“Any place you’d recommend for a newcomer?”
“Well”—the man takes a thoughtful drag on his cigarette— “the Getty, if you’ve never been there before. I’m not much for the art, but the building’s something worth seeing. They have these big plazas and gardens, and you can stand outside as long as you want and look out over the whole city.” He takes another drag, blowing plumes of smoke through his nose. “I’ve only been there that one time, but if you catch it on the right day when the smog isn’t too thick, you don’t need to see it twice.”
Kyung never would have guessed that this man, who looks like such a particular type, would recommend a museum. “You don’t go to bars when you’re on the road?”
The man’s laugh turns into a phlegmy cough. “That’s a young man’s game, prowling around town. I’m long past those years now. Me, I’m just happy to get a clean room and a hot breakfast the next morning.”
At thirty-six, Kyung wonders if he’s even a young man anymore, if he has the energy or will to do what it takes to live differently. Moving somewhere, finding a job, making some friends—all of it would require him to try. It’s been so long since he tried to do anything, but it doesn’t make sense to change his geography and not change everything else.
“I know you’re probably in a hurry to get going,” the man says, “but you’re barely fifteen minutes away from a real good view of Lake Erie.” He crushes what’s left of his cigarette under his shoe. “You should head out there and take a drive on the shoreline before leaving town. The sun’s coming up soon. It’ll probably be the prettiest thing you see from here to California.”
“Thank you,” Kyung says. He means these words sincerely, almost with regret. He’s embarrassed by how quickly he formed his first impression, and how wrong he was from the start.
By the time he pulls over at an empty lakeside picnic area, the sun appears whole just above the horizon. Bright pink, purple, and orange swaths of color surround it, the entire scene mirrored in Lake Erie below. The man, whose name Kyung wishes he’d learned, was wrong about the view. It’s not the most beautiful thing he’ll see on his drive. It’s probably the most beautiful thing he’s seen, ever. Unlike the pale blue Caribbean beaches he once admired, nothing about this landscape is calm or serene. It looks like the sky is on fire, setting the lake and all the trees ablaze with it. Kyung gets out of his car and sits on top of a splintered wood picnic table, lighting a cigarette as he stares at the violent display of color. The haze he couldn’t see through earlier has settled into a whispery fog, floating above the lake like a legion of ghosts. He takes a photo, moving his phone up and down to change the angle and light. The tiny lens doesn’t do the scene much justice, but the last of his twenty-odd shots turns out to be decent. Not quite vivid or true, but clear enough to help him remember that he was here one day.
The clock on his phone reads 5:05, which hardly seems right to him. He doesn’t know how many hours he’s been awake. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? He can barely summon the math to do a simple calculation anymore. It occurs to him that Ethan is probably waking up right now, ready for his breakfast and morning dose of TV. When he opens the bedroom door, only Gillian will be there, and Kyung wonders if he’ll understand what this means. He drops his lit cigarette on the grass, sick with the thought of his son. He tried so hard not to think about him during the drive, but the exhaustion is finally chipping away at his resolve. The only thing Ethan had ever done was arrive in this world needing him, and the greatest failure of Kyung’s life, the one he felt daily, was not knowing how to respond. The part of him that wanted to be a good father was constantly at odds with the part that didn’t have one, leaving him with only two defaults as a parent—correcting Ethan or keeping him at a careful distance. Although his methods often changed from one minute to the next, his intentions were always the same. He wanted his son to turn out so much better than he did.
This person Kyung imagines running off to be—this more open, more willing, more expansive version of himself—this is who he should have been for Ethan all along. Not the stern disciplinarian too quick to correct every perceived step in the wrong direction, or the absentee father so convinced that mere proximity would damage him for good. He gravitated toward one extreme or the other, never finding that comfortable place in between.
Kyung removes the cigarettes from his pocket, throwing the pack in a nearby trash can. Whatever California is to him, whatever promise he thought it held, he knows it’s over now. It was over before it even began. He takes one last look at the lake and stretches his arms in the air, preparing himself for the long ride home.