This Is Where I Leave You

husband. Now I’m an expecting father.”
    She grins. “Don’t be a stranger, Judd.”
    “I won’t.”
    Outside, the sun lights up the red leaves of the dogwoods, casting the yard in soft amber hues. Across the street, two gardeners with noisy leaf blowers send up a twister of multicolored leaves swirling off the 338lawn, blowing them in a slow, graceful procession to the curb. A cat suns itself in a picture window. A woman jogs by pushing a baby in a running stroller. It’s amazing how harmless the world can sometimes seem. 9:55 a.m.
    I sit idling in a gas station just before the interstate junction, drawing maps in my head. I can be at the skating rink in ten minutes. I can be back in Kingston in ninety. According to the GPS, I can be in Maine in seven hours and seven minutes. My car doesn’t have GPS, but Phillip’s Porsche does, and that’s what I’m driving. I left him a note with the keys to my car. This morning, on a hunch, I counted the money in my bag and found it light two grand, not one, so I figure a little collateral is in order.
    Penny. Jen. Maine. None of the above. There are options, is my point.
    The girl gassing up her blue Toyota has piles of kinky brown curls held off her face with a black headband. She has great skin and funky black glasses that convey a sexy intelligence. She’s a magazine writer, or maybe a photographer. When she looks over at me looking over at her, I smile. She smiles back and I fall briefly, passionately in love with her. Options.
    I want very badly to be in love again, which is why I’m in no position to look for it. But I hope I’ll know it when it comes. My father’s watch jingles loosely on my wrist, my mother’s words resting unseen on my skin. you found me. It gives me hope.
    I pull onto the interstate, grinding the transmission once or twice on the way to fourth. Dad made us all learn on a manual, his massive forearms flexing as he worked the stick. Clutch, shift, up, gas. Clutch, shift, up, gas. I hear him in my head and smile. We can all drive stick.
    We can all change a flat. We can all repress our feelings until they poison us. It’s a complicated legacy.
    I’m not a fan of country music, but there’s no better music to drive to. Turn the right song up loud enough on the Porsche’s sound system and it will swallow you whole. The past is prelude and the future is a black hole, but right now, hurtling north across state lines for no particular reason, I have to say, it feels pretty good to be me. Tonight I’ll sleep in Maine. Tomorrow is anybody’s guess. I’ve got a baby girl on the way, a borrowed Porsche, and fourteen grand in a shopping bag. Anything can happen.

Acknowledgments
    Thank You:
    Lizzie, for your endless support and encouragement. Spencer, Emma, and Alexa, who continue to amaze and inspire me. Simon Lipskar, who, nine years and five novels later, continues to represent me with passion, wisdom, and just the right amount of profanity. Ben Sevier, my editor, who read numerous drafts of this book, providing sharp insight and helpful suggestions at every step along the way. Kassie Evashevski, Tobin Babst, Rebecca Ewing, Maja Nikolic, and Josh Getzler.

    About the Author

    Jonathan Tropper is the internationally bestselling, critically acclaimed author of How to Talk to a Widower, Everything Changes, The Book of Joe, and Plan B. He lives with his family in Westchester, New York, where he teaches writing at Manhattanville College. He can be contacted through his website at www.jonathantropper.com.