picture to remember this amazing road trip,” before getting back in the car and driving us another thirty miles before stopping for a taco craving, despite the breakfast she bought herself at Quickie-Lickie still stinking up the car.
