Page 48 of Road Trip

“Yeah,” he said, “I do.” And then he unfastened his seat belt and blew out a long breath. “Let’s do this.”

We got out of the car and he walked to the front door, backpack over one shoulder, while I grabbed his duffel from the back of the RAV4. His shoulders were a solid line of tension as he rang the doorbell. I could still hear the chimes echoing when I approached.

Inside, a dog barked.

When nobody answered, Matt bit his bottom lip, then rang the doorbell again.

The dog barked louder this time, a frenzied yapping, and a male voice called, “Coming!”

Matt hitched up his backpack, the anticipation written all over his face. He’d waited so long for this.

The door swung open and a short, stocky man wearing a polo shirt and cargos, with tan skin and dark hair that mirrored Matt’s, stood in front of us. He looked us up and down, and there wasn’t even a hint of recognition. I got an uneasy, heavy feeling in my gut.

“Can I help you?” he said, glancing past us at the RAV4.

I blinked and the uneasy feeling grew. It wasn’t exactlyWelcome home, son, was it?

Matt’s breathing hitched, and his voice cracked when he spoke. “Dad? It’s…it’s me. It’s Matthew.”

“Matthew?” His dad’s voice went high, and all the color drained from his face.

And then he shut the door in our faces.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

MATT

San Diego, CA

The story of my parents’ divorce wasn’t very exciting. Just, one day Mom said that Dad was leaving and they weren’t going to be married anymore. They didn’t tell me together because Dad was hardly ever home, which looking back made the whole thing blindingly obvious, but I was eight. What the hell did I know when I was eight?

Turned out I didn’t know much more at eighteen.

When he was leaving, I’d asked Dad where he was going to go and if I could come with him.

“When you’re old enough,” he’d said and tousled my hair.

Last time I saw him.

Stupid fucking kid for believing it.

Stupid fucking?—

“Matt?” Jacob asked. “Matty?”

He’d sent letters. A bunch of them at first, then not many. But he sent cards for my mom to pass on to me on my birthday and at Christmas, brightly colored envelopes with just my name on the front. Presents sometimes. Money mostly, maybe five or ten dollars at a time. But when I was a kid, money seemed a lot more exciting than a present. Money made me feel grown-up. Gave mesomething to brag about. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized he couldn’t even be bothered going to a toy store or ordering something online.

And even then, I still believed it when the cards said things like, “I wish you lived closer, kid. I’d love to see you.”

I’d thought he meant it. I’d taken it as an invitation.

Stupid fucking kid.

Not stupid enough that you checked with him first,a voice whispered in the back of my skull.Because you didn’t want to know for sure, did you?

And where the fuck did that leave me?

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