March 6 – The Drive

Book Two – Chapter 3

March 6 – The Drive

The car smelled like coffee and camera bags. Sean had packed his equipment with the precision of somebody transporting medical supplies.

Backpack.

Hard case.

Tripod folded down and secured so it wouldn’t become a projectile every time I turned.

My duffel sat beside everything else.

It was considerably less organized.

A flannel sleeve was already pressed against the window.

Apparently Sean’s packing lessons hadn’t taken.

We pulled out of the driveway a little after nine.

The sky was flat March gray.

Not quite winter anymore.

Not quite spring either.

Sean sat in the passenger seat with both hands around a travel mug.

His camera rested in his lap.

As we pulled away, I saw him watching the house through the side mirror.

“You locked the door, right?”

“Yes.”

“Definitely?”

“Yes.”

“Because—”

“For the third time, Sean. Yes.”

He smiled into his coffee.

“And headquarters knows you’re actually gone?”

“Yes.”

“No secret laptop?”

“No.”

“No surprise work-from-the-mountains plan?”

I looked at him.

“That was never the plan.”

Sean slowly turned his head.

I stared ahead.

“Okay.”

“It was absolutely the plan at some point.”

“Maybe.”

“I knew it.”

“Not anymore.”

“Because you’re emotionally healthy?”

“Because Grayson threatened me.”

“Ah.”

“Much more effective.”

Sean laughed.

The highway stretched ahead of us.

Asphalt.

Bare trees.

Billboards.

Cars moving around us with people already halfway through their mornings.

For a while, neither of us talked.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

That mattered.

There had been a time when silence between Sean and me felt like evidence that something was wrong.

Now we could simply sit in it.

Music low.

Coffee between us.

Road ahead.

Eventually, Sean unlocked his phone and opened the route.

“Before we get too close to the park, we’re filling up.”

I glanced at the fuel gauge.

“We have plenty.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because I don’t want to hear you talk about the gas tank while I’m trying to make you appreciate clouds.”

“I don’t worry about gas.”

“You worry about everything.”

“I manage risk.”

“You worry professionally.”

“That’s why I own a company.”

Sean nodded.

“Exactly.”

I laughed.

“You’re getting way too comfortable.”

“Occupational hazard of being your kid.”

“Unfortunately hereditary.”

He smiled and returned to the map.

“Route’s easy.”

“Good.”

“Straight for most of it. Then we head toward the park and take our time once we’re up there.”

“You’ve checked conditions?”

“Yes.”

“Roads?”

“Yes.”

“Weather?”

“Yes.”

“Hotel?”

“Dad.”

“Just checking.”

Sean lowered the phone.

“Do you want to plan the trip?”

“No.”

“Then let the teacher teach.”

I sighed.

“Yes, sir.”

“That sounded sarcastic.”

“It was.”

“Rule violation.”

I glanced at him.

“Rules?”

Sean’s expression changed.

“Oh.”

I immediately regretted asking.

“We need trip rules.”

“Why?”

“Because everything important has rules.”

“That sounds disturbingly like something Grayson would say.”

“He helped raise me.”

I looked at him.

“I helped raise you.”

“Debatable.”

“Sean.”

He laughed.

“Okay. Three rules.”

I waited.

“Rule one: no work.”

“That feels targeted.”

“It is.”

“Fine.”

“Rule two: you listen to your teacher.”

“I always listen.”

Sean stared at me.

“What?”

“Yesterday you said aperture like you thought it was a sandwich.”

“I was learning.”

“You asked if it came with fries.”

“That was a joke.”

“Sure.”

I raised one hand briefly.

“Fine. Rule two. I listen to the smug photography teacher.”

“Especially when he’s smug.”

“Rule three?”

Sean looked through the windshield.

His voice became quieter.

“If either of us needs a break, we say it.”

I looked toward him.

“No pretending we’re fine because we don’t want to ruin the trip for the other person.”

That one didn’t need a joke.

“Deal.”

Sean nodded.

“Deal.”

Then I added:

“That includes my knees.”

His mouth twitched.

“Obviously.”

“And my back.”

“Yes.”

“And if you make me climb anything unreasonable—”

“Your dignity isn’t covered.”

“Terrible policy.”

He laughed.

