Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
REED
12 years old
J ack chuckles at the sound of heavy grunting behind us.
“I’m gonna go help your old man with those fishing poles.”
I nod, watching him walk away.
My first impression of him was all wrong. After my dad’s tent compliment, he got right back to work. But not Jack. He sat across from me—him in his camp chair and me on the seat of a soggy picnic bench—just observing the fire.
A broken branch hanging limply from a pine tree catches my eye. It hooks near the end like a walking cane, and I move closer to inspect it. The branch is just high enough that I have to press up on my toes to reach the torn section. Bits of bark flake off as I grab on to it and give it a tug. It doesn’t budge.
I jog over to the truck for my backpack. The guys are too busy untangling some fishing line to even notice I’ve left my spot by the fire. I pull my birthday present free, excited I’ve found a reason to use it.
When I make it back to the tree, I use the blade to saw at the branch until it snaps free. I fold the sharp end of the pocketknife back into the handle and tuck it in my pants, then make my way toward the firepit. With the raw end of the stick exposed to the flames, I jab into the kindling. Ashes sputter a couple feet off the ground and then float down to die inside the steel circle.
“Reed, don’t play with the fire,” Dad warns.
A glow outlines their bodies in the shadows where they set up camp chairs on the opposite side of the fire.
He couldn’t have brought them ten feet closer?
I acknowledge his warning with a single nod, but he turns back to Jack so quickly I’m not sure he saw. It pisses me off.
I jab the tip of the branch through the hot embers, sending a bigger log at the bottom tipping over. Sparks lift toward the sky and then fizzle out.
“Reed!” he barks again before reaching for a beer and tossing one to Jack. He pops the top open in his lap and takes a long, lazy pull from the can. He turns to his friend to tell him something else, and they both start laughing.
Why the hell did he bring me here?
If fire was an emotion, it would take the form of my anger.
I fight to control it as my chest pumps up and down. I glare at them both through the flickering haze, completely missing the moment my stick catches fire. The flames creep up the shaft and lick at my skin before I fling it out of my hands and onto a bed of pine needles.
In seconds, the whole campsite is burning.
Present Day
“You want to tell me why I spent an hour and fifteen minutes sitting next to an old woman instead of my son?”
My father trails behind me as I haul our luggage away from baggage claim.
He can’t see it, but I smirk at his disgruntled voice. “You met Dolores.”
He grips me by the arm to get me to look at him. “No, no. Met would have been ‘Hi, how are you?’”
He extends his hand as if reenacting the formal way in which he wanted that greeting to go. This time I let him witness my amusement. Unpretentious, nonchalant, spontaneous—all words I’d use to describe the woman who ditched her baggage with a stranger and left behind her ticket. But formal is not one of them.
“Instead, I got Betty White on steroids,” he vents. “I was the kind Samaritan who volunteered to play the piano at her nursing home and ended up listening to her hip replacement saga and how much it affected her sex life.”
I chuckle at his made-up scenario. “Sounds like her.”
We clear the double doors and my steps slow. Even though it’s been at least ten minutes since we parted ways, I find myself searching for chestnut-brown hair.
My dad stops beside me. “Who’s the girl?”
I stare at an empty sidewalk, imagining her gallivanting around the city in her fuzzy sweater rather than meeting up with the asshole who didn’t want to see her.
“My version of Betty White.”
My dad makes a grumbling sound, jolting me from my daydream. His scowl does an irritated dance between the open Uber app on his phone and the rusty Honda Civic that’s backing up against the curb next to us.
“What the hell .”
Here we go again .
A guy not much older than me with six inches of boxers hanging out of the waist of his cargos steps out of the front seat. Chains clank and swing against his thigh as he saunters toward the— What happened to his trunk? It’s caved in on one side and requires a WWF wrestling move to open it. It pops a few inches and he pries it the rest of the way with clawed fingers. I’d load our own stuff but he’s blocking the opening as he uses the shrouded hunk of metal for support.
“I think there’s been some kind of mistake. I booked a?—”
I interrupt my dad with a hand to his shoulder. “It’s fine. We don’t need an SUV for a duffel and two suitcases.”
“Sorry, bro. Jimmy’s main man, Ricky, needed the rig today. Got a wicked deal on a pool table for the crib. Facebook Marketplace is dope.” He leaves his high-five hand hanging in the air as he chuckles to himself. When neither of us claps it, he swipes the underside of his nose with his thumb, and my dad squints.
I think he just spoke about himself in the third person.
“Jimmy, is it?” I ask. “I’m Reed. This is Emmett.” I confirm our names just to be sure we have the right driver. When he doesn’t deny it, I turn my dad by the shoulders, escorting him to the back seat. “We appreciate the ride.”
The driver shows off a full grill. He has to fist the waist of his pants to keep them from dropping to his ankles.
