Page 16 of A Christmas Road Trip

PAIGE: All fine with getting time off for the trip?

Chase: Yep. No problem.

Paige: Ok good. We’ll leave the morning of the 15th and get back middle of the day on the 24th.

Chase: I know. Got the agenda you emailed. Very informative.

Paige: Don’t make fun.

Chase: I’m not.

Paige: Yes, you are. I can feel you laughing from five blocks away.

Chase: You’re imagining things. Schedule looks great. Printed a copy for G.

Paige: She’ll probably mentally follow along at all our stops throughout each day.

Chase: Yep. For sure. You ok?

Paige: Yes.

Chase: Crying your eyes out?

Paige: No! Maybe a little but not that much. Glad you’re coming with.

Chase: I’m glad too.

FRIDAY MORNING THE following week is trip day. Since I’ve been planning every detail, my bags and car are mostly packed when I wake up that morning, and it takes me less than an hour to be dressed and out the door.

Chase and I arranged for me to pick him up around nine. (The “around” was my attempt at being laid-back and easygoing since it’s a vacation.)

I get to his house at 8:38.

He must have suspected I’d arrive early because, although he answers the door in bare feet and with a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand, he’s got an extra-large duffel bag packed and ready on the front porch.

His eyes light up when he sees me, in that smile that doesn’t involve his mouth. “Mornin’.”

“Good morning.”

“You look excited.”

“I am. I can’t believe the day is finally here.”

“I’m almost ready. Come in and say hi to Grandma.” He steps out of the way.

For some reason, my eyes linger on his feet. I took note of his lack of shoes immediately, but now I’m acutely conscious of his lean bare feet on the wide planks of the old hardwood floor. The hem of his faded jeans is slightly frayed. He’s got a long pale scar on the top of his left foot up near the big toe.

I get an odd kind of clench below my belly. I don’t understand it at all.

“Something wrong?” he asks, shifting his gaze from my face to his feet.

“No. Aren’t you cold with no shoes?”

“Eh.” He shrugs.

“You should wear slippers.”

His eyebrows pull together as if he’s thinking through an enigma. “I don’t own any slippers.”

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