Three rules.

No work.

Listen.

Speak up.

I could live with those.

The mountains

The city slowly disappeared behind us.

Buildings became fields.

Fields became hills.

And eventually, beyond everything else, the ridges appeared.

Blue-gray.

Layered.

Almost transparent in the distance.

Sean stopped looking at his phone.

“Look.”

“I see it.”

“No. Look.”

I glanced toward the mountains again.

Bare trees covered the lower ridges.

Clouds hung over everything.

The farther mountains faded into haze until I couldn’t tell exactly where earth ended and sky began.

I whistled softly.

“Okay.”

Sean smiled.

“Okay what?”

“Not bad.”

“That’s all I get?”

“We haven’t arrived yet.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Build anticipation.”

Sean lifted the camera.

He didn’t take a picture.

Just looked through the viewfinder.

Then lowered it.

“Not yet.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You just looked at something.”

“Yeah.”

“And didn’t take the picture.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

He turned toward me.

“Lesson one.”

“We haven’t even gotten there.”

“Photography isn’t about taking every picture you can.”

He looked back toward the mountains.

“Sometimes you look first.”

That shut me up.

Mostly because I hadn’t expected something that thoughtful before lunch.

We kept driving.

The roads changed as we got closer.

Narrower.

More curves.

More elevation.

Sean became increasingly awake.

Pointing things out.

Watching light.

Talking about where shadows would move later in the day.

I understood maybe sixty percent of it.

That was probably generous.

But I listened.

Teacher’s orders.

Just us

As we got closer, I glanced toward him.

“Nervous?”

“About what?”

“This.”

I gestured vaguely between us.

“Three days. Just Dad.”

Sean considered it.

“A little.”

“Bad nervous?”

“No.”

He looked through the windshield.

“First-day-of-school nervous.”

“That’s not exactly relaxing.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

He adjusted the camera in his lap.

“It’s good nervous.”

I nodded.

“Me too.”

That got his attention.

“You’re nervous?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because I want this to go well.”

Sean’s expression softened.

“Oh.”

“I’ve never done this version before.”

“What version?”

“Dad goes into mountains and accepts photography instruction from his son.”

“Very advanced parenting.”

“I skipped the prerequisite.”

He smiled.

Then became quiet again.

“New York went well.”

“It did.”

“So we’re already one for one.”

“Good point.”

“And if this goes badly, at least we’ll have pictures.”

“Of the disaster?”

“Exactly.”

I laughed.

That was enough.

We didn’t need a speech.

Skyline

At the park, we handled the boring parts first.

Information.

Maps.

Current conditions.

Where we could go safely.

Where we needed to take our time.

Then the road began to climb.

Skyline Drive curved through the mountains.

Trees crowded either side.

The world occasionally opened without warning and revealed layers of ridges beyond the road.

Then the trees swallowed everything again.

Sean looked like somebody had plugged him into an outlet.

“Oh, we’re stopping there later.”

“We just passed it.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t we stop?”

“Wrong light.”

I looked at him.

“You’ve become a light snob.”

“Yes.”

“At twenty.”

“Correct.”

I shook my head.

“Terrible.”

Another overlook appeared.

Sean pointed.

“That one too.”

“Wrong light?”

“Probably.”

“Excellent.”

“Trust the process.”

I drove.

He planned.

For once, I let him.

My back eventually began complaining.

Sean noticed me shifting.

“Back?”

“No.”

He looked at me.

“Yes.”

“Rule three.”

“We just started.”

“Rule three doesn’t have a minimum time requirement.”

I sighed.

“My back hurts.”

“Thank you.”

“You sound like a therapist.”

“Pull over when we get somewhere safe.”

We did.

Not because the view was perfect.

Not because Sean needed a photograph.

Because I needed to stand up.

That mattered too.

I stretched beside the car.

Sean walked toward the stone wall and looked over the mountains.

I joined him.

Cold air moved across my face.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Sean lifted his camera.

“Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Take your picture.”

I almost automatically said no.

Old habit.

Instead:

“Sure.”

He raised the camera.

“Don’t pose.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You immediately posed.”

“What did I do?”

“You did the Dad stance.”

“What is the Dad stance?”

“Exactly what you’re doing.”

