Chapter 2: Road Trip Reckoning

The next day, Alex called: "I’m at the train station, which line do I take to get to you?"

I said, "Take the green line, transfer to the blue line, get off at King Street Station, Exit B. I’ll pick you up. What’s up?"

Alex replied, "Can’t stand being home anymore. Came to find you, need a break."

Alex had a cigarette dangling from his lips, wearing a white but yellowed Yankees cap, standing at Exit B watching a girl breakdance across the street.

I brought him to my apartment, tossed him a Bud Light. "Tired of the rich kid life?"

Alex peeled off his cap, revealing greasy hair. "Dad finally stopped sending money."

I cut to the chase. "I’m quitting my job and heading to the beach."

Alex: "You’re a director—why ditch and go to the beach?"

Me: "Seriously, before the wedding, I need to clear my head by the ocean."

Alex: "Does your fiancée know?"

Me: "Nope. Just you and me."

Alex: "Fine. I’ve got nothing better to do."

I tossed my new Tesla keys on the table. "We’re leaving tomorrow."

The next day, I told my CEO: "Boss, I’m resigning."

CEO: "Why? Is the house uncomfortable?"

Me: "It’s great."

CEO: "Not happy with the office?"

Me: "Office is perfect."

CEO: "Then why quit?"

Me: "I’m sick."

After hearing I was about to get married, nearly collapsed, and mentally shot, the CEO accepted my resignation but didn’t get it. She told me a story:

"Last New Year’s, I drove home and blew a tire. I changed it and kept driving. Ethan, if you know your destination, no matter what happens, you keep moving forward."

Me: "But I feel like if I keep driving, I won’t make it home."

She smiled. "Take care of yourself. If you can’t pay the mortgage or car loan, come see me."

I couldn’t tell if that was caring or a threat. "Thanks."

As I left, she said, "Ethan, you’ll regret this for life."

October 20, ten days before the wedding, Alex and I set out—Chicago to Charleston, chasing the sea.

In October, Chicago’s weather changed faster than clients’ minds.

Alex and I walked downstairs in beach shorts and floral shirts, only to be blasted into shivering hedgehogs by the wind.

Alex’s leg hair literally stood on end.

We warmed our hands on hot coffee and dashed for the car.

The stereo played Jason Mraz’s "I'm Yours":

Keep driving south

Keep driving south

Keep driving south

Keep driving south

On the highway, the gray patch in my left eye kept growing, my vision blurring more with every mile.

On the Chicago-Indiana highway, while passing a truck, the right front fender scraped its rear bumper.

Alex jerked awake. "You trying to play bumper cars? There’s a rest stop ten miles up—pull in and swap drivers."

I stopped at the nearest rest area, splashed cold water on my face.

Alex scolded, "If you’re tired, say so! You almost killed us."

I checked the car—damage was minor.

I blinked. The gray patch was still there, haunting me.

I tossed Alex the keys. "You drive. Safety first."

Alex glanced at me slumped in the passenger seat, cranked up the stereo, and belted Jason Mraz’s "Goodbye Jack":

Make me a little happier

Make me a little happier

Don’t let doubts linger in the heart

……

The song faded. I drifted back to the ocean in my mind, watching myself trapped in blue amber, growing paler.

Suddenly, a hard brake. The seatbelt squeezed me tight. I snapped awake as Alex cursed, "Who the hell threw nails on the highway?"

Dashboard lit up—a tire pressure warning.

We pulled onto the emergency lane and got out.

Both front tires were punctured by metal debris.

I set up the warning triangle and grabbed the spare from the trunk.

Alex said, "Two flats—one spare won’t cut it. We need a repair shop."

Me: "One’s better than nothing."

Alex hopped the guardrail and played games on his phone.

I fumbled with the wrench, dropping it on my foot. A truck roared past, horn blaring.

I cursed, yelling to Alex, "Can’t you help?"

Alex: "If you can do it, do it! I said we should’ve exited sooner."

I threw the wrench down. "I can’t. I haven’t been able to for a while."

The highway stretched straight ahead, hills rolling, sky clear as a blank Word doc, sunlight lazy overhead. The Tesla sat stranded like a sleepy white cat. Two young men went from bickering to hugging and crying on the roadside.

Alex: "What’s up?"

Me: "You know why I quit? I can’t get it up anymore. Before the wedding, I need to fix this."

Alex said nothing, just hugged me. "Let’s put the spare on the right front, then swap the left at the next exit. As for your problem, I’ll help tonight."

That’s what friendship is—once a guy knows you’re struggling, sympathy trumps everything else.

It was evening by the time we fixed the car. Alex found a spa on his phone. "Car’s fixed—now let’s fix you."

I was ushered into a tiny room with pink lights, a round bed, and a bathtub.

A few minutes later, a girl about twenty walked in—white blouse, pencil skirt, black stockings.

I changed into disposable shorts and lay down; she rubbed oil on my back.

Ten minutes later, she asked me to turn over. We both stared at my flat shorts; our eyes met, awkward and silent.

We both doubted ourselves—her skills, my future.

She tried to reach inside along my navel. I stopped her and rolled over. "Just a massage, please. I’ll pay."

That night, I spent $300. Alex tried to fix everything, but I was more desperate than ever.

We hit the road again, Alex driving smoothly, no more nails or drama, until we reached Charleston.

The CEO was right: if you want to get somewhere, even if you hit bumps and flats, you’ll arrive.