We walked on the shoulder the whole way, Ethan insisting I stay on the side farthest from the road like Jimmy Stewart in a movie my mom would’ve fallen asleep to. I was just happy he remembered to wear shoes.
On the walk back, he carried both gas canisters, insisting they were easier to carry that way. “I’m evened up now,” he said. “If you want to help, distract me or something.”
“Okay,” I said, biting into the Snickers I’d treated myself to at the gas station. “A little story time for you: this is not my first time walking to get gas in the middle of the night.”
“Oh yeah?”
“It’s my fourth time. My parents ran out of gas all the time. My dad mostly, but my mom’s done it too. And it wasn’t like the gas gauge was ever broken or anything. They would just ignore it. Or forget. I’m not sure.” My voice took on that light affect it sometimes did when I talked about my parents. The kind that was perfected after sharing one too many “cute family anecdotes” that were met with expressions of shock and mild concern.
“Are they back together now that…” He wasn’t sure how to ask it, so I didn’t make him.
“Now that we’re not in the way? I think so. They’ve been all over the country interviewing people negatively impacted by the opioid crisis.”
“That sounds important.”
I nodded because it was the part of my dad’s life I couldn’targue with. His work always sounded sufficiently more important than everything else vying for his attention.
“Weirdly enough, my dad still takes off on her. Constantly. It’s almost like Laurel and I had nothing to do with it, and it was always a ‘them’ problem.” My attempt at levity fell flat. I still sounded too resentful, which I didn’t like. I didn’t want to care so much.
I cleared my throat. “So, anyway…as someone who’s made many a nighttime gas station trek, I can say with authority that this was one of the more dramatic ones. Care to share why tonight sent you over the edge?”
“I’m seriously at the end of my rope. I swear, if you hadn’t’ve been here, I would’ve left the minivan and walked all the way to Colorado. Started a new life there.”
“It’s not ‘moving to Colorado’ bad, is it?”
His forehead folded up like a taco. “What? Everyone loves Colorado.”
“Colorado is the breakup bangs of states. No one in an emotionally stable place has ever up and moved to Denver.” I nudged his shoulder with mine. “Spill.”
“My parents bought an RV. I’ve been helping them fix it up. They’re retiring and starting their next act. But Silver Lining Society wants Lemonface to open for them on tour—”
“That’s amazing,” I cheered, grabbing his arm and bouncing in a way that wobbled his delicate gas can balancing act. Silver Lining Society was an indie rock band on the come up. They’d played on one of the smaller stages at Coachella two years before and their most recent album was getting even more traction. This would behugefor the band. For Ethan.
“Itwouldbe…” He adjusted his grip. “If I weren’t themanager of a barely profitable donut shop. Or if my band wasn’t scoping out guitarists in Minneapolis to replace me. Or if the thing I did all day, every day wasn’t literally trying to poison me. But my parents have worked so hard and have earned the right to see the country and have adventures. Meanwhile, I’m slotting into a life where there will never be any surprises. Just the same broken gas gauge, same life, every minute, forever, until I die.”
“Wow,” I said, letting his deluge of words wash over me. “That was…an extraordinary amount of self-pity all at once.”
“What happened to my wonderful friend who didn’t want to kick me while I’m down?”
“That was thirty-some minutes ago. Keep up, Powell. We’re on to the harsh truths portion of this nighttime walk.”
He laughed. “Fine, then. Lay it on me.”
“Have you ever considered telling your parents about the tour? Or that you don’t want to take over the shop? Or playing them ‘Donut Holes and Claustrophobic Souls’? It’s a fairly blunt track, lyrically speaking.”
“It’s a nonstarter. My grandfatherbuiltthe shop from the family barn. That’s generations of expectations on my shoulders.”
“You’re allergic to your family business. I don’t think that was the family legacy Stuart Senior had in mind.”
“My dad…it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted for me.”
“Wendy and Stuart bought you your first guitar and the three other ones after that. They made custom shirts for your jazz band concerts. If music isn’t at leasta partof the life they want for you, it certainly won’t be out of left field. Maybe they’re not the only ones they want to see go on someadventures.” I knocked his elbow with mine, offering a tiny jolt of human connection. He choked up on the gas can handles.
“Do you ever miss traveling all the time like your family used to? The adventure?” he asked.
My prepared answer,Of course not,was always at the ready. But something about the darkness and how vulnerable he was being with me tonight made me want to give him the other answer. The one that scared me. “Parts of it. I loved meeting new and interesting people. I liked the way every day was bound to be different. The energy to that lifestyle.”
But I’d never felt like I had any control. Even less than the ordinary way that no kid ever feels like they have control. Being on location with my family, where our lives revolved around Dad, who treated us more like anecdotes in a charming story than a family. It was as though we were auditioning for a role in his life, always at risk of being cut. I desperately wanted my place in their lives to feel permanent, but it never did.