I looked down at myself.

Arms crossed.

Feet planted.

Stomach unconsciously pulled in.

I relaxed.

Sean lowered the camera slightly.

“There.”

“What?”

“That.”

He took the picture.

Click.

I stared at him.

“That was it?”

“Yep.”

“Do I get approval?”

“No.”

“Delete rights?”

“No.”

“This arrangement is becoming abusive.”

Sean looked at the screen.

Then smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sean.”

He turned the camera toward me.

I looked.

Gray beard.

Jacket.

Mountains behind me.

Stomach visible because I’d stopped trying to hide it.

I wasn’t smiling.

But I didn’t look unhappy either.

I looked…

Present.

“Huh.”

Sean lowered the camera.

“Good huh?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled.

“Lesson two.”

“What?”

“Stop trying to look like yourself.”

I frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“You already do.”

Then he walked back toward the car.

I stayed beside the stone wall for another second.

Damn kid.

Arrival

By the time we reached the town where we were staying, I was ready to stop driving.

The hotel wasn’t impressive.

That was fine.

Low building.

Large parking lot.

Mountains visible beyond everything if you stood at the right angle.

I parked.

Turned off the engine.

The sudden silence felt enormous.

Sean looked at me.

“Well.”

“Well.”

“We made it.”

“Apparently.”

“Rule one survived.”

I looked toward him.

“You didn’t check email.”

“I thought about it.”

“I know.”

“A lot.”

“I know.”

“But I didn’t.”

Sean smiled.

“That’s what matters.”

We got out.

The air was colder than it had been at home.

Sean stretched until something in his back popped.

I stared.

“What?”

“You’re twenty.”

“And?”

“Why are your joints making that noise?”

“Genetics.”

“Don’t blame me.”

“Who else?”

“Your mother.”

“Convenient.”

We grabbed the bags.

Sean carried the camera equipment.

Naturally.

I carried my duffel.

We checked in.

Collected the key cards.

Found the room.

Two beds.

Nightstand.

Table.

Television.

A window.

Sean immediately crossed the room and opened the curtain.

Beyond the parking lot and buildings, a slice of ridgeline remained visible.

He smiled.

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“This works.”

I dropped my duffel onto one bed.

Sean placed his camera bag carefully on the other.

For a moment, we stood there.

Not home anymore.

Not driving anymore.

Actually here.

Sean turned.

“Official announcement.”

“Oh God.”

“You are now off duty.”

“Can you do that?”

“I just did.”

“Do I get severance?”

“No.”

“Terrible company.”

He pointed at me.

“For three days, you’re not Chairman.”

“That’s not how corporate titles work.”

“Don’t care.”

“Dark Evil?”

“Nope.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Then who exactly am I?”

Sean smiled.

“My dad.”

That landed somewhere no headquarters title ever could.

I looked around the little hotel room.

Then back at him.

“Feels weird.”

“In a bad way?”

“No.”

I smiled.

“In a good way.”

“Good.”

Sean sat on his bed.

I lowered myself onto mine with considerably less grace.

“Food?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then sleep.”

“Even more absolutely.”

“Tomorrow we start.”

“Start what?”

Sean looked toward the window.

“Seeing.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You practiced that line.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You absolutely practiced that.”

“Shut up.”

I laughed.

Outside, the mountains waited.

Inside, the heater kicked on with an ugly mechanical hum.

My laptop was hundreds of miles away.

Headquarters was somebody else’s responsibility.

My son was across from me, already checking tomorrow’s camera batteries.

And for once, there was nowhere else I needed to be.

Off duty

That night, after food and another argument about what counted as an acceptable hotel pillow, Sean fell asleep before I did.

I lay there listening to the heater.

Not his thoughts.

Not hidden meanings.

Just the ordinary sounds of another person occupying the room.

My son.

I thought about the rules.

No work.

Listen to the teacher.

Say when it’s too much.

Simple.

Maybe simple was what we needed.

I reached toward the nightstand.

The blue glasses sat inside their case.

I didn’t open it.

Tomorrow there would be overlooks.

Cameras.

Cold air.

Probably terrible pictures.

Maybe a few good ones.

But tonight we’d already done the important part.

We’d left.

Together.

And we had arrived the same way.