Chapter_40_Neon_to_Na

Virginia Woolf is as quiet as a library. We’re back on the highway.

Our next destination: unknown.

The TMI mechanic did the trick. He fixed whatever needed fixing. But not before he told us an elaborate story about an alien ship that descended upon his garage with their UFO in need of repairs, which—shocker—turned out was all just a dream he’d had the night before.

With Wyatt behind the wheel, I suggest staying at a roadside motel or even one of those luxury tent glamping situations. “We can rough it under the stars surrounded by majestic mountain panoramas, left to fend for ourselves—but you also get like free Kiehl’s products or some shit. Super roughing it,” I say.

“Sounds tempting,” Wyatt says. “Let’s just find a place when we get there, dog policies be damned.”

“You’re really taking this spontaneous thing seriously. I like it,” I say.

I’ve always loved Wyatt’s me-against-the-world attitude. But making that initial step toward peace with his dad feels like a weight has been lifted.

I text my own dad, now more appreciative of him than ever.

BIZ

i love you dad. that’s all i wanted to say.

GIO

Dear Massi,

He always texts me like he’s writing a formal letter.

GIO

I love you too. Love, Dad

He concludes with three heart emojis.

We pass a metal sign that reads “The Heart of the Mojave.” Feels like crossing into a new dimension. The bright lights of Vegas are a distant memory. Now it’s red rocks and a Joshua tree forest; the shaggy branches of the trees look like people raising their arms to the sky.

With the top down, the heat intensifies, like swimming in hot sauce. The desolate highway feels like we’re the only two people on Earth plus two dogs.

Wyatt spots something in the distance and slows down.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Just trust me,” he says. We pull to the side of the road as a cloud of dust kicks up.

“Didn’t you just pee?” I ask, looking ahead at the infinite nothing.

“I don’t have to pee,” Wyatt says.

“Then why are we stopping again?”

“Have you noticed Matilda hasn’t thrown up since we picked up Pancake?” Wyatt asks.

We look back at the two content dogs, napping. Matilda opens one eye to see what all the fuss is about, then decides it’s not worth it and shuts her eye to continue napping.

“Oh my god. You’re right. Pancake has a calming effect on her,” I say.

“Or maybe because we’re more relaxed than ever,” Wyatt realizes.

I smile, thinking he’s right. “Let’s share this moment of silence in honor of Matilda not barfing anymore,” I say. We stay still for a second.

Then Wyatt points to a sign that reads “Mojave National Preserve.”

The old Wyatt would’ve been predictably keeping us on a tight schedule. But the more relaxed West Coast Wyatt, this new version that’s starting to emerge, doesn’t have anything planned.

Motoring down a dirt road, we weave around a grove of tamarisk trees, past the juniper trees filled with berries, getting farther and farther away from civilization.

I smile, knowing neither of us know where we’re going.

I turn to look at Wyatt driving. He has his concentration face on—slightly biting his lower lip. A mild crinkle on his forehead, just above his eyebrows. Excitement in his eyes too. Like he’s discovering a new part of himself.

We hit a small puddle that splashes mud on the car.

“I don’t think Virginia Woolf is equipped for off-roading,” I say. We’re traveling on a road that’s not a road, and at this moment, it doesn’t matter. “But I trust you!” I blurt out.

Wyatt glances at me and lets out a chuckle. “Good!”

We’re both committed to winging it.

We pass an abandoned mine, maneuvering gently around a jackrabbit that’s just squatting in the middle of our path. We’re careful not to disturb her.

The sun sets behind the glorious mountains.

Wyatt pulls next to an oversized Joshua tree with its wild outstretched arms creating a playful shadow on our faces.

He cuts the engine. I check my phone. “No service out here.”

“Are you nervous?” Wyatt asks.

“No, are you?”

Wyatt smirks and shakes his head before stepping out of the car to let the dogs loose—happy again to escape the moving box. Both dogs pee and chase each other in circles around the car, smiling from ear to ear in their canine way.

“Good doggies!” Wyatt calls out to them.

“Don’t go too far!” I add.

I stretch my legs next to Virginia Woolf, my cumbersome medical boot anchoring me. The sunlight hits me from behind, projecting my shadow on the ground.

