Page 90 of Second Chance Vacation

THIRTY-FIVE

GEN

My eyes sting as I pull my hand instinctively up to rub them.

The drive from Atlanta to Live Oak is a lot, but getting on the road at 4:00 AM feels a little bit like I wanted to torture myself a little bit more. 8:56 AM reads in bright green numbers from my center console as I turn off the highway.

Sun barely peeks through the opaque canopy of green, completely enclosing Caracara Avenue, painting an image of perfect southern symmetry. Tiny slivers of sun peek through the holes in the blanket, leaving a kaleidoscope of shapes on the street below the grove of oak trees. The massive yet perfectly maintained colonial homes lining the road leave a nonstop view of wrap-around porches and deep overhangs. As a kid, I always wanted to live in one of these. The inhabitants always looked so happy.

Just as my mind begins to wander, a small child runs out of the back fence of one of the houses, followed closely behind by who I assume to be his mother. He is clothed in a mint green T-shirt and mini golf-style shorts with little anchors all over them. She’s crouched behind him, chasing him in hopes of getting him wrangled. Right as I reach their point in the road, she scoops him up in her arms. Tickling him while she holds him high in the air, the little boy lost in a fit of giggles. At this point, his dad has come outside, standing alongside the mom—they are the perfect small-town family.

It’s then that I realize I am idle, paused in front of their home, staring—like a psychopath. To my luck, they don’t notice. I let off the brake, creeping forward to turn off of Caracara.

The houses begin to fade from their beautifully manicured lawns and flawlessly painted wrap-around porches to houses more attuned to a shack in comparison. Pulling into my childhood home’s driveway, I park next to my dad’s F-150, tattered with paint chipping but still loaded to the brim in the back with scrap wood.

Unlike the neighboring vacant home, the grass is pristine—something my dad always has prioritized. He’s always said,we may not live in one of those expensive houses over there, but I’ll be damned if our yard doesn’t look just as fancy. A garden gnome stares at me, reminding me of the time that has passed. What once was new with a bright red hat is sun-bleached with a salmon-colored blob on its head.

“Hey, Dad,” I call out into the empty hallway, finding him nowhere in sight. “Dad?”

Looking through the familiar cottage-style home, it feels like a time capsule. Everything, every photo in a frame, every decorative knickknack on the bookshelf, is exactly where it was when I left for college. There isn’t a speck of dust on them, but not because they’ve been moved. I test this theory, wiping my finger over the top of a framed picture of my mom and me, finding my hand as unsullied as anticipated.

“—out here, Genevieve!” Dad’s familiar voice calls through the house, anchored to the cracked open sliding glass door. An unfamiliar corgi comes barreling toward me through the small space left for her to get through. Despite the dog’s excitement, the moment she skids in front of my feet, she sits on her hind legs as if she anticipates a reward for her well-mannered greeting.

“Ignore her. She’s spoiled rotten.” Dad laughs as he makes his way inside the house, his eyes meeting mine for the first time in eight years.

“Hi, Dad,” I say with an awkward smile.

“Hey, Genevieve,” he sighs, setting his gardening tools on a stool next to the kitchen island. He walks over to me and looks at me from head to toe. Even though we haven’t been in the same room in years, he doesn’t hug me. I wish it was a surprise. He awkwardly places his hands on my biceps and squeezes, providing just enough physical contact to show he cares. I know he does, he's never given me a reason to think he doesn't, but sometimes I wish he showed it like a normal dad would.

“Are you hungry? I was going to make burgers.”

I smile, nodding toward him before he walks to the fridge.

“You still like avocado on your burgers, right? When you called last night saying you were coming down today, I bought an avocado for you. You like avocado still, right?”

“Yeah, Dad, I like avocado.”

Grabbing up his ingredients, Dad heads back toward the patio. I follow with a jug of sweet tea in hand. We did this most nights when I was a kid, he had never really gotten the hang of using the gas range in the kitchen. My dad is a grill guy through and through.

As the beef begins to sizzle, hovering over the hot coals, Dad turns toward me, grabbing a drink from the cooler nestled beside the patio set. “You want a beer?”

“No, thanks. I’m good with sweet tea.”

Dad nods toward me, silently grabbing his own beer and using the bottle opener on the side of the cooler, allowing the cap to drop into the grass. He walks over, sitting down across from me, but he doesn’t say anything.

I can’t help but become transfixed on the surrounding reminders of how much time has passed, but no reminder is as strong as my dad. Where my brown hair was once mirrored back at me is a solid sheet of gray, where he once sported a full beard it has been trimmed into a mustache.

“I like the—” I motion to his facial hair, causing him to reach up and trace his mustache with his thumb and pointer finger.

“Oh—uh—thanks, I wanted to try something new.”

I nod as we fall into silence once more.

As if hit with that reality, Dad jumps back up from his seat and darts to the grill, only to find three barely-singed burger patties begging for at least another few minutes. He seems to realize this, puts the lid back on the grill, and finds his way back to me.

His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t say anything. Linking his fingers together in his lap, he looks down.

Okay—so I’ll be the one doing this.

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