Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
REED
12 years old
T wo hours later, I’m waiting in the hallway outside of my dad’s office with a backpack sagging the shoulder it’s slung over. The zipper bulges in sections, and there’s a gaping hole that won’t close on one side. I made sure to slip the pocketknife in the one on the back.
Through my paned-glass-door view of my dad’s office, I watch him scuff his loafers in a jovial gate against the carpet. He circles his desk. Loud laughter seeps through the crack in the door.
“I’m so glad you can come. It’s been a long time,” he says to the person on the other end.
Who is he talking to?
I drop an irritated glance at the Swiss Army watch fastened around my wrist. We should have left an hour ago.
“Sounds good. See you soon.” He hangs up the phone and plants his palms on the edge of the desk, leaning over his computer. He squints at the screen as he pulls at the top drawer, taking out a pair of cheater glasses .
“Dad, are we leaving soon?” I holler into the room, not moving from behind the door’s entrance.
He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me through the lenses that have slipped to the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, hey. Just finishing up some work stuff. But…” He pounds on the keyboard for a few seconds and then hits the power button. “There. All done.”
Finally.
“You ready for McCall?” he asks.
With a backpack carrying everything but the kitchen sink and a lifetime of waiting for this moment, I’m ready for anything. I’ve never heard of McCall, but I don’t care where it is we’re going as long as the Avalanche’s tires leave the garage.
“Born ready,” I say, leading the way.
Five minutes later, my mom perches her palms over the driver’s-side window.
“Did he say yes?” she asks.
“He did.”
“You boys have a good time then.” She leans through the frame and kisses him on the mouth. “And tell Jack I say hi.”
Jack?
“We will,” he says.
He punches our destination into the LCD screen on the truck’s dashboard.
The GPS system configures the route: a squiggly line about six inches long that ends with a dot labeled Lower Payette Campground.
He backs out of the driveway onto our street, and ten minutes later, we’re cruising down the interstate.
This is it. Our time to get to know each other. I better use it wisely.
“Hey, Dad, have you ever heard of Silverwood?”
He grips the steering wheel at ten and two. “Isn’t that the new coffee shop they just opened up by Sundance Mountain Resort?”
“That’s Wood River Brewing.”
“Oh. That’s right. Then no. I’ve got nothing.”
I drag the zipper open on the front pocket of my backpack. It catches three quarters of the way across, and I have to pry it open with both hands. Rolled up with a rubber band is the brochure I found at All Caught Up. Miles’s dad’s fishing shop has a rack of pamphlets next to the checkout desk, and this one has a wooden roller-coaster on the cover. Every seat is filled with people of all ages, their hands in the air.
“It’s a theme park near Coeur d’Alene.” I show him the image, and he steals his eyes from the road to glance at it.
“That’s your idea of fun?” He cringes.
Should it not be? I stare at the truck’s dashboard until it blurs into a mirage of the ride. I feel the rush of the wind on my face as I crest the highest peak. The plummet in my stomach as I tip over the edge. The thrill of the speed and the twist I never see coming near the end.
“Yeah,” I say, a grin on my face. “It is.”
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 gravel road 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 be different.
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 remember why I’m happy for them, why I 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?”
At first she flashes me an irritated glance. I don’t blame her when I’m just another stumbling block in the mountain of obstacles trapping her attention. But when she registers my question, all of that frustration melts away.
“Oh, that would be a delight, young man. This old frame isn’t what it once was. If I were to bend as low as you right now, I’d never get back up.” The deep grooves in her face crinkle even more with her warm smile.
“I’ll be there one day myself I’m sure, so I have to lend a hand while I still can.” I wink.
My hand sweeps across the floor, gathering a travel-sized bottle of Cetaphil lotion, an unopened package of Kleenex, a tube of lip balm, and a notebook with— I freeze. The pencil tucked in the binding transports me somewhere else, and another fragment of that letter comes back to me.
For as many summers as I can remember, you both were that for me. I gave this letter to your parents, Teddy, and told them to tuck it someplace meaningful, so that when you found it, it would feel more like coming home than saying goodbye.
