“Yeah. I guess. Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m always right.” He snags a Funyun from the bag. “You should know that by now. And when you text River and Hollis back, let them know just how right I am.”
That makes me chuckle. “Never going to happen.”
He scoffs. “Always depriving me of my glory.” And before I can respond, Hutton wraps his arm around me and pulls me into a hug, giving me a good slap on my back. “Love you, man.”
I return the embrace, not ashamed of showing one of my best friends affection. “Love you too, man.”
After a few minutes of silence and staring at the ocean, Hutton takes off toward the house to go to the bathroom. “I’ll be right there,” I say.
When he’s out of sight, I reach into my pocket and pull out the note. Bracing myself, I unfold it and read.
Hey Kiddo,
Because I know you well, I know you’re probably angry at me and your parents for not telling you about my sickness. But I didn’t want you to lose focus on your goals. And you know what? I’m sad I won’t get to hug you one more time too, because you give the best hugs. I’m sad I won’t be able to sit beneath the oak tree with you one last time, sharing bad jokes and wise anecdotes. But I’m not sorry you’re not seeing me deteriorate. We had so many great times together, and if there is one thing I’m thankful for in my life, it’s you.
Please go on this trip and enjoy seeing a part of the world I wanted to show you myself one day. Please open your eyes and see the bigger world through a wider lens.
Love you.
Pops
Chapter Two
CREW
“Did you get something to eat?”
“Yes, Mom,” I say with a sigh into my wireless earbuds as I walk through LaGuardia International Airport.
“And did you go potty?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Not old enough for me to stop worrying.”
I find my gate—Munich, Germany, written above the door. “You were the one who encouraged me to go on this trip.”
“That was your father. I was willing to hold you to my bosom until everything was okay.”
“I’m twenty-two, Mom. Being held to your bosom is far too disturbing in so many ways at this point.”
“Marley, let the boy live,” Dad says in the background.
“He’s flying across the world, so I’m allowed to worry,” Mom shoots back, and then her voice softens when she repeats, “Did you go potty?”
“Nope, planned on wetting myself on the airplane.”
“In that case, you’ll be thankful for the extra pair of pants and underpants I made you pack in your backpack in case you soil yourself. I’m always looking out for you, Crewy Bear.”
“Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?”
“Do you realize how much I love you?”
“Yes,” I sigh, remembering the tears she shed this morning when she and Dad dropped me off at LAX. Mom clung to me for what felt like ten minutes until Dad pried her off me. She then texted me all the way up to my takeoff and then called when she knew I’d landed in New York. I had an hour layover, got off the phone to grab some food—went to the bathroom—and called Mom back to let her know I would be boarding soon. Pops sprung the extra buck and put me in first class for the trip from New York to Munich. Could not be more grateful for that since the flight is a red-eye and the seats in first class lie all the way down.
From the overhead speakers, an airline attendant says, “We’ll now start boarding our first-class passengers for United 182 to Munich. Please proceed to our first-class line.”
I see a line of people start to move toward the gate door and take that as my cue to get off the phone.
“Hey, Mom, they’re starting to board.”
“Oh . . . okay.” She pauses and I can imagine her trying to get herself together. “Well, I packed you some gum in the small pocket of your backpack, you know, in case you have to pop your ears. I know you always have to deal with that when flying.”
I smile softly to myself. Of course she did. We’ve made the cross-country flight to New York several times a year ever since I can remember, and every flight, I always need to pop my ears. It became tradition that Mom bought me a new pack of gum for every trip.
“What’s the flavor this time?”
“Polar Ice. Figured some fresh breath wouldn’t hurt, and the mint will calm any nerves you might have.”
“You saying I have stinky breath, Mom?”
She chuckles and I can hear her tone grow lighter. “Not my Crewy Bear, freshest breath in the country.”
“And I shit gold, too. Right, Mom?”
“Twenty-four karats.”
I laugh this time and then sigh into the phone. “Okay, well, I should get going. I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, baby boy. Enjoy yourself, you hear me?”
“I will.”
“Good. Call me when you land.”
“Okay. And, hey, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
I swallow hard and stare at the black sign, Munich digitally written in red. An adventure standing right in front of me, the unknown just over the threshold into an airplane. “Thank you, you and Dad, for pushing me to do this.”
There’s silence on the other end of the phone. The seconds stretch, and I’m about to ask if she’s there when I hear Dad clear his throat. “Your mom is an emotional basket case.”
“Porter,” I hear my mom chastise, making me laugh.
“But you’re welcome, kid. Have fun and remember to text us, okay?”
“Okay. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, my son.”
I hang up and take a deep breath, staring at the picture on my lock screen. It’s a picture of me and Pops from a visit during Christmas when I was fifteen. I’m the definition of gangly with braces, Justin Bieber-flipped hair across the forehead, and a flannel button-up over a graphic T-shirt. I was all kinds of cocky, but in this picture, I’m showing nothing but innocence as I hold up a fish I caught ice fishing with Pops at the lake near the farm. Pride beams in his eyes as his hand grips my shoulder and he smiles at the camera, wearing a shirt I made him for Christmas one year.
What the Herbert Hoover are you doing?
I chuckle, distinctly hearing his voice yell out the phrase. He was known to swear by using presidents’ names, and when I gave him the shirt, he rolled over in laughter and put it on right away. It was his favorite shirt of all time. In this picture, it still looks new, but as time wore on, so did the collar and the hems, but he continued to wear it proudly.
Smiling, I quietly say, “Ready for this, Pops?”
It might sound stupid, and I might be imagining it, but in that moment, as I walk toward the gate with my boarding pass in hand, I can feel the firm grip of his large hand on my shoulder, guiding me.
I stick my phone in the console next to my head and adjust the headrest of my seat. Since I’m six-foot-four, I need it a little higher than the average person.
And thank God for the legroom, because I don’t know what I’d do for seven and a half hours in the air if I was cramped back in the economy seats.