“You look like a logo for a yoga apparel company,” Wyatt says.

Wyatt grabs me from behind, mid–hamstring stretch, spins me around and starts kissing me. I’m quickly worked up, my excitement showing through my sky-blue corduroy shorts.

He stops as quickly as he’d started.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“Because I love you. I want to share everything with you. And we’re about to have a fucking baby together. I just wanted to mark this moment out here in the middle of nowhere.” Wyatt is intoxicated by the nature therapy.

“You know how much I love you,” I say.

We sit cross-legged on the ground and look up. The early evening sky puts on its nightly free light show and we have front-row seats. Fiery reds and oranges and pinks and yellows seem to shoot out from space.

This time the silence between us is comfortable, safe.

I take out two bottles of water I picked up at the repair shop.

I sip and make a face. “What is the worst bottled water and why is it Dasani?”

Wyatt laughs, which makes me laugh. We break into hysterics, causing the dogs to run over and joyfully lick our faces, getting in on the fun.

I look up at the sky again. “It’s amazing.”

“Incredible.”

“I might cry.”

“It’s giving me a boner.”

Without taking his eyes off the sky, Wyatt grabs me closer, our thighs entwined.

I take out my phone and play “Sound Color” by Alabama Shakes.

“Oh my god. This song with this sky and you. The sky is so... vibrant. Isn’t it vibrant?”

“Stop saying vibrant,” Wyatt jokes.

“Oh! I have an idea.” I play another song.

“Take your time, think a lot. Think of everything you’ve got. For you will still be here tomorrow but your dreams may not,” Cat Stevens sings.

“?‘Father and Son.’ Nice,” Wyatt says. He plays another song on his phone. “Cat’s in the Cradle,” the equally laid-back song with a similar father-son theme.

“Another Cat Stevens!” I say.

“Harry Chapin. You’re confusing ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’ with Cat Stevens.”

“Oh. Right.” The chorus comes and we stand, belting it out as loud as we can. We harmonize together, our own desert karaoke.

“And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon. Little boy blue and the man in the moon...”We point at the moon and laugh, our shining beacon spotlighting our performance with an audience of two bewildered, sleepy dogs.

“And all I remember is your back.”I change the song to Kelly Clarkson’s “Piece by Piece.” “Walkin’ towards the airport, leavin’ us all in your past...”

“Are there any songs about fathers that aren’t depressingly sad?” Wyatt asks.

“At least this one is a bangin’ dance remix.”

Both of us have equally sick dance moves to the song, trying to one-up each other. Wyatt, sexy, slow-moving, hips shaking. Me, higher energy, playful. We laugh at how good the other dances until tears stream down our faces.

Before the song ends, I slowly turn down the volume until it’s completely silent.

“Nice fake fade-out!” Wyatt shouts.

“When it’s a seven-and-a-half-minute remix, you’re simply left with no choice but the fake fade-out.”

Next, I play “Papa Don’t Preach” by Madonna. “Papa, I know you’re going to be upset. ’Cause I was always your little girl.”

“Um, that’s a song about teen pregnancy?” Wyatt reminds me.

“Well, it’s father-daughter so...” I play Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” instead.

“That’s a father and son song?” Wyatt wonders.

“It is now.” We sing every word together in unison, waving our phones in the air like we’re at a stadium concert. “But time makes you bolder. Even children get older. And I’m getting older too...”

“Oh!” A song pops into my head that I can’t find fast enough. Sondheim’s “Children Will Listen” from Into the Woods.

Wyatt lets me, the former musical theater performer, take this one. “Careful the things you say. Children will listen. Careful the things you do. Children will see... and leeeeeeearn.” I break character to remind Wyatt, “I was—”

“The Baker, your junior year of college,” Wyatt recites back to me like he’s heard this a thousand times before. “I know.”

I have an idea. “Maybe after the baby comes we could go to LA for a few days. I can try to reconnect with some of my old cast members, maybe try to set up a few meetings with agents or managers while we’re there. I need to think about what I’m going to do next.”

“Definitely.” Wyatt thinks this through. “I could stop by the LA office and see my reps there. They’re trying to produce more film and TV stuff. Not just commercials.”