“Oh dear! It’s happening younger and younger these days. Must be the pesticides in our food,” the old woman says as I gather my wandering thoughts and stuff them back and in their proverbial box.
With the objects collected in the palms of my hands I look back up at her.
What was that she said? Something about pesticides?
“I didn’t think it would happen to such a muscular fellow like yourself. Look at you!” She gawks at my biceps before sweeping her gaze toward the desk two feet ahead of us .
“But don’t you worry! Security will be here in a jiffy. Don’t ask me how I know that.” She points her index finger at me and winks.
I blink a handful of times, trying to recall what I’m doing crouched on the floor at this woman’s feet, when she shuffles her white tennis shoes across the swirl of blue-and-gray patterned carpet, her suitcase catching air every time it tips on the side with the functioning wheel.
The waiting attendant reaches out her hand. “Ma’am, I’ll take your ticket.”
“Oh, no,” she starts to say, but then leans in close and whispers something in the gate employee’s ear, who flashes an amused grin my way.
“I’ll get right on that, Dolores,” she says.
Only then do I straighten and quickly close the gap in the line.
This Dolores character looks up at me with a start, and I drop her items back into her bag.
“Oh good! You’re okay!” She grins.
Okay would have been a guy not stunned silent at the sight of a notebook, but I don’t tell her that. As sweet as her demeanor is, she’s a stranger. She doesn’t need to know that one of her belongings catapulted me back to the moment I had to walk over to Teddy’s front door one last time to hand-deliver a goodbye I hoped would never come.
I smile at Dolores instead. “Yes. I’m sorry. You’ve caught me on an off day.”
“Oh boy… traveling on an off day is never good. Those are the kind when you forget your passport.”
“Or a knife in your back pocket,” I mumble to myself.
“What was that?” she hollers, the pitch of her voice fighting to keep up with the ambient noise of the terminal.
I clear my throat. “It’s nothing. Why don’t I carry those onto the plane for you?”
She grins, letting the bag slip down her arm and bundle at her feet. “If you say so.” She abandons her suitcase handle without hesitation and shuffles her way down the jetway.
When I turn back to the attendant, she’s sizing me up like a Marvel character with his shirt off.
“That was really sweet of you,” she croons, her bright yellow ponytail swishing as she reaches for my ticket, brushing our hands together in the process.
It has the opposite effect she intended—an unfortunate prickling down my arm. I took this job in part for the new adventure, but mostly because it’s miles away from the opposite gender.
“Thanks,” I get out.
She finally looks down at her hand, and her panicked gaze flits toward the empty jet bridge. “Her boarding pass…”
I grab her arm and stop her. “It’s okay, I’ll take it to her.”
Her eyebrows pinch together and she chews on her bottom lip. “I could lose my job for this.”
What is she going to do… make the poor woman hobble back out here? Abandon this long line of people and take it there herself? No. Neither option is worth it.
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” I wink at her.
Her gaze drags down my face to my outstretched ticket, hiding her blush. “Thanks. Looks like you’re in row two. Window seat.” Her fake eyelashes flutter up and down.
I nod, needing to tug the two tickets out of her hand to get her to let them go. I feed Dolores’s straw tote over the handle of her dilapidated suitcase and lift it off the ground.
The walkway is already empty by the time I board, and I glance over my shoulder one last time but still don’t see my dad.
I hope he misses this flight.
I’m met with the stuffy smell of recycled air as I cross the plane’s threshold and exchange a greeting with the flight attendant manning the door. When I turn the corner, I find Dolores, fixed in the middle of the aisle. The poor woman slides on spectacles that hang around her neck by a strand of glass beads and scours the floor.
“It’s got to be here somewhere,” she mumbles to herself, trying her best to rotate clockwise in the cramped space.
I squeeze down the aisle with her straw bag slung at my side—a terrible decision as it clunks into a sweater-covered shoulder on my left.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the passenger—a woman whose face is hidden by a layer of brunette bangs. She’s distracted by her phone, and I’m past her before she ever meets my eyes, holding out the boarding pass beneath Dolores’s glasses.
“Looking for this?”