My dad brushes off the idea with, “Coeur d’Alene is a long way from home.”
I study the map on the screen. The city name is even further than our current destination. Four hours to be exact.
I guess it is, I realize. But his response still feels more like an excuse than a legitimate reason.
Will it always be like this? The two of us so different? Miles and his dad have fishing. Maybe camping will be what we have in common.
We stop once to refuel but then push through the long trek until we’re pulling onto a gravel road. A carved wooden sign welcomes us to the campground. He traverses a winding gravelroad until he pulls up next to another truck, and I squint at the silver exterior.
“Are you sure this is it? Looks like the spot has already been taken.”
“I invited my friend Jack to meet us for the weekend,” he says.
Jack, I repeat inside my head. I wrap my arms around my waist.
He brought someone else?
“Jack’s an old client and a good friend of ours. He lost his wife a long time ago, and, well, he’s been through a lot, him and his daughter. I thought he could use a guys’ weekend.”
It’s always the same story with him. Someone else who’s been through a lot.What about me?I want to scream.I’m going through a lot too. Do you know what it’s like struggling with algebraic expressions and not having a parent to help you through your homework at night?
“But you said…” That it would be just the two of us, my memory fills in. He did say that, right? I freeze, sifting through this morning’s conversation.
“Just the two of us?”
“Just you and me, kid.”
The exchange I overheard from his office doorway replays next, and it stuns me the moment I recognize that he changed his mind.
My dad turns off the ignition and faces the passenger seat. “Come on, champ. You’ll like this guy. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
Fun?What’s fun about feeling like the leftovers you eat in your fridge for the fourth day in a row because no one’s been around to cook anything new?
I can’t believe I let myself hope that this time would bedifferent.
Present Day
Dear Miles and Teddy, I hope when the two of you find this one day, you’re stupid happy. The kind that makes getting out of bed in the morning the best part of your day, knowing you get to spend it with your favorite person.
I thought sitting at that booth at the Bear Shore where I worked with her all summer, putting pen to paper while staring out at the lake one last time, would provide closure. But like some form of twisted torture, my brain memorized the damn thing. It repeats the lines like I need to rememberwhyI’m happy for them,whyI was willing to walk away, that I meant what I said.
“Good morning, Delta passengers flying Salt Lake City to Boise. We’re now boarding Zones A and B.”
I scan the ticket resting in my lap.
Of course he bought first class.
I stand up and make my way to the growing line of passengers. There’s an elderly woman in front of me wrestling with the handle of a flimsy straw bag. She’s dragging a rolling suitcase with a broken wheel too, her carry-ons stealing her attention.
She shuffles a few steps when the line scoots forward and loses control of one of the straps on the floppy bag. Half the contents spill onto the floor.
I do not have time for this.
She pivots to the side to assess the mess her worthless bag made and shows off her profile. Silvery permed locks serpent around her blue eyes and sweat beads above her wrinkled brow as she stares at the pile of her spilled belongings, like she’s a magician able to will them back where they belong. Either that or she’s questioning how important the contents are to her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s contemplating leaving them behind entirely.
As much as I want to board this plane—like, yesterday—I can’t do that with her blocking the entrance. My dad and his overpriced beverage might miss it, but I won’t.
I drop to a squat next to her things. “Mind if I help?”