“Look at us. Making career moves like a couple of bosses,” I say.

Wyatt grabs my phone with another song in mind.

Steel drums play, conjuring a lazy Caribbean scene. Then comes John Lennon’s dulcet voice singing “Beautiful Boy.”

“Close your eyes. Have no fear. The monster’s gone, he’s on the run. And your daddy’s here.”Wyatt quietly sings along, telling me his mom used to sing this to him.

I go silent.

The lyrics strike a chord with me and I’m finally ready to let it out. “I’ve been afraid of some things,” I say.

Wyatt tilts his head. Waiting for me to finish my vague thought.

“I’m scared I’m not going to make a good dad,” I admit.

Wyatt’s entire face changes to empathy. Like this is the key to unlock our future relationship potential.

“What?” he asks. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want you to question if I would make a good dad, I guess. But I’m still afraid,” I add.

“Afraid of what?”

“Of living up to my own dad,” I say. “And honestly? Living up to you. I’ve been afraid to say that out loud but somehow it feels good now, but... I feel like you’re going to out-dad me. I know it’s not a competition but...”

Wyatt’s lips curl into a smile, clearly thinking this is absurd. “Biz, you don’t even realize how great of a dad you’re going to be,” he says. “You’re going to be the best. I know for a fact. You’re going to make the kid laugh and do funny voices and you’ll be more loving and nurturing than me because it’s what you know from your dad. I’m going to have to learn from you how to do all of that.” He lets out a short laugh. “I can’t even believe you would have that worry.”

“I didn’t know this but that’s exactly what I needed to hear you say.”

“So is this what the babymoon was all about?” Wyatt asks, lifting his brow.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t just want this babymoon for the fun of it all, did you,” Wyatt says.

I look into the horizon for a moment, gathering my thoughts. “I did want to have fun but at the same time...” I turn to Wyatt. “Maybe I was running away from my fears,” I say, figuring this out as I speak. “Maybe I thought the more fun we could have, the more I could escape feeling afraid that I wouldn’t be a good parent.”

Realization washes over both of us.

“I’m afraid too,” Wyatt admits. “Of being a father.”

“You are?” I ask, in complete shock.

“Of course. You had the blueprint for a good father. Not me,” Wyatt says. “But who wouldn’t be afraid? It’s the biggest thing that could ever happen to anyone.”

My heart races with excitement. Suddenly, I don’t feel so alone. “I guess we both just have to dive headfirst,” I say.

“And hope we don’t break an ankle,” Wyatt jokes as we share another laugh.

A funny thought pops into my head. “There’s this insufferable Instagram account I look at sometimes. They’re called quaddaddiez.”

“quaddaddiez are the worst!” Wyatt squeals.

“What! You know quaddaddiez?! You’re never on Instagram,” I say.

“I dabble from time to time. What about them?”

“They’re this completely unattainable idea of parenthood,” I explain.

“Trust me, I’ve thought the same thing,” Wyatt says. I’m stunned. “But none of that is real life. They just have really good lighting.”

We laugh. “I know. They’re everything I don’t want to be,” I go on. “But at the same time, they’re everything I do want to be. I want the ridiculously posed family photographs with our kid and the matching Christmas onesies and the elaborate Halloween costumes. I want story time and to go on baby playdates at the park and stay up all night with them while they’re crying to make them feel better. I want to do it all with you.”

“That’s all I want too. And that’s all I needed to hear,” Wyatt says.

My heart grows three sizes, rockets to the moon and back.

“Are you still going to say the opposite of what I say all the time?” Wyatt asks with a glint in his eye.

“What do you mean? I don’t say the opposite thing all the time,” I joke.

Out of nowhere, I goofily howl at the moon. Wyatt follows suit as the two dogs join in, a veritable symphony of humans and animals.

We laugh and Wyatt’s body melts into mine as we fall onto the ground, kissing each other’s faces, necks, chests. All of our limbs stretched out underneath each other as we toss one another around. My whole body tingles.

Matilda and Pancake practically roll their eyes as their elbows fall to the ground, planting themselves firmly into their new sleeping positions.

The dogs sigh and look away as their owners do unspeakable things with each other under a sky that morphs into lavender in the middle of nowhere.