When I climb into the car, I’m impressed by how clean the interior is. And by clean I mean lacking the pile of trash I expected to have to swim through. There’s still a musty odor of stale fast food that clings to the fabric of the seats, and my dad holds the stiffest posture known to mankind, like he’s trying to save his precious suit from needing a dry clean.
Whether we wanted to talk or not, there’s no chance with the base booming the way that it is. While Dad uses our silent ride to leave Jimmy a scathing review, I make the mistake of opening Instagram.
A selfie of Miles and Teddy is the first thing to grace my screen. His arm is snaked around her waist and damn if she doesn’t look beautiful in that black bikini. Spots flash in my vision and the muscles in my jaw tick. That same awful feeling that ate me alive all summer whenever I saw them together courses through me now. I know I shouldn’t expect to be over it after a few days, but I want to be. I swipe the app closed and vow never to open it again.
Twelve minutes of Limp Bizkit later, we arrive at the Lithia Ford Lincoln of Boise dealership. We both choke out a cough as Jimmy peels out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of exhaust as a parting gift.
“We could’ve avoided all of this had we just driven my truck,” I remind him.
He stiffens.
“It’s not just sitting around. Ronny will use it,” he says.
I take that as my cue to drop the conversation and follow him. Rows and rows of vehicles with price tags painted on the windshields greet us. We don’t make it more than ten feet before a salesman in a tight black polo makes a beeline to the row of F-150s we’re looking at.
“Can I help you gentlemen find what you’re looking for today?” He hugs a clipboard to his side. One of those Hello, my name is stickers clings to his pocket with the name Waylon scribbled in barely legible Sharpie.
Dad nods to the line of pickups. “We’re interested in your 2024 model.”
Waylon readies his clipboard. “Right this way.”
“I don’t need a new model,” I whisper as we follow. “There’s a good chance it’ll just sit there for the next two months or get beat up in the mountains.”
“I don’t care what happens to the truck, Reed. You need a vehicle, and I’m not about to buy a piece of shit that could break down forty-five minutes down the highway.”
I sigh. There’s nothing I could say or do to change his mind at this point. My dad likes nice things. And the fact that both my parents are successful attorneys in Park City means they’ve never taken the practical road when it comes to financial decisions. I know when to pick my battles with him, and this isn’t one.
The salesman stops in front of an olive-green Raptor.
“That’s the sticker price. But I can knock it down to seventy-seven K for you.”
My dad circles the truck like a predator stalking its prey. He inspects who knows what while I follow a few steps behind him, pretending to do the same.
I think it’s about time to ruffle some feathers.
“Hey, Waylon! Do you think there’s enough space for picking up a Facebook Marketplace find? Because there’s this rad foosball table?—”
“Reed,” my dad grunts, and turns to the impatient auto salesman. “We’ll take it.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling out of the parking lot in an overpriced hunk of metal.
We fight rush hour traffic that rivals Utah on its worst day just to get back to where we started—the airport.
“What are you going to do with that six-hour layover?” I ask. It sounds ridiculous even saying it out loud.
“Take some phone calls.”
I could have guessed that.
Why did he fly all this way? Does he think I’m just chasing the next best thing? I won’t be the guy to dress up in a fancy business suit, sit at a mahogany desk, and answer a phone all day. I’m not like him.
I twist my torso and snag his duffle bag from the back seat, then I drop it in his lap. “I’ll see you in a couple months, Dad.”
He sighs and climbs out of the truck. “Let me know when you make it. Happy twenty-first birthday, son.”
My eyes flick to the display screen on the dash. August 21, it reads.
A truck for my golden birthday, go figure .
I reach over and pull the door shut myself. The tires crunch as I navigate out of the departure zone. I refuse to look back when all I’ll see is a disappointed frown melting away in my rearview mirror.
To be honest, I don’t mind the stretch of red lights across the city now that I’m alone. But the drive becomes ten times better when State Highway 55 reaches Horseshoe Bend. With my right wrist cradling the steering wheel, I take in the valley of dense pine trees like a staircase to the sky.
I fumble with the dashboard buttons until the radio turns on.
“ Meteorologist Mike Stanza informed us this morning that temperatures in the Treasure Valley will be heating up this week. Residents will face triple digits by Tuesday with a high of a hundred and five holding strong the next couple of weeks. Get ready, Idaho. It’s going to be a hot one. ”
Yeah, get ready for some fire, I think to myself as a ball of sagebrush tumbles across the highway. I jerk the wheel just enough to dodge the spiny plant as it sails past the lack of guardrail, over a strip of yellowed wheatgrass, and down a rocky ravine where the south fork of the Payette River rushes through. I correct the wheel just as a bus with a ten-man raft pulls off near an access point called Hells Canyon.
Always chasing the next best thing, yeah right .
Memories of Bear Lake threaten to invade—of long summer days boating, fishing with Miles and my brothers, chasing the sun—so I jack the radio even louder, as though my thoughts have a voice I can drown out with the sound.
I roll down the window as endless road stretches in front of me like a welcome mat.
It’s here, under the desert sun, that I start over.