He had to caddie in the biggest match of the summer and he was sick of being afraid—afraid to caddie, afraid to kiss a girl, afraid to drive. He sat high in the bucket seat, feeling the easy spring of the pedals under his feet and the big steering wheel solid in his hands. He was the only one home. The others were at the pretournament barbecue at the golf course. Cameron had taken the opportunity to slip away and try to call Becky, but got no answer. She was still at work.
A three-hour time difference sure was a pain in the neck. He missed her so much it hurt to breathe sometimes. She was so incredible to talk to, funny and smart and not at all concerned with what people thought of her. Until they’d become friends, he hadn’t realized how liberating that was. A few of his regular friends had ditched him after the accident and Becky had told him to quit fretting about it.
“Dr. Phil always says you wouldn’t care so much what people think of you if you knew how seldom they actually did.”
He wished he could drive all the way to Sonora, California, and see her. Hell, he wished he could drive, period.
He knew how to drive. He’d been the best one in his traffic-safety class at school. Knowing what he was doing was not the problem. Having some kind of weird freak-out the minute he got behind the wheel of a car, now, that was the problem.
Yet at the moment, he felt remarkably calm, sitting in the Winnebago. The RV park was practically deserted. Most of the pros were staying at the nearby resorts with room service and pools. Other than a bullet-shaped Airstream at the far end of the park, Cameron had a long, straight section of the park all to himself.
The windshield framed a view of Dogleg Creek and the woods beyond. Cameron turned it into a picture of the highway rolling out in front of him in all its asphalt glory, leading him straight toward the horizon. He discovered that even though he hadn’t done it for years, he still remembered how to make the revving sound with his mouth. It sounded the same as it did when he was six years old and part of a happy family. Before long he was halfway to Memphis.
Outside of Phoenix, he pulled over and made the shushing sound of brakes. This was idiotic. He ought to be driving for real.
He dug in the pocket of his shorts for the keys. He had no idea if the key to the door worked in the ignition, like a car.
It didn’t. He felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
He looked at the keys in his hand. They were strung on a key tag that read, “Rex Slug Bait.” Maybe it was one of those other keys. Maybe it was the one labeled Ignition.
All right, so he was out of excuses now. He had an empty parking lot with all the room in the world. He had the whole Winnebago to himself. It was time. They would be heading west again, back to Comfort and to the complications and dilemmas that would still be waiting there.
A hint of the panicky freak-out feeling knocked at his chest. He took a deep breath and ignored the sick sensation as he got out to undo the RV’s hookups. Then he climbed back into the driver’s seat.
Now, he thought.
Seat belt on. Key in the ignition. Gear in Park.
The engine flared to life, its power reverberating through the undercarriage, then up into Cameron’s gut. He felt his grip on the wheel tighten and forced himself to relax.
“Easy now,” he said under his breath. “Take it easy.”
Step by step. He released the parking brake and put the gear in Drive. It was easy. He had done this a thousand times in his mind. And then, smooth as a fish swimming downstream, he was off. Driving. He went little-old-lady slow, but it didn’t matter. This was a barge of a vehicle and it took some getting used to.
As far as Cameron was concerned, he was flying. He drove through the park, passing the empty herringbone-patterned slots. He took each corner like a pro, quickly sensing when to turn and how sharp the angle. He went around three times and felt relaxed enough to switch on the radio. Aerosmith, perfect. A few more times around and he had the window down, his elbow propped on the edge